Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Loksni rearranges the vials on the booth, making sure they are aligned with one another. His sister will tease him about being nitpicky has she come with. As it is, Loksni can only hear her voice in his head. Loksni would argue that, being a potion-maker, precision is everything. Lest the customers grow hair in the strangest of places.

The cauldron on the corner of the table bubbles and pops, the mixture inside turning a liquid gold. Loksni turns and attends to it. A second more and it will be overcooked, thus, be rendered useless. Drýcræftéaca has always been a popular potion at this time of the year, what with the Apprentice Exam just a few days away. Nervous and arrogant young sorcerers and mages will drink it in the hopes increasing their chances of success. Of course, the exam's officials always catch them and so, they get disqualified instead. The youth never learns. But business is business, Loksni supposes. If they are stupid enough to try and cheat the most prestigious event of the year, then he shall not hesitate to take advantage of them.

A shadow befalls the cloth-covered table of his stall. Loksni hurriedly mutters, "Ácwincan" to extinguish the fires in the stove. He'll put the drýcræftéaca in bottles later. For now, he has a customer.

He lifts his gaze and meets the frightened eyes of a dark-haired young man. Loksni frantically glances around for any kind of threat. After a moment of fright himself, he has found nothing but his potions and the glare of Brina two stalls to the left. (That confusing woman. He does not know what he has done to earn her continuous ire.)

He turns back to the pale young man. "Good morning, young sir," Loksni greets like a good merchant, a hint of wariness coloring his tone. After all, the young man is still looking at him as if he has done a terrible deed. "Is – Is there anything I can help you with?"

The young man, a servant going by his tattered clothes, opens and closes his mouth like a landed fish.

Loksni patiently waits, an idea niggling at him. Perhaps . . . the young man is a bit . . . touch in the head. Not that Loksni is judging. All sorts come to his store. In fact, he has a few mixtures that can remedy such afflictions, although not completely and certainly not permanently. Performing magic that involves the mind, no matter how well-intentioned, usually does not end well.

Finally, words come out from the servant. "Y-You used – You just used magic!" He exclaims. Then, he slaps a hand over his mouth, paling and trembling slightly. His eyes dart around the area so fast, Loksni fears they might pop out.

" . . . Yes?" Loksni is utterly bewildered. Maybe he is the first mage the young man has ever encountered? Thinking about it, the servant is probably new to the city, seeing as Loksni does not recognize him. "I am a mage, sir."

"Shh!" Loksni tries not to feel offended about being shushed. "You . . ." The young man lowers his voice. "You can't say or do things like that. This is Camelot."

Loksni blinks, confusion only growing. His assumption of mental-affliction is sounding more feasible by the minute. "And what is wrong with doing magic in Camelot?"

The young man squawks, hands flailing. It is a comical sight and Loksni fights off a smile. "What's wrong with – It's –" His blue eyes catch something and he halts mid-sentence. He turns his head, gaping.

Loksni follows his gaze. Young boys are playing enthusiastically with a dirty red ball. One waves his right arm in a sharp arc and the ball flies high above their heads. The other holds out a palm, steadying the toy in the air. Behind them, a few feet away, a young girl is weaving colors in the air; it is after all easier to remove the painting mistakes without a canvas. Two young men, both probably planning to take the exam, are whirling their hands to steal globs of water from the water well and mold them in the air. Both form perfect spheres. Loksni is impressed. No one young would have such mastery over the element of water.

The young man sucks in a sharp breath and Loksni's attention turns to him once more.

"What . . . What's happening?" The young man looks terribly puzzled and no little bit scared. "No one's getting arrested. They're all doing magic . . ."

"Getting arrested?" Despite himself, Loksni's voice rises in incredulity. "For doing magic?"

Anger sparks in his chest. There are always people who will be prejudiced against magic-users, he knows. There will always be an underlying fear of being taken advantage of by sorcerers and mages. But that can happen in any field with any kind of craft besides magic. Even so, there are some who is biased against the magical arts just because they themselves cannot hope to have the ability.

Loksni hopes he never gets to meet one of those people. Too late for that, it seems.

"If you are hoping to find a place such as that, good sir," Loksni could not help but spit out. "Then, Camelot should be the last place in your list. It has been the center and home of thousands of magic-users for many years and it shall be so for many more. Now, if you're just here to give insult, then I suggest going to another stall for your potions." Loksni starts to turn his back to him, barely containing his temper. The nerve! "Good day now!"

"No, no, wait, please," the servant pleads so earnestly that Loksni could not help but pause. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just –" The young man rubs the back of his neck, eyes lowered. "Back in my hometown, magic . . . is a bit of a taboo."

Loksni's brows shoot up. "It's forbidden?" The servant must have come from a truly far away kingdom. No kingdom with an association to Camelot has ever had any kind of law against harmless magic.

"Yes." The young man winces.

Loksni's anger diminishes. Such a poor lifestyle this servant has led, one without magic in the midst. He could barely imagine it.

The man looks contemplative for a few moments.

"I – I know this might sound like a strange question but . . . what year is it?"

Loksni blinks. Perhaps not mentally-afflicted but merely losing memories. He has a potion for that too. "It is the twenty-fifth year of Queen Ygraine's reign," he replies slowly.

The young man blanches even more. Loksni, for one moment, thinks he is going to pass out. But the moment passes and the young man stutters out, "Queen Y-Ygraine?"

Then, the young surges forward, palms slapping the table. Some of the vials rattle and Loksni's display turns into a bit of a disarray. He casts an irritated glance at the cause.

"What about A—King Arthur? Blond-hair, blue eyes, bit of a prat –"

"Yes, yes, I know what Prince Arthur looks like," Loksni cuts off, rearranging the bottles once more. "And it's Prince, not King. I should hope the queen lives decades more before her heir takes the throne."

The young man gapes unbecomingly. Loksni sighs. "Is there anything more? I'm afraid I have a store to run, sir," he says just a shy disrespectful.

"Ah, yes. T-Thank you." The young man bows, smiling a strained smile.

Then, he goes on his way, stumbling like a newborn foal and looking around in awe and fear. Loksni shakes his head.

He should have given the young man a free dose of hygesorh. It is the least he could do for the community.

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Chapter Text

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When the village woman comes to seek an audience with the king about a magical creature, Merlin does not expect it to be anything but disastrous.

Looking back on it, he is right in a way.

"A creature . . . that grants wishes?" Arthur says slowly, looking as incredulous as Merlin feels. They exchange meaningful glances.

'Well?' the king's rapid blink asks.

Merlin's brows furrow. 'I've never heard of such a creature before.'

Arthur rolls his eyes. 'Of course you haven't. Why am I asking an idiot like you?'

Merlin scowls.

Both turn their attention back to the village woman.

"Yes." There are bags underneath the woman's eyes, lips dry and face wrinkled. She hesitates before saying, "We – We were joyful, at first, Sire. The Djinn, for that is what he calls himself, seemed like a blessing from the gods. We asked for a bountiful harvest and the next day, the fields were painted gold with fully grown wheats. The leader's son fell ill and we wished for him to heal, and he did. Someone took advantage of the miller's daughter and we sought justice. The Djinn gave us the culprit."

"But?" Arthur cuts in. "I see why you would have thought this . . . Djinn has good intentions. But you must never trust anything that uses magic."

Merlin, through the years of practice, successfully suppresses a flinch. His eyelids flutter close for one painful moment. He wishes he can truthfully say that he's used to it. Every accusation, every proclamation of the evilness of magic, especially coming from Arthur, is like a dagger between his ribs.

"F-Forgive us, Y-Your Highness –" The woman starts paling.

Arthur makes a gesture and the woman falls silent. "I will not fault you or your village for being fooled. You only thought what was best for the town," the king says, a hint of pity in his tone. "What has he done that clued you to his malignant intentions?" Arthur asks.

The woman wrings her hands. "People have gone missing, Sire. People who have last been seen talking to the Djinn."

"How many?" The king's expression darkens.

"Eleven, Sire. Five are merely teenagers." The woman barely contains a sob. "One of them is my boy."

Merlin's chest aches, sympathetic to the mother's plight. He wonders how anyone, sorcerer or no, could do anything that would put such grief on a person's face. Do they like the torment they see upon their features? Do they feel better after such acts?

The warlock hopes he will never find out.

Arthur looks thoughtful for several seconds. His eyes roam the throne room, straying to the murmuring noblemen and councilors. The village woman stands nervously in the middle of them all.

"We should go and help them, Sire," a councilor, a gray-haired oily old man, suggests. "If this is truly a magical threat, then we should dispose of the creature immediately."

The others declare their assent.

"Or maybe we should imprison this Djinn, interrogate him," another voices out.

Arthur's eyes narrow. Uh-oh. That doesn't look good, Merlin thinks.

"Hmm, yes, yes. I believe that would be better! He – He might be hiding some other magic friends of his."

"There are cuffs in the vaults that can bind a sorcerer's magic."

Merlin pales. Cuffs that bind magic? In the vaults? This is the first he has heard of such. He fights off a shudder. If Arthur finds out, if he is captured, put to trial . . .

"Silence," Arthur calls firmly. The noblemen cease their babbling and Merlin breaks out of his morbid musings.

The king has come to a decision, Merlin belatedly realizes. The servant sees it in the set of his shoulders and purse of his lips.

Arthur adopts an apologetic look as he addresses the village woman once more. "Milda, I am truly sorry but I cannot spare my knights for this."

The woman stares in shock and despair. "S-Sire."

Merlin's eyes widen in disbelief. What is Arthur thinking? It isn't like him at all to refuse to provide help, especially to one in desperate need of it! The king, this same king, had followed Merlin to Ealdor to defend a town that isn't even his. This is the same man who had helped a druid child escape from his father's clutches even though it went against his very belief. This is the man who went on a quest to save a mere servant's life!

How – Why? Merlin wants to shake Arthur until he makes sense again.

Shouts of protests start from the councilors, demanding that Arthur explains himself.

Arthur stares coolly at them until they get the hint and stay silent. Then, the king complies. "A creature that can grant any wish is unheard of. Even our Court Physician who is an expert on such things cannot confirm it."

All turn to Gaius at that. The old man shoot Arthur a discrete questioning look (which Merlin catches and causes him to even be more puzzled) before clearing his throat. "Yes, I've never read of a Djinn or anything that can grant wishes in any of my books."

The councilors frown and whisper. "Are you sure, Gaius?"

The physician nods sagely. "Quite sure, I'm afraid. No such thing could exist."

The murmurs ascends. The features of some of the councilors twist in rage as they turn to the village woman.

"You are a liar, then," he accuses.

The woman blanches. "N-No, please, S-Sire, you have to believe me." Tears run down her cheeks, sorrow painting her posture.

Arthur merely shakes his head. "I'm sorry." Then, he stands up, straightening his jacket and tunic. "I believe that is all the time that we have for today. Court dismissed!"

Merlin finds himself angry at the nonchalance of his tone. Why is Arthur acting like this? The poor woman, having traveled all the way to the castle, is breaking down and he acts like he could care less! Has he been enchanted? A candle lights up in Merlin's mind and with his epiphany, everything makes sense. Arthur's been enchanted (again). Merlin sighs inwardly. And as always, it is the servant who has to lift the spell.

However, as the noblemen are filing out and the village woman is on her knees, Arthur pulls Merlin to the side.

"Accompany Milda to my chambers," Arthur whispers, gloved hand on Merlin's nape. 'Take the servant routes and make sure no one sees you two."

"What? Why?" Merlin's exclamation is almost a shout and Arthur glares.

The kings cuffs him on the neck and Merlin grimaces. "Just do what I say, clotpole. Tell her I will hear her out there."

"But you've already heard her out," Merlin says, trying to make sense of Arthur's plans. "And you refused her!"

Arthur looks up, asking the gods for patience. "I swear, Merlin, if you don't stop questioning me, you'll be in dog-walking duty again."

Merlin squeaks. "Please don't."

"Then get to it!" The servant blinks slowly at the king. "Now! Preferably before she leaves and render all of this act useless," Arthur remarks so dryly that the desert seems moist.

"Right." Merlin scurries away and towards the woman sobbing in the middle of the room.

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"A-Are you sure?" Milda asks, voice hoarse from crying. She dabs the hanky Merlin lent her upon her puffy eyes. "He just – He said . . ."

Merlin smiles, grasping her elbow and leading her to a narrow hallway. "I'm sure, Milda. The king actually wants to hear you out. But he can't agree in front of his advisors."

The poor woman looks confused. "But why?"

That's Merlin's question too. However, thinking carefully about it, he now has some idea to why Arthur acted the way he did. Arthur wouldn't be so callous, Merlin knows. Whatever plan he has, it'll help Milda one way or another. "He'll explain later," the servant assures. "He acts like a prat at times but he's not cruel." And Merlin should have deduced Arthur's facade earlier.

Merlin glances left and right before they turn a corner, making sure no one else is in sight. They are nearing their destination.

Scandalized, Milda whispers, "Y-You just called the king –"

"A prat?" The servant grins. He turns and mockingly salutes the guard in front of the king's chambers. The guard shakes his head, smiling, and goes to unlock the door.

"Worse insults have come out of this idiot's mouth," Arthur remarks with a smirk, strutting towards them, cloak flaring dramatically behind him.

The guard stands to attention like a good little citizen. Milda yelps in surprise, eyes widening as they met the king's. She remembers herself and lowers her eyes and head. Merlin cocks an unimpressed brow, meeting Arthur's gaze head-on. Milda thinks with horror that the boy is going to get hanged for his insolence but Arthur merely rolls his eyes and gestures at his room.

"Get in, then."

The three of them enter. Merlin bolts the door and leads Milda to one of the dining chairs. Arthur removes his crown and cloak, putting them down on the first nearest place; really, Arthur could have at least put them on the table! But no, they go on top of a cabinet instead.

Merlin takes a seat beside Milda, giving her a comforting smile. The king sits on the chair across Milda's, pulling out his gloves. "I apologize for my earlier callousness, Milda, but it was necessary," he explains, looking properly apologetic.

Milda tries to hide her astonishment at a king apologizing to her. "I – I'm sure you have your reasons, Your Highness."

Arthur nods, determined. "I do. You see, I believe you, I believe that this creature exists. But it would be folly to spread this information about."

A realization dawns on Merlin. "Someone who could grant any wish . . . If the wrong person finds out, they could take advantage." Not all wishes are for the good of the many. Merlin knows that first hand from Morgana, from Edwin, from Cornelius Sigan and from every other sorcerer that came to destroy Camelot.

"The walls have ears and news flies fast," Arthur steeples his fingers together, expression grim. Merlin thinks back to the advisors changing their minds about defeating the Djinn. Rather, they had wanted to imprison and interrogate it.

Milda seems to be getting the hint. Dismay creeps in the lines of her face. "I d-didn't think, Sire. I should have known."

Arthur waves away the implied apology. "I will take my most trusted knights with me and hunt for this creature myself."

The village woman's relief shines in the unshed tears in her eyes. "You'll help us? O-Oh, thank you, Sire! Thank you!"

Arthur smiles. "I will do whatever I can to give your people justice and protect them from this creature." Merlin notices how Arthur does not vow to find the missing people alive. They both know it is a promise he cannot keep.

"Tell us more about what we're going to be dealing with," Merlin prompts and settles in for the long haul.

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Before preparing for the journey ahead, Merlin goes to the physician's chambers. If there is anyone else with more information, it will be Gaius. And Merlin will like to be as informed as possible.

"A Djinn or a genie grants wishes," Gaius says, face solemn as he hands Merlin an open book. "There are surprisingly few accounts about it but the one thing they have in common is this: when a Djinn passes by, death and catastrophe follows."

Merlin sighs. He doesn't want to trivialize it, he really doesn't. The creatures he battled with in the past, however, went along the same lines. Death and catastrophe, famine and war, plague and darkness . . . Why can't it be rainbows and sweet pastries?

Merlin shakes the thought of food away from his mind because he's starting to get hungry. He skims the brief passage about Djinn. There is no portrait of the creature but Milda has given them a detailed description so Merlin will know the Djinn when it shows. "How do we deal with it? Not necessarily kill but maybe imprison?"

"It's already imprisoned," Gaius informs him, pointing at the part of the text where it is mentioned.

Merlin blinks. "What?"

The warlock then finds out the Djinn lives in a lamp – an oil lamp, no less. Can it turn itself into the size of rats that it can live somewhere as small as a lamp? Did someone wish it to live in an oil lamp? Merlin dares not to ask these questions lest he be given that 'I am judging you but I'm too wise and old to voice it out' eyebrow look by Gaius.

"Milda didn't mention any lamps. She described the Djinn as an actual person, with a normal-sized body and all that. Can it get out of the lamp then?"

Gaius frowns, contemplating. "Maybe it has hidden its home then. The text says the Djinn cannot wander far from its lamp. Wherever the lamp goes, the Djinn follows."

"So . . ." A plan forms in Merlin's mind. "We find the lamp, we contain the Djinn and it doesn't hurt anyone else?"

"I suppose that would work." Gaius gives him an approving glance. "Just keep the lamp in a safe cold place. The Djinn is summoned when the lamp is rubbed and given warmth –"

"Rubbed? What?" Merlin boggles.

Gaius speaks over him. "Prevent that from happening and the Djinn would be contained inside its lamp."

"Sounds . . . suspiciously simple." As it always is at the start.

Gaius gives him a look. "Pray that it stays that way, my boy."

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All morning, Merlin packs the king's clothes, equipment, and food. Said food being plenty enough to feed seven people on a two-day trip. Merlin's arms are numbed from carrying all of them and of course, Arthur insists that Merlin has to do all the tasks all by himself. They cannot risk the other servants knowing the true purpose of their expedition. They cannot let the servants gossip. For all intents and purposes, the king is going on his monthly hunt, bringing his knights as protection and Merlin as the slave who does all the menial (but important) stuff.

But of course, Merlin cheats. And no, he does not use magic. By cheating, he means that he recruits Gwen. Gwen is all too happy to help, even though, technically, she is no longer a servant. Her brother is a knight and the king clearly favors her, maybe even planning to court her. Although, now that Merlin thinks about it, he rarely sees Arthur and Gwen together in the past weeks . . .

Still, that does not prevent Merlin from complaining at Arthur's back and to his face. Quite loudly and every hour. Arthur grins gleefully at the start but eventually, the insults and complaints start to grate on his ears. He cuffs Merlin over the head five times in the span of a day.

Milda had already went ahead to her village, hopeful of the king's help. She had sobbed in respite, taking both Arthur and Merlin in a tight embrace before she left. Arthur had awkwardly patted her back and Merlin had smoothly reciprocated her hug.

At last, after several hours, they are ready to follow her.

Lancelot expertly saddles his horse, tying the straps securely around the steed's belly. Merlin sidles beside him and helps.

"Do you think we could defeat it, this wish-granting being?" the knight asks, voice low and focus still on the saddle. "If it can grant any wish, even one with the involvement of life and death, then it is extremely powerful. Maybe even more powerful than you."

"From Milda's stories, I say this Djinn isn't malicious at all," Merlin whispers, finally being able to confide to someone. "It has done nothing but grant wishes. Milda says it doesn't seem to perform any magic unless it's for the fulfillment of a wish."

Milda did not speak of the Djinn's personality at all, no matter how Merlin probed, only of its deeds. The Djinn had no will of its own, only a slave to any wishers. Unless the wisher asks a question, it speaks only a few words: "What is it that you desire?" and "Your wish is my command." These are said as if a script in a play.

Lancelot's brows furrow in thought. "You think the Djinn is just an instrument? That someone wants these people gone?"

Merlin nods, finishing the straps with a flourish. "Yes." He turns to Lancelot. "I'm planning to talk to some of the villagers. If we can find out what or who these missing people have in common, then maybe we can find the culprit." Now, if only he could say this to Arthur in a way that doesn't sound like he's defending magic . . .

"And what of the Djinn?"

Merlin grimaces. "It's still too dangerous to let it walk about. We'll probably need to lock it up in the vaults." For Merlin, no fault lies with the Djinn. It's just doing what its nature is telling it to do, Merlin thinks, since it lacks the will to think for itself. The warlock does not want any bloodshed in this one, especially since it appears to be unnecessary.

Of course, if the Djinn becomes a threat to Arthur and the knights, Merlin did not hesitate before and he will not hesitate now. The warlock will do what needs to be done.

Lancelot, reading his thoughts, claps him on the back. "You're a good man, Merlin," he praises with wonder, looking at Merlin with fondness.

Merlin turns around to hide the pleased blush spreading to his cheeks. It isn't the first time Lancelot has said it and Merlin doubts it will be the last. The knight is the kind of man who sees good in any person and any situation. Still, Merlin could not help but be delighted and a bit ashamed. Part of him knows he does not deserve such compliment.

"I'm glad you think so, my Lord," he replies cheekily.

Lancelot chuckles and Merlin approaches Gwaine to help load the supplies on a mare.

Gwain grunts, lifting the heavy equipment from the ground and placing it on the horse's back. Merlin wraps a rope around bags, tightens it, and starts tying.

"So . . . a wish-granting sorcerer," Gwaine starts, grinning. "Think I could wish for an endless supply of ale before we defeat them?"

Merlin snorts. "You'll be drunk all the time and Arthur will probably strip your knighthood before winter starts."

"Ye of so little faith," Gwaine tuts. He checks the daggers on their sheaths, making sure they easily slide out in case of emergencies. "I think I can discipline myself, mate."

"Can you now?" Merlin is amused and shows it. He tightens the knots and ensures no bags are loose. "And tell me, how many times has Arthur forbidden you from going into the tavern?"

Gwaine frowns. He remembers the unfair prohibitions and just because he came to training drunk once. Arthur never lets up. Well, in the queeness' defense, Gwaine had been so utterly intoxicated he nearly maimed poor Perceival. "Seven times," he answers.

"And how many of those did you follow instead of discretely sneaking inside The Rising Sun in disguise?" Merlin gives him a teasing smile because they both know the answer.

Gwaine stills. Then, he says, "I believe you have a point, Merlin."

"If you girls are done chatting." Arthur's sarcastic drawl filters in their conversation. "Then, I believe we have a village to save and a sorcerer to catch."

"Don't we always?" Elyan mutters. Leon stifles a smile but Perceival has no such compunction.

"Haha." Arthur elegantly mounts his own professionally-tamed steed. "I'm sure if we peacefully talk to these evil magic-users, they'll respectfully cease their schemes so we could rest for a few weeks."

Merlin expertly ignores the sliver of pain that stabs his chest. Lancelot subtly shoots him a worried look and Merlin shakes his head in response. Instead of focusing on the king's words, the warlock deftly plucks an apple from their supplies. He has forgotten to eat breakfast and if Arthur plans to scold him for eating too early in their journey, he could do so in front of Merlin's apple-filled cheeks.

Arthur says nothing, however, just stares at Merlin with wide eyes like he could not believe such an insolent thing existed. Merlin grins then continues to chew as obnoxiously as he can.

"Oi, oi, mate. Stop making love to the apple. It's awkward for all of us," Gwaine pipes up.

Arthur throws his head back and laughs like a loon. The knights are not far behind. Merlin glares at Gwaine who gives him an unrepentant grin. It's probably revenge for the servant's teasing earlier.

Later, Merlin would finish the apple and throw the core at Gwaine who deserves no less. It would hit the knight right between the eyes and would startle another bout of laughter from their companions.

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In the end, they do not reach the village. They find the lamp a three-hour's ride away from it.

Well, they find Djinn. Or, more specifically, the Djinn finds them.

"What is it that you desire?" a monotonous voice says, echoing in the darkness of the night.

The reaction is instantaneous. Arthur and the knights pick up their weapons, the earlier cheer from the campfire vanishing without a trace. Merlin gets to his feet at the same time as the knights, readying his magic.

"Djinn," Arthur calls, sword pointed at the creature.

The Djinn is exactly how Milda described it.

Its cheeks are still puffed with the fading remnants of baby fat, looking no older than seventeen summers. Its eyes are bright periwinkle blues, flecks of silver glinting even in the dark. A mop of blue – blue—hair sits atop a round beardless face, tanned skin turning golden in the light of the campfire. The lobes of its ears and the bottom of its lips are adorned with metal rings that pierced skin.

What is perhaps the weirdest are its clothes. A dark blue vest inadequately covers its torso, top and bottom two buttons undone to show off lean muscles and a bandaged chest. Loose white trousers, one that might be more fit for nightwear, hung around its skinny frame. The shoes are made of tanned leather, with the tips curling upwards like the curl of a jester's hat.

The Djinn stares unimpressed at them while they all brandish their swords. "What is it you desire?" it repeats.

"I desire your head on a platter," Arthur challenges, clearly not expecting anything.

"Your wish is my command," the Djinn answers in the same emotionless voice.

They all take a step back in horror when, in the blink of an eye, the Djinn disappears. In its place is a head with blue hair on a shining silver platter. The bottom edges of the head are bleeding red, bits of raw skin and muscle peeking underneath the circle of its neck. The flickering light of the fire emphasizes the sight in a more grisly manner.

The blue eyes look bored of all things. The head opens its mouth and inquires, "What is it you desire?" Blood trickles down its mouth, splattering over and tainting the tray as it speaks.

"It's still alive?" Elyan blurts in shock, looking slightly sick.

"I desire that you return back to your previous form," Lancelot speaks, evidently perturbed to be talking to a detached head. By the lack of protest from the other knights, so are they.

"Your wish is my command."

Another blink and the Djinn's head attaches itself to a body. It stands in the exact same position it did before. The platter is gone and the Djinn appears hale.

Well, if the Djinn does not have a problem fulfilling Arthur's gruesome wish, maybe . . . "Djinn, I wish you to lead us to your lamp," Merlin says before Arthur gets the bright idea of trying to fight the creature.

Merlin has a strong feeling any physical attacks against it would be futile.

Arthur sends Merlin a surprise look. Merlin has told them all about the lamp and how important it is to the Djinn. Perhaps it is one wish the Djinn would refuse to fulfill.

"Your wish is my command." Apparently not as it turns on his heel and start walking, presumably in the direction of its most valuable possession. The servant gives the king a smug look.

Merlin resolutely goes to follow. Arthur grabs his arm before he could go another step.

"It may be leading us to a trap," the king warns.

Merlin resists the urge to roll his eyes. Arthur knows that the Djinn could do no such thing without anyone wishing it. "And we have five knights at our disposal." And a powerful warlock, Merlin adds in his head. "I'm sure we can handle anything it throws us."

Arthur glances at his knights, silently asking for their opinion. They talk amongst themselves, quickly forming a plan. Merlin taps a foot on the ground, showing his impatience. He glances at the forest, hoping that the Djinn has not walked far.

It hasn't. It's leaning against a tree, arms crossed. Its eyes are studying its green-painted nails, removing the dirt under them.

"We cannot trust anything magical, Sire." Merlin hears Leon point out. Then, they lower their voices into whispers not even Merlin could hear.

The Djinn rolls its eyes as if Arthur and his knights are the most unreasonable beings it has ever encountered. It murmurs something under its breath, head bobbing mockingly. Merlin's eyes widen, staring at the evident display of emotion. The warlock made a mistake; the Djinn has a will and a personality of a tween to boot.

The Djinn sees Merlin gaping. It instantly straightens, adopting its previous nonchalant expression. But the damage has been done.

"Arthur," Merlin hisses. This knowledge has changed everything.

"Alright." The circle of knights loosens, signaling the end of their discussion. "Elyan and Perceival will stay here to guard our supplies. The rest, with me."

"Wait, Arthur –"

"What now, Merlin?" The king walks decisively towards the Djinn, followed by Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot. Leon hands a lit torch to Merlin who accepts absentmindedly.

The Djinn starts trudging in the forest once more, movements graceful, feet barely making a dent on the soil.

Merlin jogs to catch up to Arthur. "The Djinn, it's – it has feelings." The king glances at him with incredulousness. "I saw! We, we need to be careful –"

"Now, you believe we're going to be ambushed." Arthur adjust his grip on his sword, the corner of his lips tilted up. "Don't worry your little head over it, Merlin. We have a plan. It doesn't matter if the Djinn has . . . feelings."

Merlin believes said plan involves charging forward and hoping if they keep thrusting, they'll eventually stab the creature. He is not reassured. Lancelot shoots him a reassuring smile, and Gwaine, a cocky one. Merlin's mind is unchanged.

The warlock decides to keep an eye on things for now. His eyes burn the creature's back. One wrong move from the Djinn . . .

The Djinn has done nothing to earn Merlin's distrust so far. Actually, they still aren't sure if Djinn is responsible for the disappearances. Although, with Merlin's experience with sorcerers in the past few years, he doubts that the Djinn is entirely uninvolved. The only proof they have is that . . . the Djinn uses magic and 'magic is the source of all evil'. Of course, this is one thought Merlin will not voice out for he might be accused of defending magic.

"Do you think it's a woman or a man?" Gwaine's inappropriate question disperses the tension in the air.

"I think you should shut up right now, Sir Gwaine." Arthur glowers. "This is not a time for jokes."

"It's not a joke," Gwaine insists, although he does only with Merlin within earshot.

It is a viable question, seeing as the Djinn's face is properly androgynous and its voice is low enough for a man's and high enough for a woman's. The bindings around its chest could either be hiding assets or just simply something that should go with the attire.

The servant grin despite himself. "Would you flirt with it if it's a woman?"

"Who says I won't even if it's otherwise?" Gwaine asks back, winking.

And what. The servant stares wide-eyed at the knight. Why is Merlin just finding out about this? Gwaine is one of his closest friend and he has known the knight for years. The servant opens his mouth to ask, to clarify or confirm, he knows not.

Then, the Djinn stops beside a tall tree with a large trunk. All of them freeze. The knight tighten their grip upon their swords. Merlin's eyes darts around, searching for any kind of threat.

The Djinn lifts its head and points up. Cautiously, the knights follow the direction of its gaze. Merlin keeps his stare fixed on the Djinn.

"That's high up." Leon states, surprised. "How did it even get up there?"

The answer comes from the Djinn, startling them all. They had thought the Djinn would not speak anything else. "A group of crows carried it up," it replies like it cannot care less.

"Are we even sure that's the lamp?" There's a hint of whine in Arthur's tone. Merlin so wants to point it out.

"It is glowing. And I can see the handle and the lip," Lancelot offers the same time the Djinn confirms, "It is."

Gwaine releases an impressed whistle. "Well, lads, who's going to be the one to fetch it?"

Merlin is so busy having a staring contest with the Djinn that he doesn't register the silence for several seconds. When he does, he whips his head around, scared that the knights and Arthur has gotten into trouble without him noticing.

What meets the servant are two apologetic smiles from Leon and Lancelot and two roguish grins from Arthur and Gwaine. It takes Merlin a moment to recall their previous discussion. Since Arthur and the others seems to be watching the Djinn now, he feels safe to look up.

The tree seems to go up miles and miles, branches thick and aplenty. The leaves are unseen in the dark and its top seems to disappear into the night sky. And, almost two stories high, a crow's nest is tucked on one of the branches. In it, Merlin spies a glint of gold, glowing in the moonlight as Lancelot mentioned.

He turns to the Djinn. "I desire that your lamp be here down on the ground."

The Djinn promptly respond, "I cannot grant any wish that involves my lamp."

Of course. Merlin glares at Djinn, wondering if it's lying so it could watch the servant suffer. The Djinn blankly stares back, giving away nothing.

"Well, at least we know it has a limitation," Leon remarks. "It couldn't grant all wishes."

Not that that helps Merlin now. He lets out groan. "Why me?"

"You're the servant," Arthur gleefully points out. "That's kind of why we pay you, Merlin," he mock-whispers.

Lancelot steps forward. "I could –"

Immediately, guilt assaults Merlin. Drat it, Lancelot. "No, no, I'll do it."

"—hold the torch for you," the knight finishes, sheepish.

Merlin quite petulantly hands the torch to Lancelot. He huffs, glancing up again. Then, for safety measure, he wishes, "Djinn, I desire for you to go back into your lamp."

The Djinn does so by floating slowly upwards. When it is the height of the lamp, it blinks out of existence. The knights and Merlin openly gape for several seconds.

"Why'd you do that for?" Arthur demands, sounding irate. "Now we can't keep an eye on it."

Merlin assesses the tree, searching for any kind of handhold. "I didn't want you lot getting into trouble while I'm not here," he replies without missing a beat.

He grabs one of the lowest branches and hauls himself up. He has done this before in Ealdor and he will do it again. Climbing trees is easy, Merlin reassures himself.

He climbs on a higher branch and sits precariously on top of the thickest portion. He leans back too far and starts falling. Flailing his arms in helplessness, he yelps in panic. Arthur and the knights surge forward to try and catch him. Luckily, his floundering leads him into grasping a part of the trunk. He almost hugs the tree in relief. His descent halts and everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

"It seems you will be taking the trouble with you, mate," Gwaine says before letting out an exasperated exhale.

The servant sticks his tongue out in reply. Then, Merlin realizes he's an utter moron. "Djinn!"

Nothing happens for almost a minute. Arthur and the knights shoots Merlin confusing glances.

Then, the Djinn pops out next to Merlin with a thunderous crack, making everyone jump. Arthur and the knights instinctively raise their weapons. Merlin starts falling again and by the gods, this is going to hurt.

Then, the Djinn's arm shoots out and grabs a fistful of the servant's shirt. Merlin gets pulled none-too-gently back to his balanced sitting position. A flash of amusement flitters over the Djinn's face before a blank mask falls over his expression once more.

"Oh, that's funny, is it?" Merlin's heartbeat still pounds too loudly in his ears. "I could've broken my neck!" Well, his magic will probably save him. But Arthur is right there and his life will be extended for only a few more days.

Arthur rolls his eyes, lowering his sword. "No one's laughing, Merlin." The king glares at the cause of their alarm.

"I wasn't talking to you!" Merlin shouts. He turns to Djinn who sits casually upon the branch, the wood not even creaking with the weight of two person on it. "Um, thanks," Merlin grudgingly says because the Djinn did just save him even though it was the cause of everything.

The Djinn blinks and asks, "What is it you desire?"

"Oh, right. I wish that I'm sitting on the branch where the crow's nest is. Safely, that is," Merlin adds before the Djinn could get any ideas. He speaks loud enough for the others below to hear. It will not do for them to worry.

The Djinn nods. "Your wish is my command."

Merlin finds himself higher up in the tree the next instant. The wind blows cold and hard at this height. He shivers, wrapping his jacket tighter over his form. The Djinn is nowhere to be found and Merlin hopes it just went back inside the lamp. It's hard to protect Arthur when the warlock is two stories above ground.

Merlin looks down and gulps. Arthur and the knights are not really that far away but the light of the lone torch makes it seem like they are. Everywhere else is a pit darkness.

The servant faces forward, deciding to focus on his mission. An arm's length away is the nest, although the lamp is not the only one cradled in its depths. Five featherless chicks and their mother sleep, snuggling against the golden light the lamp is emitting.

Ah. Warmth. They're probably why the Djinn is being continuously summoned.

The oil lamp itself does not look like a normal lamp. Made of gold and encrusted with rubies and sapphires, it certainly looks expensive. Merlin carefully extracts the chicks from it, making sure not to wake them.

The servant runs his fingers over the jewel adornments, feeling hum of magic vibrating beneath his hands. The oil lamp is light and, when Merlin opens the lid, it is empty of anything.

"How does a Djinn live here?" Merlin asks himself, awfully curious. There is nothing inside, not even a speck of dust. "Damn, I really want to know."

He tilts the lamp sideways and upwards. The warlock sees no runes that could be the cause of any spellwork. On the other hand, Merlin knows little of magical runes to recognize them. He will have to consult Gaius.

"Stop dawdling, Merlin!" The servant hears the king shouts. "Come back down!"

Merlin rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to give a sarcastic remark. But the ingenuity of his reply will never be discovered because Arthur's bellow has woken the chicks' mother.

And she is not amused at the human who is too close to her nest.

The crow squawks, wings fluttering. The chicks cry in alarm. Merlin turns back to the nest in surprise. He turns back just in time to see an angry beak coming right for his eyes.

Merlin shields his face in time and his arms bear the brunt of the attack. The bird pecks unmercifully at his clothes and any skin she could reach.

"Gah! No, wait, I'm sorry!" Merlin tries to reason with the crow. He wiggles away from his attacker, unmindful of his precarious position. All that matters is getting away.

It does not take long for him to lose his balance for the third time that night.

"Merlin!" The knights scream.

The warlock panics and desperately calls on his magic. Merlin smells lightning in the air, tickling his nose. Before he could utter a spell, however, a hazy feeling settles over him, stealing his thoughts and reason. Blacks spots dances over his vision and everything seems to be getting bigger and farther. His skin feels nothing, not even the air sharply whistling around him, and then, his hearing goes out too.

A saccharine fragrance explodes in the air and that is the last thing he registers before darkness takes him.

"Really? Out of all . . ." A sigh echoes in the void. "Your wish is my command."

Merlin falls but never reaches the ground.

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Chapter Text

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The bed beneath Merlin is definitely made of clouds, the warlock thinks with contented sigh. Even the softest hay could not compare. He runs his hands over the fabric of the sheets; they’re not quite silk but they are fluffy and soft. He snuggles deeper into the pillows, breathing in its fragrant smell. Gods, the cushions emitted the scent of sweet buns and sugary treats.

Has he fallen asleep on Arthur’s bed again? He hopes the prat takes his time in the Council. Merlin’s tiredness if Arthur’s fault anyway; how could he expect one servant to finish chores that would take two? That Merlin oftentimes uses magic to do them is beside the point.

“I would appreciate it if you stop molesting my bed,” a voice tears Merlin out of his musings.

Merlin’s eyes fly open in alarm. That isn’t Arthur. He thrashes, preparing his magic to protect himself from the intruder because who else would be at the king’s chamber? Unfortunately, the covers tangles over one of Merlin’s arms and legs, cutting any attempt to get up short. Instead, his body rolls over and right out of said bed. He lands on the carpeted floor, the impact stealing the breath in his lungs.

The voice lets out a shrill boisterous laugh. “Oh my god, dude, are you always this clumsy?”

Merlin roughly untangles the sheets from himself and quickly gets to his feet. The owner of the voice, is, of course, the Djinn. However, gone is its emotionless façade, replaced by untethered amusement at Merlin’s ungainliness. Its eyes creases in mirth, perfectly white teeth showing.

The warlock forgets to feel offended in the face of such drastic change. “You do have emotions.”

At that, the Djinn immediately sobers up. It straightens, smile fading from its face as it rolls its eyes. “Yes, just like any sentient being.”

“But before, you pretended to be . . . to have no will,” Merlin points out.

The Djinn scratches its cheek. “I find that people are more unlikely to take advantage if they think I simply don’t care.”

“Take advantage? Isn’t that . . . “ Merlin trails off as his gaze strays away from the Djinn and takes in the rest of the room. His jaw drops open. “Where have you brought me?”

The Djinn snorts. ”The real question is: where have you brought yourself?” It looks around, a small smile upon its lips. “Welcome to my humble abode.” It makes a sweeping gesture at everything.

If there is one thing to describe the place, however, it will not be ‘humble’. The walls are made of solid gold, shining to an impossible degree. Various knickknacks fills the spacious room, most of which Merlin fail to recognize or fail to make sense of. An almost flat rectangular article is glued to the wall, looking to be made of black glass. Flags the color of rainbows hangs in the ceiling. A high shelf bursting with books takes up one of the four walls of the chambers. A large bed, which Merlin had previously been lying on, has been painted with designs of stars of the night. The colors are vivid and the designs detailed, if not a little bit weird. Everything else, Merlin couldn’t even begin to describe.

Two more doors lead to two more rooms but they’re closed so Merlin couldn’t begin to know what they contain.

“You live here?” Merlin looks at everything with wonder.

“This is my room,” the Djinn says dryly. It sighs then. “I suppose I’ll have to give you the grand tour.”

Realization hit Merlin like a ton of the castle’s bricks. “Are we . . . Am I inside the lamp?” His voice grows a pitch higher at the end. He looks back down on himself. Did he become small? Then, a more urgent thought niggles at him. “What about the others? Arthur, Lancelot, Gwaine and Leon? Where are they?”

“You are inside my lamp as you have wished,” the Djinn drawls patronizingly. “Your friends are outside of it. Hence, they are not here. They’re still in the forest where we left them.”

Oh, good. Those troublemakers are safe. Then, Merlin frowns, catching on something. “But . . . I didn’t wish for anything.”

“’How does a Djinn live here?’” the Djinn repeats, making a mockery of Merlin’s accent. Merlin feels offended. “’Damn, I really want to know.’ Were those not your exact words?”

“That – That was considered a wish?”

“Any question addressed to me or any question that addresses no one specifically, I’m compelled to answer,” the Djinn replies, lifting its index finger. He raises another digit and starts counting off, “The keywords are: ‘wish’, ‘hope’, ‘desire’, ‘want’, ‘need’ or any synonymous words. Whatever they follow, I fulfill.”

“But.” The warlock frowns, recalling his previous experience and Milda’s stories. “You granted every wish almost instantaneously. That one took you minutes.”

“Time and space flow differently in here,” was the Djinn’s answer. “It takes a while for wishes to reach me when I’m inside the lamp. It’s sort of like a TARDIS.” At Merlin’s blank look, the Djinn elaborates, “You know, bigger on the inside, time-whimey thingy.”

The elaboration does not help the warlock at all. “Timey-whimey what?”

The Djinn nods. “If there’s one thing I don’t understand, it’s the mechanics of this whole ‘imprisoned in a lamp thing’.” It waves its hands in an all-encompassing motion. “It would be Victorian era when I go in but when I go back out, it’ll be the time of space explorations of new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no man has gone before.” The Djinn halts. “Wait, I think that one was a tv show.”

An ache starts on the spot between Merlin’s eyes. What is the Djinn talking about? “I hope you make sense sometime soon,” he mutters a bit snappishly.

“Your wish is my command.”

And the ache bursts into full-blown agony. Merlin gasps, images flashing before his mind like . . . like a reel in a movie. TARDIS, Time and Relative Dimension in Space. A blue phone box housing an alien creature with two hearts. It’s bigger on the inside because the space there is in another dimension, another world, another reality. It’s fiction, a play, a television show. A television, something that shows moving paintings with bright colors. It’s the black rectangular article in the Djinn’s room. The Victorian era has colorful gowns swinging about, propriety and inauthenticity ruling over the lives of the elite and peasants. No elbows on the table, eat gently and without a sound, dress as your status dictates. Dukes, lords, barons, servants, pianos, poetry books. Space. Spaceships, captains, first officers, red shirts, aliens, another play and –

New knowledge fills Merlin’s head, and so much, too much, he can’t –

“Stop!” He cries out, irises burning with tears. “Please stop!” He grips his hair, almost pulling them out of their roots. “I wish it’ll stop.”

“Oh thank God,” a voice muffled by the nonsense in Merlin’s head says in relief. “Your wish is my command.”

Instantly, the assault ceases. Merlin’s knees buckle under him and he drops to the carpeted floor. The images fades away from behind his eyelids and so does much of the knowledge he gained. They don’t completely disappear and Merlin knows things people of his time would think insane. Oh gods, Merlin has seen the very distant future. Or maybe it’s another reality, one so different from his own? Those television shows are certainly fond of such theories . . .

But his wish has been granted. The Djinn’s earlier words makes sense to him now; the space inside in the lamp is in a different dimension altogether and the time inside it is not linear, unlike the one outside of it.

The black spots disappears from his vision and Merlin finally has a good look of the room again.

It’s, well, quite different from before. The displays have been the toppled, the cabinets broken in halves, clothes strewn everywhere, the television cracked in several pieces and the bed flipped upside down. Merlin looks down on his hands and gulps. While he knows his magic tends to lash out with his emotions, he has never accidentally created a chaos of such caliber.

“Ah . . . a little help?”

Merlin’s head snaps up and he remembers that something is missing in the room. Namely, the Djinn itself.

“Where are you?” Merlin gets to his feet, eyes darting around.

“Up, up.”

Merlin cranes his head upwards and lets out a surprise gasp. The Djinn is pinned to the ceiling, irritation marring its features. It doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by the long pole piercing its abdomen.

Merlin lifts his hand and, with a gesture, pulls the pole out. The Djinn grunts but does not otherwise react. The warlock slowly lowers the Djinn to the ground and as soon as both of its feet are settled flatly on the floor, he immediately checks it over.

“You’re not bleeding,” Merlin blurts in wonder, staring at the hole on the Djinn’s middle. He watches as the wound seamlessly closes up and disappears like it never existed.

The Djinn shrugs. “I’m a Djinn,” it says as if that is explanation enough. Merlin makes a face. The servant finds a finger poking his chest the next moment. “And you. I told you ‘hope’ is one of my keywords. And what did you do?” The Djinn glances around, clearly upset. “You went ahead and wished and ruined my room!”

Merlin winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t – It’s my magic –”

“I know it’s your bloody magic!” The Djinn shouts. “Do you even líhtinge? Are you one of those who are too proud to do it?”

“Líhtinge – what’s that?” Merlin perks up at the magical word.

The Djinn frowns, tirade halting. “It’s the regular release of magic, usually in the form of performing harmless tricks.”

Merlin blinks. “Why would someone do that?”

“So stuff like this.” The Djinn gestures empathically at the mess that is its chambers. “Doesn’t happen when they’re emotionally compromised or sick. How could you not know that?”

Merlin’s features alight with comprehension. “That’s interesting.” The warlock is about to ask more but then remembers he’s not exactly talking to a friend.

He backs away from the Djinn, eyes narrowing and arms lifting in preparation to use his magic. The Djinn rolls its eyes like Merlin is being a petulant child.

“What now?”

“In the village not far from here – from your lamp, some people went missing,” Merlin says, gauging the other’s expression. But to Merlin’s consternation, the Djinn turns around. “You talked to them last, didn’t you?”

The Djinn observes the rainbow-colored flags on the floor, lips pursed in a thin line. “Probably.” It bends down and picks up the colorful cloths with their respective poles.

“What did you do with them?” Merlin demands, the threat in his tone clear.

“What I always do,” the Djinn replies casually, rearranging the flag displays on a broken nightstand. “Grant their wishes.” The Djinn nods to itself and moves on to clear the scattered clothes on the floor.

“And their wish was to disappear?” Merlin’s incredulous tone and raised brow speak of his disbelief.

“Their wish was impossible in this world.” The pile of shirts in the Djinn’s arms is getting bigger. Merlin couldn’t even see the Djinn’s face anymore. “So I sent them to another reality where they can have what they want.”

This time, Merlin’s other brow joins the other in his hairline. “What –“ The Djinn stuffs the clothes inside the splintered drawer, not even bothering to fold them. “Oh, for the love – Would you pay attention? I wish your room was fixed and everything was back on its proper place!”

The Djinn blinks at him in surprise. “Your wish is my command.”

Merlin blinks and the chambers is back to its previous pristine state. Not an article out of place, not a debris on the floor.

The Djinn twirls around, glancing at everything. It whistles. “Wow, thanks for that.”

“Now, will you pay attention?” Merlin sighs. “What do you mean you sent them to another world?”

The Djinn rocks on its heels, face a portrait of innocence. “There are some things that are beyond my power. I can’t bend another’s will, bring someone back from the dead, or change something that has happened in the past,” The Djinn ticks off. “However, I can transport them to a world where, hmm, their crush loves them back, their dad is alive, or they didn’t do that one embarrassing thing that labeled them as losers.”

Merlin processes that for several seconds. “Like . . . multiverse?” He massages his throbbing temples. He remembers such a concept during his episode earlier.

“Exactly.” The Djinn beams. “Parallel universes and such.”

“And that’s where all those villagers went? In other worlds?”

“Yup,” the Djinn replies, popping the ‘p’.

“Can I wish them back?” Merlin’s mind flashes to Milda’s grief-stricken face. She will be more than happy to have her son back.

“Sure.” The Djinn shrugs. “Recent wishes override previous ones.”

Merlin smiles in relief. This will be solved without bloodshed after all. “I –“

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet shakes and the air warms. Merlin grapples with the bed’s headboard for support. The Djinn stays miraculously balanced until the tremors stop.

“Be right back.” The Djinn winks. Then, in a more serious tone, it warns, “Don’t touch anything.”

And it disappears before Merlin could utter a reply.

“What –“ Merlin looks around but the Djinn truly has gone.

What in the world is that? It left without a single explanation! Merlin is miffed. He resists the urge to do the opposite of what the Djinn wants and touch each and every paraphernalia in the room.

As if reading his mind, the Djinn appears right in front of him the next moment. Merlin takes an instinctive step back from it, yelping in surprise.

The Djinn looks a little like it has been run over by a wheelbarrow. It stares at Merlin as if the warlock has done the impossible. Merlin instantly notices the major differences on the Djinn’s appearance; the ear cuffs and the piercing upon its lower lip are gone, replaced by smooth unblemished skin. Their absence makes the Djinn look vulnerably younger.

“Are you alright?” Merlin cannot help but ask in concern. “What happened?”

“I’m . . . I’m free,” The Djinn whispers, voice breaking. When it looks up to Merlin, its eyes are glimmering and a smile threatens break its face in half. “And so are you.” It reaches out and taps an index finger upon the warlock’s nose.

Merlin sneezes. “What are you –“

A weird sensation grips him, one not unlike falling from a great height. Something pulls at his chest, not unpleasant but not overly comfortable either. His vision fills with blinding white, the Djinn’s smile and the Djinn itself fading from sight. Indiscernible voices uttering nonsensical words reverberate around his ears.

“. . . use Drýcræftéaca . . .”

“Water, fire, air, earth . . .”

“. . . father dropped me . . .”

“You must protect . . .”

“. . . Did you just call me a prat?”

“. . . library is forbidden . . .”

“Concentrate, boy! Magic is not . . .”

“How did you . . . It takes a lot of training to . . .”

“Come on! Join us! I mean, we want to kill the Pendragons but . . .”

“You resemble your mentor greatly. One would mistake . . .”

“You think I will not smell a traitor right under . . .”

“ . . . scry for the cause . . .”

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t – I would never . . .”

“If you want to save your king, then, you’ll bloody . . .”

“Stay. Please.”

He gasps but the sound he makes gets lost in the void. His hands – where are his hands, his feet, his whole body? He could not feel them.

“I want him to be safe.”

When Merlin comes to, he finds himself standing in the middle of the forest, the sun high up in the sky. He groggily gazes around, eyes squinted against the sudden bright environment.

There are no Djinns or knights in sight.

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Chapter Text

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The air in his lungs vanishes as if sucked out by an oncoming storm. His heart lets out a throbbing and loud beat, and something in his ears pops. The smell of lightning and burning wood sting his nose. Before he could react to any of these sensations, a wave of agony assaults his temples like a thousand needles stabbing his skull. He ceases walking.

"W-What?" His normally aloof composure cracks, and he holds his head in pain. The hood of his cloak, thankfully, does not fall. His covered face has always been his first worry.

"Wracu?" A concerned voice waddles through the noise in his ears, a hand grasping his shoulder. "What on earth is the matter?"

"I-I-I d-don't." The amount of times Wracu stuttered in his life, he could count with one hand. The fact that he does now denotes a situation that is likely life and death.

His companion knows this and panics appropriately. "Wracu? What's happening?" Smooth slim fingers caress his face, unnatural warmth emanating from the points of contact. "Speak to me, child."

The ache in Wracu's head intensifies instead of diminishing, which, he knows, was not her intention. Nevertheless, it is the result.

He wrenches himself out of her grasp, gasping. "Do you not feel it?" Wracu spits out, irritated that she doesn't understand. For a moment, he fears the consequences of using that kind of tone when talking to her. But the throbbing in his head takes any fright away.

"What is it? What are you sensing?"

Power.

Magic so concentrated in a very small vessel.

An abomination that never should have come into existence.

Wracu can almost taste the coy sweetness quality to the undiluted power, forbidden and seducing.

Wracu has always been in tuned with the Old Religion, sensitive to any changes that might tip the already delicate balance in their environment. Sometimes, he even hears soft whispers of the ancients, persuading, tempting, pleading. He has always seen it as a gift. Now, suffering through the enormous pain of the Old Religion crying out, he isn't so sure.

Indeed, what is it? A magical artifact that an arrogant sorcerer seek to create and control? A drýlic creature that has just been born into the world?

Merlin, cries helpless and distant voices.

Wracu straightens abruptly from the crouch he had not realized he was in. The agony in his skull recedes abruptly, and relief blossoms in his chest even though he is utterly confused.

Merlin, echoes once again. Wracu does not have the pain to distract him this time. He stills, mouth parting.

Merlin, the voices insists, desperate. Emrys.

"Wracu!" He is shaken, both literally and figuratively, out of his trance. Nails dig into the flesh of his arms, and he fights off a wince.

"I'm sorry, Mother, for worrying you," he says calmly. He slowly gathers his composure, putting up the cold persona he usually adopts.

"Was that an attack? Did someone try to hex you?" A cold hand cups his jaw and Wracu leans into the touch.

"No, nothing of the sort," he reassures.

He thinks for a moment, trying to make sense of the happenings in the past few minutes.

He does not know what kind of monster has caused the Old Religion to cry for help, from Wracu, no less. He will have to scry to find out more. But there is one thing he is sure of, one thing he knows his companion will be pleased to hear.

He allows his lips to curl into a smirk. "I believe I have found something that can be of use to us."

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"Arthur! You supercilious prat!"

Merlin has been wandering the forest for hours. He calls for the knights and for Arthur. No one answers, of course, else he will not be in the forest anymore.

This forest, the forest the Djinn has sent him to, feels . . . odd. If asked, Merlin cannot pinpoint exactly why. The trees seem more . . . alive? Their leaves are a more vibrant green, their branches a deeper brown than Merlin is used to. The air is lighter too; Merlin feels like he has been inhaling smoke all his life, and is finally tasting unpolluted air. The soil, the plants, the clouds, the sky . . . everything is teeming with unadulterated life, and Merlin feels the energy sinking in his very bones. Everything seems more . . . just more. Have forests always been like this and Merlin is just always too busy (saving Arthur's arse) to appreciate it? He is wary but also strangely reluctant to leave it.

He sighs, dispelling the wandering thoughts. His throat is dry beyond belief and he has not the energy to call out one more time. Scrubbing his face, he lets out another tired sigh. Through the gaps of his fingers, he observes the endless trees once more, not really hoping to find anything familiar. After all, after that all debacle about being inside the lamp and the Djinn tapping his nose, it is clear that the sassy magical creature has transported the warlock somewhere very far away.

Except . . . Merlin straightens and whips around. The copse he is in does look familiar. It is one Arthur and he traverse in their usual hunting trips. Merlin remembers because that particular protruding root always trips him up. He is sure that pine tree is actually out to get him. How can he trip on the same blasted spot every time? There must be some curse or sorcery involved. (He confides this to Gaius one time and never again because of the absolutely quelling look he received in return)

And if Merlin isn't mistaken . . . The servant runs west, growing increasingly giddy as his surroundings become more and more familiar.

At last, he reaches the dirt path that will lead straight to Camelot's gates.

He barely contains a whoop of joy. That Djinn has transported him near Camelot! Though he doesn't know why, he figures some deity up there must love him.

Without another thought, Merlin sets out for Camelot. Arthur and the knights are probably near Milda's village, panicking because of his sudden disappearance. Merlin will never be able to track them down and reach them on foot. He needs supplies and a horse. Maybe he'll even take a few knights.

On second thought, maybe they are on their way back to Camelot. Or maybe they are already in Camelot. It had been early evening when they discovered the Djinn. Merlin glances up and calculates; it's nearing midday. The Djinn did say time works differently inside the lamp, and what might seem like minutes for Merlin might be hours outside the lamp. Merlin hopes he is gone for only a day or two. Arthur will throw a fit if he disappears for more than that. He might send out search parties again to look for a mere servant. Merlin is not ungrateful, truly, but he finds it mortifying to be the cause of such a large fuss.

He walks silently and alone for half-an-hour, tripping on the small rocks once in awhile. He should reach Camelot in two hours if all goes well, and no trouble finds him. Hopefully, Arthur and the knights are waiting there and not killed off by the Djinn or some other magical creature.

His ears pick up horse hooves, the crunch of gravel, and the creaking of a turning wheel. He spins around, alarmed, and promptly gapes.

Passing him is perhaps the most lavish and ridiculous carriage he has ever seen. It looks remarkably like a large pumpkin, bright orange and rounded. Golden ribbons wrap around like vines in its circumference, lazy spiral designs adorning the door. Instead of wooden wheels, bronze tires gleam in the sunlight. The coachman, dressed in an equally extravagant and ostentatious attire, respectfully tips his hat to Merlin as he passes. The servant hurriedly bows in response and acknowledgement. He steps aside so he wouldn't be run over by the carriage.

Then, the door to the carriage opens without a creak, and a grinning girl, a few years younger than Merlin, pops out.

"Hey, peasant!" is the last thing the servant hears before he is pelted in the face by something wet and muddy.

Startled at the unexpected happenstance, Merlin jumps backwards. He, of course, loses his balance and finds himself on the hard cold ground.

Laughter echoes in his ears and Merlin looks up.

"Good one, Clar!" a boy's voice praises.

The girl titters. "What can you expect?" To Merlin, she sneers, "Don't taint the road with your poor presence, scum."

The door closes with an ungodly slam, and before Merlin knows it, the carriage is gone from sight.

What the hell? Merlin sits on the ground, shocked. Did that really happen? Did a couple of snobbish nobles just humiliated and degraded him?

He burns with anger and embarrassment. Those spoiled entitled brats! Oh, Arthur's going to hear about this! One of the things the king of Camelot can't stand is arrogant tweens who need to be knocked down a peg. (Merlin had once teased that it was because Arthur can't stand to be reminded of his previously brattish self. He got sent to the stocks after that.)

His eyes burn gold without him meaning to. A few feet away, a tree inexplicably explodes with a loud screech, shooting splinters everywhere. Merlin barely gets to safety, barely avoids the large chunks of wood headed his way.

He stares at the ragged stump, the only remains of the large oak tree that shattered because of his anger. He gulps. He doesn't know why his magic is out of control lately. But he must tighten his restraint over it if he wants his head between his shoulders. He curls his palms into a fist and takes a very deep breathe. Right. Restraint. Control.

He wipes away the substance on his face. His hands come away coated with sticky green mixture. He shudders, utterly repulsed. What the hell is this? It smells like rotten eggs and feels abnormally hot on his skin. He goes over the potions and mixtures he knows. None of them matches.

Ugh. He better wash it off just in case.

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Detouring to a stream does not delay Merlin as much as he thought. By late afternoon, he arrives at the entrance of the kingdom of Camelot. He sighs in relief as the drawbridge comes to view. Hmm, when did Arthur get new guards for the gate? Merlin does not recognize the men on the battlements nor the ones stationed at the entrance. Actually, the drawbridge is different too. There are no chains on its either sides; there is no way to lift the wooden plank should the enemies come knocking on their door. The metal grate over the arch is in place though, ready to slam down and trap any fugitives. It is a small comfort.

An ominous feeling settles over Merlin, dread pooling in his stomach. There's something very wrong here, his instincts scream at him. And because said instincts have saved him and Arthur from power-hungry sorcerers throughout the years, he opts to listen to them. He carefully backs away from the drawbridge, eyes narrowed.

People passes him by, unhesitatingly entering the city with either their wares and luggage. Some send him curious looks. They do not seem bothered by the same things he is. Which might be reasonable since Merlin recognizes none of them. He has been living in Camelot for seven summers now; while he personally does not know many townspeople, he does know a lot of them by face.

Why are there an influx of newcomers? Why are the guards new? What happen to the drawbridge? What in the name of Camelot is going on?

A notion crosses Merlin's mind, one that makes him lightheaded. What if . . . What if he has been gone not mere hours or days but months, years, decades?

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Tirol of the village of Ludviche, guard stationed on the left side of the entrance, leaves his post. He casually approaches the other armed guard, keeping his face nonchalant.

"Bart, do you see him? Young man with a neckerchief?" he murmurs, eyes not on Bart of the village of Arendelle but on the merchants entering Camelot.

"Aye." Bart rubs his beard, eyes pointedly on the said young man. "Been standing there for a while, isn't he?"

Tirol elbows him and harshly whispers that he be a bit more subtle. Bart huffs but complies. He takes to observing the big spears bestowed upon them when they were assigned as guards. The spears are just for show, really. Apparently, people feel a lot more safer if the guards carry more obvious and more bigger weapons, never mind the practicality of it.

"He looks lost," Bart offers.

"He looks like he's scheming," Tirol counters, ever the pessimist.

Bart snorts but does not exactly disagree. The young man is staring at battlements and entrance with an intense expression, like he is planning how to make a run for it. While it appears his physical prowess is not something to write home about, his magical one might be a different story entirely. Bart pulls out an amber-colored scinncræfte crystal, one as big as an eyeball.

A small scinncræfte crystal is given to any senior guard, a guard who has been working in service for more than fifteen summers. Tirol is only in his fifth summer so it is up to Bart to check. While scinncræfte crystals are more accurate when in contact with the sorcerer or mage, there are some non-obsidian ones which are perfect for long distance measuring.

Bart pins the crystal between his index finger and thumb. He aligns it over his right eye and through its translucency, casts a gaze at the young man - who has not moved an inch. The crystal glows faintly, barely changing color.

"Just enough magical ability to light a candle," Bart remarks, pocketing the crystal once more.

Tirol hums. "He can still cause mischief."

"If that is your reasoning, then we should be arresting every citizen of Camelot," Bart replies with fond exasperation. He then lifts his chin, and shouts, "You! Boy with the red neckerchief!"

The young man bristles, turning to Bart with wide alarmed eyes. Everything about him screams of tension. From a far, Bart does not know if the man plans to fight or run.

"Come here, boy!" Bart beckons him closer. Fight or flight, at least something would finally happen. Bart's becoming bored,

The young man hesitates, glancing at the drawbridge as if it would come to life and whack him in the head. A split second later, he steels himself and pads on the wood. He approaches the guards and gates with obvious trepidation.

"What are you doing?" Tirol hisses.

Bart shrugs. "Maybe he just needs help." For one so young, Tirol is awfully wary of strangers.

"G-Good afternoon, Sires," the young man greets with a small bow.

Oh, how polite. "Good afternoon! What's your name then?"

"M-Merlin."

"Well, Merlin." Tirol does not hide the suspicion in his voice. "What businesses have you in Camelot? You are not a merchant." The guard looks pointedly at his garment.

"Er, no. I'm a servant . . . In the castle, that is." The young man stares at them, watching for their reactions.

Bart reacts by cocking a brow. Tirol's eyes narrow as he asks, "Where's your castle talisman then?"

"My . . . castle talisman?"

"The castle's shielded. You need a talisman to enter it," Tirol replies curtly. "Where's yours?"

"Shielded?" The young man's voice rises in incredulity. "I-I don't - I don't understand - what?"

Bart frowns. That the castle of Camelot is protected is common knowledge to anyone in the city. This young man claims he works in the citadel, and yet he shows surprise at the fact. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Tirol, who is starting to get restless.

"Are you new in the city, Merlin?" Bart asks. "I've never seen you around before."

"Are you new?" The young man blurts out.

Bart's brow rises to his hairline. "I've been a guard here for seventeen summers now."

Something akin to despair flashes in the young man's features. "But I've never seen you before," he whispers, and Bart does not think he meant for them to hear it.

Judging by Tirol's expression, the other guard is gearing for a full-on interrogation.

"Tirol, Bart!" a call comes from above. Both guards look up at the battlements where their supervisor is leaning down. "A message just came in. The Mercia kids are half-an-hour away."

Tirol mutters a curse and Bart grimaces. Aye, the prince and princess of Mercia. The incarnations of the Devil himself.

They are actually supposed to arrive early that morning. But because it's them, they probably got delayed for pranking the various travellers they come across with. The guards did not question their tardiness and are secretly glad for it. And now, it seems their luck has run its course.

Their supervisor matches their enthusiasm. "They want the usual welcome." The usual welcome being: having guards as their footstool, to wash their hideous carriage, to ride those untamed things they called horses as entertainments, and other inhumane things. The guards assigned to them previously describe it as torture they would not wish upon anyone.

Commiserating their bad luck, they fail to notice the young man with the neckerchief slipping away into the gates of Camelot.

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The dread in Merlin is now a heavy stone in his stomach. His heart is probably in the vicinity of his boots. Seventeen summers? Merlin has never encountered that guard before! He takes note of any changes in the guards' guild (one of them might be an assassin or someone equally troublesome). What's more, they don't recognize him or his name. Being a king's servant has earned him a bit of fame among the townspeople (There are ridiculous rumors about him and Arthur too but thankfully, Merlin remains blissfully ignorant). Those guards should have at least an inkling of who he is when he introduced himself. He swallows the lump in his throat.

So, it might be true then. Merlin might not be missing for mere days but decades. Where's Arthur now? Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Leon, and Perceival? Gwen? Are they still alive or have they been killed by some tragedy Merlin could have prevented?

A stall catches Merlin's eye, dragging him out of his miserable thoughts. There is tall man manning it, arranging the colorful phials displayed on his table. The bright colors in the liquids inside the bottles and jars draws attention enough. But the cauldron bubbling on one corner is what Merlin focuses on.

Out of context, the merchant appears to be brewing something magical, what with the mixture turning different shades every few seconds. Furthermore, the fire underneath the cauldron is green. It is something that will definitely catch the sorcery-hating eyes of the populace. Merlin hurriedly approaches the stall, wanting to warn the merchant about the dangerous image he is displaying.

He doesn't expect to see magic being boldly performed in public.

When he observes the marketplace for the first time, he doesn't expect the sight of magic being used in every day chores or activities.

He doesn't expect to be scolded when he implied that magic is forbidden in Camelot.

He doesn't expect the name of Arthur's mother to be uttered when asked about the current year.

He certainly doesn't expect to find that Arthur Pendragon is a prince once more.

He walks away from the potion store, dazed, befuddled, and no little bit scared. He takes in the little children playing with a ball using magic, and he could not process what his eyes are telling him.

Queen Ygraine . . . Had Merlin been transported to the past? No, no, Arthur's mother died when he was born. This Queen Ygraine has been reigning for 25 years, and Arthur has, according to the merchant, already been born. How old is Arthur than? And where is Uther? The queen only takes the mantle when the king is incapacitated or dead, and the heir has yet to come of age. If Ygraine's been queen for decades then, is Uther dead?

Merlin scratches his head, frowning as he tries to make sense of everything. How can Ygraine be alive? Has someone revived her?

There are some things that are beyond my power. I can't bend another's will, bring someone back from the dead, or change something that has happened in the past.

The Djinn's words resounds in his mind. The Djinn cannot revive anyone nor change Ygraine's fate. And since that annoying creature was the one that brought him here, it means -

However, I can transport them to a world where, hmm, their crush loves them back, their dad is alive, or they didn't do that one embarrassing thing that labeled them as losers.

Oh.

Realization kicks Merlin in the gut. He's not in the future nor in the past. His eyes widens, lips parting.

He is in another world, a very different one from where he comes from. A world where magic is legal and used openly in Camelot. It isn't possible; jumping through one world to another in a snap? Surely that'll take a lot of time and power. Oh, who is he kidding? Merlin has encountered, done, and defeated many impossibilites. What's one more? The beginnings of hysteria claw at the corners of his mind, and he suddenly has a hard time breathing.

Because this is his luck, his epiphany is followed by a hard blow to the head. He finds himself face-down on the ground, quickly losing consciousness.

"Oh, scite."

"What happened?" Heavy footsteps shakes the ground, and gravel crunches under boots. Someone kneels and hovers beside him.

"It was Selia! She threw the ball and -"

"It's not my fault! He was standing too near! He should've . . ."

". . . hit a rock . . . a concussion? Do we . . ."

"I can . . . Here's . . "

Darkness pulls him under and Merlin knows no more.

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Chapter Text

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Something small with a blunt end pokes his cheek.

Merlin swats it away, mumbling pleas. Surely Gaius could give him a few more minutes to sleep? His head aches most profoundly, and his whole body is sore. He doesn’t exactly remember what activities he had done yesterday but it’s most likely Arthur’s fault.

The same article is back, prodding insistently at his face. Merlin scowls. But the expression makes his temples throb more so he stops.

“Gaius . . .” Merlin blearily opens his eyes to welcome the sight of a wooden ceiling.

Wait. That certainly is not his room’s stone ceiling.

Merlin bolts upright from the bed, memories flooding back. Another world. An orange carriage. New guards at the gates. Potions. Magic in Camelot. Queen Ygraine. Prince Arthur. He instantly regrets his sudden movement because the motion is accompanied by a nausea that threatens to disown the contents of his stomach. He groans, his head punishing his insolence.

Someone yelps, and Merlin’s alert eyes are immediately drawn to the source.

A little girl, appearing about eight summers, stands beside the cot he lays in, brown eyes wide as they meet Merlin’s. Her pale face is dotted with freckles, long sandy hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. In her hands --

Merlin blinks.

In her hands is an eagle, crooning and cleaning its feathers. Except, Merlin knows for certain eagles don’t have four legs, and the body and tail of a lion.

“Is that a griffin?” Merlin’s voice rises, tinged with a hysterical note. He can’t be blamed; the last time he saw a griffin, it attempted to tear him apart with its beak.

Kelly, the baby griffin by Schoernchen

The girl beams, nodding rapidly. Her previously wary expression fades as she starts talking excitedly about her pet. “This is Kelly. I found her in the woods when she was just an egg.” The girls holds out the magical creature to Merlin. It’s half the girl’s size, and Merlin wonders how she is able to carry it.  “Da let me keep her since she catches and eats the rats in the inn. Good for business, he said!”

The warlock does not know what it is in his expression that indicates he wants the griffin anywhere near him. But the little girl stares at him, clearly expecting him to take the creature. And, when Merlin glances at the griffin, the same expression is painted on its face. The creature looks at him with guileless eyes, beak releasing soft croons. Its wings flutter, the claws of its forelegs beckoning Merlin closer.

The warlock gingerly encloses his fingers around the body of the griffin -- the baby griffin. She isn’t as heavy as he thought it would be. However, the moment Merlin’s hands form a tentative grip upon her, the griffin decides to take matter into her own claws. She struggles out of Merlin’s grasp, and lunges towards his chest. The warlock backs away with a shout of surprise but Kelly curves her body around his left shoulder, sharp talons dangerously close to the soft flesh of his neck. Merlin freezes, not even daring to breathe.

The little girl is nonplussed as she stares at the scene. “She really likes you! Kelly usually bites the fingers of anyone that tries to pet her. Except me, of course.” The little girl giggles.

“Then why did you offer her to me?” Merlin screeches, indignant. The griffin nuzzles its head at hollow of his throat, and he swallows. The feathers tickle his skin in a spine-chilling manner.

The girl shrugs. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“You’re a very shrewd child,” Merlin mumbles, trying to detach the griffin from him. Kelly’s talons tighten in return, threatening to break skin, and the warlock ceases his attempts. He begs the child, “Please get her off me.”

The girl climbs the bed, sitting over Merlin’s blanket-covered legs. She doesn’t even try to heed his pleas. “I’m Selia, by the way.” With a comically serious expression, she lifts her hand for a handshake.

Merlin, mind still occupied with the blasted griffin around his neck, replies with a simple “I’m Merlin.” He takes the offered hand and shakes it firmly. A memory flashes in his mind, vague and unclear. “Were . . . Were you the one who hit me with the ball?”

Selia’s cheeks puffs even as the tips of her ears pink. “It’s not entirely my fault. You were standing too near our play area!” She says, pointing an accusing finger at the warlock. Then, she slumps. “But I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. My aim was bad.”

Merlin chuckles, endeared despite himself. “It’s all right. I suppose I shouldn’t have been absentmindedly standing around.”

The girl looks pleased at the admittance. Ah, children. So easily appeased. “How is it?” She taps her own head. “Does it still hurt?”

“A bit, yeah.” But the longer Merlin is conscious, the more the pain fades. He reaches out to the back of his head to feel for bumps or wounds. Strangely, he finds nothing. He frowns in confusion.

“Gilli said you hit your head on a rock when you fell.” She holds up two fingers. “Two head wounds!” Merlin doesn’t think she should sound as amazed as she does.

The name registers belatedly in his mind. “Gilli?”

Selia gasps. “I’m supposed to fetch him when you awaken!” She hurriedly climbs down the cot, and heads for the door. The wooden barrier opens without any contact, and Selia runs out of the room with no other explanation.

Merlin is left alone with the baby griffin, who has made herself comfortable atop his shoulders.

Gilli. The name belonged to a boy he met a few years back, one Merlin remembers with a melancholic note. The warlock had related very closely to the boy’s feelings and situation, had pitied him so much that he had revealed his deepest secret. Could it be . . . ?

No, it is too much of a coincidence. He’s in another world, and Gilli is a common enough name.

His wonderings come to a stop as the man himself enters the room, followed by Selia.

“--been awake for a few minutes. He told me his head hurt a bit,” the girl reported.

Gilli, for it is he, nods solemnly at Selia’s words. His is the first familiar face Merlin has seen in this world. And even then, Merlin barely recognizes him.

He looks younger than Merlin recalls, the frown lines in his face less prominent than the laugh lines. Merlin remembers seeing a boy, bitter with revenge and burdened with eyes older than his body. Although they share the same face, the man in front of him now is an entirely different than the one he met years ago. Gilli’s face is open, a hint of naiveness and ungainliness gleaming through his posture. His hair is darker, cheeks fuller and eyes bright with youthfulness. No recognition sparks in his expression as he meets Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin gapes. The more he stares, the more sure he is of his assumption; it has just been a speculation before but this here is proof that he truly is in another world. This Gilli is not -- cannot be -- the one he knows.

Merlin realizes that Gilli is speaking and the warlock himself has been asked a question. “Uh, what?” he asks intelligently.

Concern draws Gilli’s brows in a furrow. “I asked if you’re experiencing any dizziness?”

“N-No.” Merlin couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop comparing. Fortunately, the griffin let out a chirp, tearing Merlin out of his trance. “Though if you get this thing off me, I would be grateful.”

Amusement and sympathy shine in Gilli’s eyes. Selia huffs, offended in behalf of her pet. “We know when we’re not wanted. Come now, Kelly!”

Thankfully, Kelly loves Selia more than she loves Merlin’s neck. She untangles herself from the warlock and jumps into the little girl’s open arms.

“I’ll bring supper,” the girl promises with a bright smile before trotting out of the room.

“I’m Gilli, by the way.” Merlin’s attention was drawn back by the only other occupant of the room. “My friend and I treated you after you got hit. It wasn’t anything serious,” Gilli reassured. “Selia’s father, Tom, offered to house you until you got better. I guess Selia is feeling pretty guilty for hitting you.”

“Yes, she already apologized,” Merlin says because he can think of nothing else. An awkward silence fills the room. Gilli is giving him an expectant look but Merlin does not know what he -- Oh! “My name’s Merlin. Thank you so much for treating me.” The warlock skims the supposed wound on his head. “It doesn’t really hurt that much now.”

Gilli smiles, back straightening with pride. “I’m glad. I’m not a full-fledged healer yet, of course. But I do plan to study under Mage Gaius’ tutelage and improve some more.”

Merlin sputters. “Mage Gaius?”

“I suppose you would’ve heard of him.” Gilli’s gaze darts down, an embarrassed flush touching his cheeks. “It is a bit arrogant of me to assume he would choose me as an apprentice. More talented mages are competing for the spot.”

Merlin understands none of the things Gilli is saying. Is it better to pretend he knows? It would be difficult to keep up later on . . . In the end, he decides to keep his questions to himself for now until he can determine this Gilli’s trustworthiness.

“All right,” he says. He searches for anything to say but finds little that would not reveal his cluelessness. He only knows that in this world, Ygraine is queen, Arthur is just a prince, and magic is used all around Camelot.

Magic is allowed.

The idea slams into him like a wheelbarrow rolling down the hill. He inhales a sharp breath and looks down on his hands in numb shock.

Magic is allowed in Camelot.

“I can do magic,” he breathed out. He can use magic inside Camelot without being arrested and executed. To Merlin, the notion is as foreign as the idea of Djinns before he met one.

“You can?” Gilli excitedly asks, seating himself on a wooden chair beside the bed and seemingly unbothered by the non-sequitur. Merlin’s head snaps up, remembering that he is not alone. “Are you a mage like myself?”

Merlin’s not entirely sure what the difference is. “No, I--” He trails off, still trying to wrap his mind around such an impossible concept.

Without thinking too much about it, he holds out a hand and produces a glowing blue orb floating atop his palm. Gilli gasps and Merlin’s eyes turn to him. The warlock observes the younger man’s reaction and sees nothing but awe and wonder. Gilli does not look around in fright, does not ask him to extinguish the light. Nothing in Gilli’s countenance denotes that magic is unnatural in Camelot. Merlin lets out a breath he did not realize he was holding.

“I’ve never seen the likes of it before,” Gilli confesses, fingers hovering over the spherical source of light. Then, he stills, expression going surprisingly blank. “You . . . You didn’t utter any spell.”

“A spell?” For such a simple thing? Merlin vanishes the orb, wondering at the strange tone in Gilli’s voice. “I . . . I don’t know the spell for that.” Merlin does not even think there is one. In his defense, he does own only one book about magic.

Gilli appears stunned. He opens his mouth but before he could say anything to clear up Merlin’s confusion, the door to the room creaks open. Two individuals enter the room, carrying a tray each. The shorter one is, of course, a cheerful Selia with Kelly resting around her shoulders. She is chatting enthusiastically with the young man that came with her. The young man has pale skin, dark hair, and a broad figure suited for a knight of Camelot. As he raises his gaze, piercing azure eyes meet Merlin’s. A sense of familiarity tugs at the warlock then, twisting his stomach into knots.

But Merlin is certain he has never met the man in his reality before. That is until Gilli straightens and calls out, “Mordred! That better be dinner!”

The name freezes the blood in Merlin’s veins. Looking closely, the man greatly resembles the druid boy he helped escaped Uther’s clutches years ago. He forgets how to breath for before him stands the man that is destined to end the life of his best friend.

Mordred smiles, and teases, “It is. I know how irritable you get if you go without food for an hour.”

“It’s my Da’s best stew!” Selia pipes up.

Mordred’s gaze then turns to him and he pauses, noting the warlock’s shock. He shoots Merlin a puzzled look as he settles down a tray of food on the lone table in the room. “Nice to see you awake,” he says, a hint of wariness slipping in his tone.

Merlin could do nothing but gape. Mordred nears the bed, intending to introduce himself properly. However, as the warlock sees Mordred approaching, he could not quite stifle down a flinch.

“If the boy lives, you cannot fulfill your destiny,” Kilgarrah had once warned him. But the warlock did not heed it. Merlin had let the little boy live and escape Camelot because how could such an innocent child be capable or willing to  harm Arthur in any way? But now, seeing Mordred years later, no longer a child but a man of great strength, Merlin feels his fear solidifying like a stone in his chest.

Mordred halts, frown deepening at Merlin’s reaction. Gilli, noticing the growing tension, glances confusedly between Merlin and his friend. Selia continues praising her Da’s cooking, oblivious.

“Have I . . . Have we met?” Mordred asks cautiously.

“Ah . . . no, no, we, we haven’t.” But they have. Just not this Mordred. Merlin tears his gaze away from the druid’s face and closes his eyes. This Mordred is not the Mordred he knows. In this world, magic was never banned in Camelot. Perhaps in this world, the prophecy between Arthur and Mordred does not even exist. He tries to separate the Mordred he knows to the Mordred that stands before him. It is no use thinking of them the same, especially since this one seems to have helped him out of kindness. “I’m sorry, I -- You have the same name of someone . . . of someone I know.”

“I reckon it’s not someone you’re friendly with,” Mordred states, half-serious, half in jest. He steps back and turns his attention to the steaming bowls on the tray.

Merlin let out an involuntary laugh. “I suppose so.”

Gilli glances between them, clearly curious but decides not to pry. Selia and Kelly, meanwhile, have started digging in into their respective dinners.

Gilli cleared his throat. “. . . Well, Mordred, this is Merlin. Merlin’s a magic-user like us.” Gilli beams, looking as if that is the best news he heard all day.

Like us. Right. Mordred has magic considerably powerful that someday, Merlin will be unable to protect Arthur against him. No, no, no. Not this Mordred, not this Mordred, Merlin reminds himself.

“Mordred, at your service.” Mordred offers Merlin a bowl stew, smiling reassuringly. The warlock takes the food with only a hint of hesitation. He hasn’t had a single morsel since the afternoon and his stomach is punishing him for it.

Mordred hands Gilli another steaming bowl before sitting down on a stool with a stew of his own.

“How’s your head, Merlin?”

“It’s fine now,” Merlin says after swallowing a mouthful of stew to silence his stomach. Oh, it is as Selia advertises. The stew is delicious enough to be served to nobility.

A dreadful thought crosses his mind, and he bristles. “Thank you, both of you. And I would thank Selia’s father too for letting me borrow a room. B-But I’m afraid I haven’t got coin to pay for it all.”

Merlin does not usually carry money with him on quests with Arthur and this time is no exception. Not only is he in an unknown territory, he also haven’t got the resources to survive in it! Merlin ponders on this dilemma, and more disturbing questions hit him, diminishing his appetite. He can no longer deny that he has been transported to a world not his own, a Camelot that is not his. What happens next? What does he do next? He needs coin if he wants to eat -- and Merlin wants that very much. He will have to get a job here. He needs more information about this world too while he is here. He isn’t stuck here, is he? How will he get back to his world, to his own Camelot? Another Djinn perhaps? If there is a Djinn in his world, surely there’s also one here. If Merlin could only know where to start looking for one, then he may have a chance to go back.

“--lin, Merlin!”

The warlock snaps out of his musings. He lifts his head and three concerned faces greets him. It seems he has been too engrossed in his worries to notice them calling for him.

“Don’t worry about the room, Merlin!” Selia assures hurriedly. “Da’s not gonna charge you for it. It was me who hit you, after all.”

“And we don’t need payment,” Mordred follows, hands up in a placating gesture. “You did become Gilli’s experimental subject for his healing arts.”

Gilli sharply elbows Mordred’s side as Merlin looks alarmed.

“It is not what it sounds like. I promise I didn’t do anything that wasn’t safe for me to do!” Gilli hastily explains, panicked.

“If you say so,” Merlin replies, dubious, as he rubs his head to check if anything is amiss.

Gilli shoots Mordred a half-hearted glare, and Mordred responds by grinning roguishly. Merlin blinks, the interaction truly proving the difference of this Gilli and Mordred to the ones he met. In the first place, Merlin could never imagine them meeting, let alone strike a friendship.

“But how come you don’t have any coin?” Selia asks, frowning. “Da always gives me some for candies. Did bandits take yours?”

“Ah.” Merlin’s mind quickly searches for a good lie. Gilli and Mordred lean forward, clearly curious for the answer as well. “Y-Yes. I encountered some bandits on the way to Camelot. Took everything I had.”

“That’s why you didn’t even have a bag with you.” Gilli nods to himself as if Merlin’s statement confirmed his suspicions.

Merlin nods rapidly. “Yes!” Now, onto his first step to navigate through this world. He will have to depend on these two after all, trustworthy or not. The warlock has no choice. “You lot wouldn’t happen to know a suitable job where I can earn some coin, would you?” Merlin is sure his pleading expression is evident to all. “I- I've worked as a servant before.” Worked or still working as a servant? Merlin suddenly remembers his Arthur, and wonders whether he and the knights got out of the encounter with the Djinn unscathe.

“As-As a servant?” Gilli splutters. “B-But your magic!”

“. . . What about my magic?” Are magic-users prohibited from being servants? Merlin thinks that would be a ridiculous law. He is capable of doing the work of two servants with his magic.

Mordred casts a questioning look at Gilli for his hysterical behavior.

Gilli opens and closes mouth a few times, seemingly unable to voice out his thoughts. When he finally speaks, he demands of Merlin, “Make that orb thing again!”

Humoring him, Merlin frees up a hand and summons a glowing blue orb once more.

“Wow!” Selia exclaims and, without hesitation, palms the orb with both hands. Kelly croons. “It’s so warm!” The little girl continues petting the light.

Merlin sees Mordred’s jaw drop open, his blue eyes widening a fraction. He immediately destroys the orb, worried what Mordred may have deduced upon seeing the warlock summon it. Selia and Kelly let out sounds of disappointment.

“A sáwle glæm,” Mordred breathes out.

“See, he did that without uttering a spell,” Gilli says vehemently. Anger drips in his tone as he adds, “I think you’ve been taken advantage of, Merlin. You have great potential for magic and you certainly deserve to be more than a servant!”

Merlin flushes at Gilli’s enthusiastic defense. Lancelot has been telling him something similar for the past few years. However, hearing the words from someone who has just met him and seen him do a single harmless spell has a totally different effect.

“You . . . you have no idea what that was, have you?”

All eyes turn to Mordred, who wears an eerily blank expression. Merlin’s shoulders raises instinctively as he always does when someone suspects him of any wrongdoing that is magical in nature. Sweat builds up around his forehead. “It was a light,” he replies curtly.

Mordred’s left eye twitches. “Where did you learn it?”

Merlin has been able to do it after being poisoned by the Morteus flower. He has learned it nowhere. Merlin considers saying exactly that but refrains at the last second. If Gilli has been so surprised to see him perform a wordless enchantment, then telling them that may make him stand out. Merlin, with years of hiding his magic and working in the background, has no desire to call attention to himself any more than necessary, especially if he is to waddle through this strange world that he knows so little of. No, better to lay low until he has any semblance of a plan. “I have -- had -- a book of magic,” he answers instead, which is the truth indeed.

“You didn’t apprentice under anyone?” Mordred continues inquiring, tone and countenance belying nothing of his real thoughts.

Merlin is currently Gaius’ apprentice but he doubts that is what Mordred means. “N-No, I just read it in a book.”

“I see.” Mordred nods, gaze contemplative.

The air thickens with tension, and Merlin has half a mind to just flee. Mordred’s piercing eyes remind him of the words, ‘I shall never forgive this, Emrys, and I shall never forget’ for the child Merlin nearly killed favored him with the same kind of stare. Guilt and dread bubble inside him, and Merlin tightly clenches the sheets around him.

Gilli, Selia and Kelly stay in confused silence.

“Selia!” A voice booms from outside, startling them all and dissipating the suffocating atmosphere.

Selia squeaks. “I promise my Da to help him clean the dishes after I bring you dinner.” With a speed unknown to everyone in the room, the little girl quickly finishes her own dinner and runs towards the door. Again, the door opens without her touch. “Get well soon, Merlin!” She says as she and Kelly departs from the room.

The three men stare at the door, unsure of what to say next. At last, Mordred grins broadly, breaking the awkward atmosphere. “Do you know of Camelot’s Apprentice Exam tomorrow? Gilli and I have plans to take it.”

Merlin is perplexed at the abrupt statement.

Gilli appears just as puzzled. “Yes, although I'll be taking the tests for mages and Mordred’s taking the ones for sorcerers,” Gilli follows reluctantly, trying to determine his friend’s intentions.

Merlin perks up, interested beyond measure. “Uh -- No, I haven’t heard of it. Tests for sorcerers? And m-mages? Wha-What exactly does that entail?” Merlin remembers Arthur’s ‘tests’ and they usually indicate quests to search for some ancient relic or another.

“Oh, you really are clueless.” The amusement and wonder in Gilli’s voice is truly unwarranted. “Everyone knows about the Apprentice Exam!”

“I'm not exactly from around here,” Merlin could not help but drawl, a tad irritated.

“Then, where are you from exactly?” Mordred asks sharply, grin never wavering.

“V-Very far away. I doubt you’d even heard of it.”

Mordred hums and Gilli once again shoots his friend an inquiring look. When Mordred fails to respond in any way, Gilli clears his throat and picks up the conversation.

“As you may know, more than a hundred full-fledged magic-users lives in Camelot.” Judging by Merlin’s startled expression, he does not, in fact, know. Gilli proceeds with the explanation nonetheless, silently wondering if Merlin’s little head wound did more than render him unconscious. “A handful of those magic-users work in Queen Ygraine’s court. The Apprentice Exam was proposed by Camelot’s Court Sorcerer about fifteen years ago so that magic-users could pass on their knowledge to the next generation. It is to be held once every three years and so far, five exams have successfully gone through.”

Camelot’s Court Sorcerer . . . It is a phrase Merlin could only hope to hear in his world. Shaking the negative thoughts out of his mind, he decides to focus more on gathering as much information as possible. “Pass their -- But couldn’t they just write it down in books?” Merlin could not help but interject. Gaius has always emphasized on the importance of documentation because people’s memories are unreliable, or so the physician says.

“Yes, well, a lot of enchantments are harder to learn from books.” Gilli sniffs. “And you learn more by having a mentor than studying books.”

“There are also certain spells that can only be passed down from one magic-user to another,” Mordred adds pointedly.

Merlin thinks he learns much more from books than living sorcerers but that may be because he has never met one that is not trying to kill him or Arthur. “So, does the -- this Apprentice Exam is a test to prove your worthiness?”

Gilli shrugs. “The Camelot court could only take in a couple of apprentices. Hundreds apply every year and the magic-users at court could not possibly take them all in. So, the Court Sorcerer proposed the Apprentice Exam to help narrow down possible apprentices. Those who do not get chosen can still choose to apply for apprenticeship for the magic-users not in Camelot’s court.” In a determined voice, Gilli says, “Although, I won’t settle for any mentor less than Mage Gaius.” As soon as utters the words, Gilli rubs his neck, embarrassed.

Mage Gaius. Merlin guesses Gaius is a famous sorcerer here. Merlin does not know if he can get used to the title attached to his name though. But the warlock is infinitely glad that at least Gaius is still in Camelot.

“I-It’s like a tournament, then? A joust or a sparring competition?” Merlin recalls knights bashing each other’s head with blunted swords, and imagines knights doing it with magic, shooting fireballs and summoning tornadoes.

Mordred tilts his head in thought. “I suppose you could say it’s a competition.”

“You are vying for the same positions.” Gilli concedes. “But, unlike a joust, you don’t fight each other. The magic-users at court appraises your skills through a series of tests. If your skillset is deem greater than those of the other applicants, you are more likely to be chosen as an apprentice. Each sorcerer picks at most two apprentices, each mage at least five.”

Merlin supposes that is more reasonable than bashing each other’s head senselessly. “So you two are applying? Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m aiming to be taken under Mage Gaius’ guidance while Mordred here is aiming high.”

“I’m apprenticing under the Court Sorcerer and no one else’s,” Mordred declares with a confident smirk. Then, Mordred snaps his fingers. “You should join us tomorrow.”

Gilli blinks, obviously bewildered at the suggestion but goes along. To Merlin, he says, “You need money, right? If you get chosen, you can live in the castle. They’ll provide you food and lodging, and a monthly allowance! You won’t have to worry about getting a job.”

Merlin scratches his head. Unlike Gilli or Mordred, he did not grow up in a world where a sorcerer is allowed to freely hone his skills. Merlin doubts he has the skill set to actually get chosen as an apprentice. He is Gaius’ apprentice, and he knows he is a poor one at that, barely gaining knowledge about healing in the seven years under Gaius’ care. Merlin has read one book of magic, and knows less than fifty chants. He is not going to be passing any kind of magical test soon.

But a version of Gaius will be there in the exam. Surely, in any world, Gaius is a fountain of knowledge. Surely, Gaius even in this world is trustworthy.

Merlin also reckons the Apprentice Exam is a good way to gather information about the magic in this world. Perhaps he can also find clues on the location of Djinns here. After all, a lot of sorcerers apparently would be in attendance. At least one certainly has the information he seeks.

There is no harm in trying, is there?

The warlock smiles, glad to finally have part of a plan. “Well, if you really don’t mind, I’d also like to join you and participate. I'm not really familiar of anything in these parts.”

“Splendid!” Gilli exclaims. “Now, really, my dinner’s getting cold so any further questions you may have, Mordred can answer.” With that, Gilli practically inhales his stew.

Mordred rolls his eyes as he sips demurely at his own dinner. Merlin wants to take advantage of the opportunity and asks endless questions. But he decides he has asked enough questions about seemingly obvious things in this world. It will not do well for him to raise suspicion. Besides, Merlin’s head is beginning to ache once more.

After they finish their respective dinners, Mordred and Gilli bide Merlin a good night.

“We’re just staying in the room across,” Gilli informs him. “Rest as much as you can and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Th-Thank you, Gilli. And Mordred. Truly. For taking care of me.” The smile Merlin offers is nothing short of genuine. They truly have been kind to a stranger they know nothing about. Merlin wonders if everyone in this world is akin to them.

That night, Merlin lays awake in bed, a thousand thoughts buzzing in his mind. Eventually, he falls into a restless slumber.

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 “What exactly is a sáwle glæm?”

Mordred pauses in removing his boots. Across him, on top of the second bed, Gilli continues changing into his nightwear. The flickering fires of the candles bathes them both in a surreal light, and moonlight filters languidly through the gaps of the closed window.

Mordred glances at the door to their room. Then, he answers, “It is what it sounds like -- a glimpse of the soul. It is something you share with family, with a son or daughter, with a lover. It’s certainly not something you go showing off to strangers.”

Gilli blinks, processing that. “Then, why -- ?”

“I don’t think he knows what it means.” Mordred has deftly discarded his boots and socks. He lifts his green tunic over his head, exposing pale skin marred only by a triskelion tattoo over the right side of his chest. “It’s also not something you learn in any book. Father taught me how to summon a sáwle glæm himself.”

“He - He lied?” Gilli frowns.

“Perhaps.” Mordred shrugs on a soft-padded shirt. “Do you know I first sensed that he barely had the magical capability to light a candle?”

“So? Why did you suggest he participate in the exam then?”

“Gilli, someone of that supposed calibre cannot possibly conjure a sáwle glæm. And do it chantlessly.”

“Oh.” Gilli’s eyes widen. “Oh! He can suppress his aura?“

“That seems to be the case.” Mordred pulls the sheets of his bed back. “I urged him to participate because --”

“ -- of the obsidian scinncræfte crystal that will surely be used tomorrow, right?” Gilli rolls his eyes as he finishes Mordred’s sentence for him. “You want to know what exactly he’s capable of. You’re so predictable.”

Mordred smiles guilelessly but does not deny the accusation. “You’ve picked up quite a stray, my friend. You cannot blame me for being interested.”

Gilli’s brows furrow as his gaze turns contemplative. “You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you? He hides his aura, and he lied about where he learned that sáwle glæm. He seems to be fishing an awful lot of information about the exam. And I told him everything!”

Mordred stills again. Then, he gets under the covers. “Do you know children are more sensitive to evil ambiances?”

Gilli cocks a brow, unsure of Mordred’s point.

Mordred continues, “A sáwle glæm, a glimpse of his soul. Do you remember what Selia said when she touched it?”

“She said it was warm . . .”

“Exactly.” Mordred sighs. “Go to sleep, Gilli. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about for now.”

Gilli huffs as he fluffs his pillow and lays on the bed. “All right. You get some rest too. I'll never forgive you if you don’t meet the Court Sorcerer’s impossibly high standards and get chosen.”

Mordred chuckles. “Of course.”

With a gesture, the druid extinguishes all the lit candles.

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Chapter Text

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The Scrying Room has always been kept damp and cold. He runs fingertips along the smooth marbled walls of the chamber as walks by, and he feels the the light of the moon filtering through the open window. Carved unto the center of floor is a gigantus ornate pool that can comfortably fit ten adults. Filled with the clearest of water and adorned with several runes, the pool can be used even by the most basest of mages.

With a small wave of one hand, he puts up a mildly powerful barrier at the door. The lock clicks noisily. Certain that no one else can enter, he pulls down his hood and discards his cloak. He treads over to the edge of the pool, steps quiet and light.

“Snæde.” Immediately, his left palm stings. Blood blooms from the cut on his hand, overflowing and dripping onto clear waters.

“Geondlihte gesweorc min.”

The water ripples once, the runes pulsing. He unlaces the strings of his shirt and pulls it over his head. His trousers comes off next, and soon, he stands with naught a cloth on.

“Geondlihte gesweorc min,” he repeats, climbing down the pool. Unbearably cool water soaks his skin, and he fights down the urge to shiver. The marbled surface beneath his feet offers little friction as he walks to the center, water undulating in his path.

He presses hard on the wound on his palm, coaxing more warm blood to flow. “Geondlihte gesweorc min.”

The water swirls, slowly at first, releasing tinkling whispers. Then, the movement grows more violent as each second ticks by, the soft sounds turning into hissing ones. Soon, the force of whirlpool is threatening to pull him down. It is by sheer will that he stands unmoved in the eye of the minute storm.

“Geondlihte gesweorc min onbutan . . .”

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as possible.

“Emrys,” he whispers before letting himself be devoured by the waves.

His head goes underwater. The water muffles each one of his senses. The coldness of his surroundings is placed at the back of his mind. He expects concrete touches and clear voices but gets vague impressions and barely comprehensible sentences instead. He curses inwardly; the Emrys is contained in an area with an effective anti-scrying enchantment. However, no defensive spell is truly imprenetable for him. He lets out a great pulse of magic, igniting all the runes surrounding the pool. He weaves through the spell blocking his scrying, attempting to find or create a weak spot. At last, a few minutes later, he manages to find a tiny gap between the threads of magic. He smoothly slips through the enchantment without breaking it. A few seconds later, foreign sensations flits by his skin and a single voice echoes through his ears.

The smell of potions and fire. “What about A—King Arthur? Blond-hair, blue eyes, bit of a prat –”

Children’s laughter and the thumps of a rubber ball bouncing. “No one's getting arrested. They're all doing magic . . .”

A great pain in the head. He winces, injured hand touching upon his temple.

Claws scratching his collarbone. “Is that a griffin?”

The taste of meaty stew. “So, does the -- this Apprentice Exam is a test to prove your worthiness?”

“A spell? I . . . I don’t know the spell for that.”

Then, the scent of dragonfire and lightning sting his nose. He breathes in sharply in shock, and water enters unwelcomely in his lungs.

He hastily swims his way to the surface and roughly coughs out all the liquid he has inhaled when he gets there. He massages his burning chest as he doubles over. He grips the edge of the pool with pale white fingers as he composes himself. Water sluices down his shoulders and back, cold droplets clinging to his skin. The waters of the pool calms almost immediately after his ascent, whirlpool dissipating in a blink.

The scrying is barely successful, and yet, the revelations are no less startling.

Impossible.

He has scried for the Emrys the Old Religion has been so fearful of. He has expected to touch the fur of a beastly creature or feel the smooth surface of an ancient device. Instead, he has sensed a being on two legs, carrying on with two arms, and a head with a mop of hair. He has heard a voice mumble intelligible phrases.

Emrys is human.

He wraps his arms around himself, shivering intermittently. The cut on him palm continues to bleed sluggishly.

No mortal flesh can survive containing such immense power and energy. Their veins will be torn apart by the imbalance shortly after their blood boils.

No, such a thing cannot possibly be human. Then, perhaps, Emrys is only masquerading as one. Yes, that is more likely. If so, Emrys is clearly sentient enough to pass off as a human. Already, he foresees a plethora of complications tagging along with this implication. Sentient beings are harder to tame, to control, to predict. Emrys may be less useful to his plans than he initially think.

However, another fact has caused a bigger mystery for him. Another discovery gets most of his attention, and places his mind in turmoil.

Dragonfire and lightning.

Emrys’ magic releases the smell of dragonfire and lightning.

Impossible. It cannot be. How? Why? There is no precedent --

Yet that is what his scrying has presented him.

Dragonfire and lightning.

He gingerly climbs off the pool, and the icy breeze wracks his frame.

“Ic i drýge,” he mutters. Blisteringly warm air blows against his skin, and in a span of seconds, he is no longer wet.

“Þurhhæle dolgbenn,” he chants. The skin of his cut palm stitches together and heals seamlessly.

With a flick of his hand, his discarded clothes flies towards his arms. He gingerly dons them once more, thinking through his next plans.

He knows not what to think. He has uncovered a paradox and a preposterous anomaly. Scrying has given him more questions than answers, and irritation pierces his breast. His books may hold something to ease the confusion but it will take much more time. Nevertheless, he will delve into research soon. He goes over the tomes that may hold clues regarding Emrys’ personage.

But perhaps . . . meeting the source itself will shine quite a light on the whole phenomenon. Up close with Emrys, he may be able to get the answer he needs. Mother will want quicker results after all, and nothing will be faster than getting information from Emrys itself.

He drapes the cloak over his shoulders and flips the hood up, enshrouding his face in inexplicable shadows once more. He wordlessly destroys the barrier on the door, and unlocks it.

The Apprentice Exam.

Of course. The whole of Camelot is wrapped in every defensive spell in existence. No wonder his scrying did not bear as much fruit as he wants.

Emrys is in Camelot. The corners of his lips tick upwards.

It has been a while since his last visit to the renowned kingdom of magic.

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Merlin jerks awake, gasping as if he has not inhaled air all his life. A sheen of sweat covers his whole body, soaking his clothes and the bedsheets. An ache blooms between his eyes and he pinches the bridge of his nose to stave it off.

What has he been dreaming about? It feels like a nightmare but one not quite vivid enough to leave a lasting impression. He sighs and pulls the covers off himself. He doubts he’ll sleep any more tonight. Or this morning, Merlin amends as he sees the soft light of dawn filtering through the slightly parted shutters.

His bare feet meets the cool smooth floorboards of the inn. Grip by the urge to breathe some fresh air, he walks towards the lone window and opens it fully. Unbidden, he remembers his first day in Camelot and how he did the same act upon arriving in the room lent to him by Gaius.

The sweet scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat assaults him. He deeply breathes in the fragrant smell before bracing himself against the sill and peeking out of the window. Being in the second floor of the inn gives Merlin a wonderful view of the city life below. Directly across the inn are the stalls causing such beautiful smell. One stall presents an array of long breads, some glazed with white confectionary powder. The stall adjacent contains steaming plates filled with heaps of cooked lambs, goat and pork. Already, early risers flock both stalls, attracted by both the smell and sight.

Merlin dearly wishes he has some coin.

The nearby stores show a variety of wares -- blades of different lengths, magical staffs with a motley of designs, knapsacks of roughly the same sizes, potions of various hues, colorful charms, and premade shirts and breeches for men and women. From his vantage point, Merlin can hear the vendors advertising their products, their voices meshing cacophonously in the crisp morning air. He can also see many of them using magic to arrange their displays or catch the attention of potential customers. In the sword store, two daggers are even sparring against each other, controlled by invisible hands.

Magic in Camelot. Something in his chest clenches at the thought, and butterflies flutter in his belly. This is the world he hopes to see in his lifetime. This is the world Merlin hopes to build with Arthur.

How exactly did Merlin get here? He does not recall uttering any kind of wish or what could be construed as one. He was specifically careful with his words after those agonizing visions of the future. Had someone wished Merlin here then? To what end? Now that he is thinking about it, the Djinn did go somewhere else before casting the warlock into this other world. An earthquake overtook the inside of the lamp, and the temperature rose. In hindsight, Merlin can now deduce that at that moment, someone had rubbed the lamp. Someone had summoned the Djinn, hence, the creature’s abrupt departure.

Who had called the Djinn? Arthur or one of the knights? They were the only ones near the lamp. But why would they wish for Merlin to live in a magical Camelot? Lancelot is the only one who knows of his magic, and even then, the knight would not have known of the possibility of other worlds. Furthermore, it’s unlikely Lancelot would want Merlin transported anywhere else. The knight is his friend and understands Merlin’s duty to Arthur and Camelot. The only one who may have the motive to separate Merlin from Camelot is . . . A chill claws down the length of his spine.

Morgana.

Could it be? Could she have found out about Merlin being Emrys, the protector of the Once and Future King? Could she have found the Djinn and Arthur and the knights in the woods after Merlin had inadvertently wished himself inside the lamp?

Merlin envisions the blood the she will spill, the innocents she will kill, the magic that she will use to raze villages down to the ground. He imagines Arthur adamantly facing against his vengeful sister armed with a sword burnished with dragonfire but receiving no other magical aide.

His breaths come in short gasps, not enough air getting in his lungs. Blacks spots pepper his vision and nausea rolls in his stomach.

He needs to get back -- to the knights, to Arthur, to Camelot. He feels unbearably helpless, so near Camelot yet so far from the Camelot he needs to be.

His chest burns tremendously, and a hand unconsciously grips the cloth above his heart to soothe the pain. His fingers feel warm engraved metal underneath his tunic. He is startled out of his frenzied musings.

He blinks and looks under his clothes. Realization dawns on him as he catches sight of it. He pulls at the leather string around his neck until it and its pendant are out of his neckerchief and shirt.

On his hands lay a silver brooch adorned with a carving of a bird mid-flight.

It bears my mother’s sigil, Arthur had said as he handed the brooch to the servant. The king had done it so blasély, and yet the gravity of the action was not lost to Merlin then and it is not lost to Merlin now. Arthur had given the warlock one of the very few reminders he had of his mother.

The king had planned to sacrifice himself to close the veil and defeat the Dorocha. Arthur had perhaps thought a dead man would have no need to hold onto such sentimental things, and thus, given such a precious item to a servant. But then, Arthur had escaped death and had not asked Merlin to give it back.

Merlin had, of course, offered to return the gift. Arthur had cocked a condescending brow, and remarked that kings had more than enough jewelries and that kings who were worth their salt did not take back gifts once given. Honestly, Merlin had stopped listening after a while. It was obvious that Arthur had been trying to hide his embarrassment. Merlin pushed the issue no further.

The brooch is one of the rare tangible proof of his friendship with Camelot’s king, and his fear of losing it has overcome his guilt of keeping it. A few weeks after the incident with the Dorocha, when the warlock was certain that Arthur would not take it back, he had securely strapped the brooch in a leather cord. He now wears it around his neck for safekeeping, and as a reminder Arthur views him as more than a bumbling servant.

It is light and almost flat. Under his tunic and neckerchief, it remains unnoticed by the populace and most of the time, even by Merlin himself. Once he got used to its weight, the warlock often forgets about it.

Stroking the embossment of the brooch, he is glad to rediscover it now. That he has taken along a strong reminder of his Camelot with him in this unknown territory consoles him completely. A sense of comfort washes over him, dissipating the remains of his panic. While the sense of urgency is still there, a swell of determination follows along with it. He no longer feels helpless.

Merlin will get back to his world soon. Arthur has the knights, Gwen and Gaius. Camelot will be safe until the warlock gets back. He clasps the brooch tighter. It has to be.

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“Ohoh, you’re up early.”

Merlin lifts his head in surprise as he carefully climbs down the last set of stairs. The first floor of the inn is a tavern -- a fully stocked one if the several barrels lining up behind the counter is any indication. Worn out wooden chairs and tables is arranged systematically around the room, each of them scratched and chipped in at least three places. Even though the sun has barely risen, it seems this particular establishment is already entertaining a few guests.

The barman halts in the action of wiping down the counter. He bears a mop of brown hair and his eyes depict the same shade. He has the build of someone who could stop a bar fight with one hand, and Merlin blinks confusedly when the man offers him a smile. “I guess it’s not that of a surprise, seeing as you've been unconscious for almost two days.”

Merlin splutters. “T-Two days!?” Why did Mordred or Gilli not even make a passing mention of that? Was it not only a small wound? Why did it knock him out for so long!?

“That young mage told me did think it was a bit unusual.” The barman flips the cloth over his shoulder. “Do you feel better now?”

“Y-Yes.” Merlin approaches the man, an inkling of his identity poking the warlock’s mind. “I'm Merlin. Are you Selia’s father?”

The man’s smile widens at the mention of Selia. “The name’s Thomas Collins but most people here call me Tom. And yes, I have a last name. ‘Tis not that uncommon, let me tell you.”

The blood drains from Merlin’s face.

“Scite! Sit down, lad.” Tom guides Merlin onto one of the stools surrounding the counter. Merlin let him because the warlock feels the need to get off his feet. “Goddess, you’re don’t look completely hale.”

“N-No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Merlin has just met a ghost.

When Merlin first arrived in Camelot, the beheading of Thomas James Collins was taking place. The servant can never forget the name nor the squelching sound that followed after the executioner’s axe slammed down. Merlin could not bear to look at the act or the aftermath, could not tolerate looking at the man’s face for more than a few seconds. Thomas Collins is the first person Merlin saw being executed for the crime of sorcery. It is also the same man standing before him. Or wait, is it?

“Di-Did you --Wh-What’s your mother’s name?” Merlin almost demands.

Tom appears unsurprised at the inquiry and releases a sigh that denotes he has answered the question one too many times. “Yes, my ma was Mary Collins. Yes, I got my last name from her. No, I'm not a nobleman drowning in riches. If you must know, my mother was the ninth child of the Collins family, and I doubt I'll even see a coin of their fortune. Anything else you want to know?” Tom cocks a brow in challenge.

“N-Nothing else. Thank you.” Merlin has already gotten his confirmation. Of course Thomas Collins is alive. Magic is legal so there is no reason for his execution in the first place. His mother did not promise revenge against the Pendragon line and attempt to kill Arthur.

Mary Collins did not die by Merlin’s hand.

“I-Is your mother well?” The warlock could not help but ask, an old familiar dull ache piercing his chest.

Tom’s brows rise. Then, his face softens slightly. His smile turns wan. “She passed away a couple of years ago.”

“I-I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tom waves the apology away. “She lived a full life and was able to say goodbye to me and Selia. Nothing to be sorry about.”

A full life . . . Merlin shudders, remembering a falling chandelier, a throwing knife in the air, and a wrinkled face filled with hatred.

“I thought everyone knew about my ma.” Tom claps Merlin’s back, laughing. “Thought you were gonna start asking for stories. Don’t get me wrong; my inn often benefits from the Collins name but sometimes, it gets annoying to repeat the same ‘my ma invented this and that spell/potion’ spiel.”

Now, Merlin really wants to know more. Before he can begin requesting for said stories, the door to the tavern’s backroom opens with a loud crack. A ginger-haired woman rushes in the tavern proper, toting a tray full of steaming plates.

More than one patrons hoot and cheer at her entrance. Merlin’s stomach lets out a loud growl as the smell of freshly cooked food reaches his nose. Tom gives him a look and Merlin ducks his head, mortified.

The inn-owner chuckles. “Polly!” He calls out.

The ginger-haired woman delivers the last dish on her tray to an eagerly waiting couple. She turns to Tom with a thunderous frown, making the lines on her face more prominent. She looks only slightly younger than the inn-owner. “What?” She bites out.

“Get a special for this fella over here, would you?”

Polly’s hawk-like gaze shifts to the warlock.

“I haven’t got the coin to pay for it,” Merlin hurriedly reminds them. “But I'll pay you back for my stay in the inn, I swear.”

Maybe he will be able to get a job as a servant in the castle after the Apprentice Exam. He just have to impress the nobles and royals with how good he is at cleaning rooms, doing laundry, and serving food. Or maybe save some royal prat’s life. Right.

“Do you need any help around the inn?” Merlin asks. “I’m -- I was a servant. I could help around with cleaning the chambers, with laundering the sheets or maybe cooking?”

Tom laughs kindly. “All’s on the house, Merlin. I’ve got enough hands around here, and my inn’s not doing so poorly that I have to charge the poor man Selia knocked unconscious.”

Polly’s face smoothens, and with a curt nod, she goes back to the kitchen.

A skinny man seated near the tavern entrance shouts, “If that’s the case, get me that lass and let her hit me with that toy!”

“Me too!”

“For free ale and more of Polly’s cooking!” one roars.

“Aye!”

Tom rolls his eyes. To Merlin, he says, “Ignore those drunkards.” The statement causes a few grumbles from the customers. “But truly, don’t worry about it. What Selia did was extremely dangerous and I've given her a proper scolding for it.”

A mug of mead slams down on the counter, making Merlin jump. The same skinny man near the entrance slides in the stool beside Merlin’s. Upon closer look, he seems to be as old as the warlock, short spiky red hair decorating his head. His brown eyes stare inquisitively and intensely at Merlin. The man’s face gets uncomfortably close and the warlock leans away to create a much needed personal space. He also backs away because the man’s breath reeks of alcohol.

“Say, are you looking for work?”

Two plates smack at the space between them, the food almost toppling onto the wooden surface of the counter. Merlin startles for the second time, springing away from the overly friendly man. Polly, with much more gentle gestures, arranges and places down the cutlery and drink.

“I'll not have you recruiting in this fine establishment!” Polly’s severe expression puts Gaius’ to shame.

Tom frowns as well. “We agree you won’t do business in my inn, Levi.”

“Psht.” The man takes a huge swig of mead. “Just making friendly conversation.” His gaze flicks from Merlin’s arms to his legs.

The warlock glances at the food in front of him, at Tom, at Polly, then at Levi. “What kind of work is it?” It must be something bordering on illegal judging by Tom’s and Polly’s reactions. While Merlin have no plans to dabble in something shady, he is curious about what counts as unlawful in this world.

Levi smirks. He opens his mouth to answer but Tom shoots him a scathing glare, and Levi closes his mouth with a huff.

“You can find more decent jobs, Merlin,” Tom assures him. To Levi, he orders with a glower, “Shoo, go bother someone else.”

The man clicks his tongue but brusquely complies. He scoots out beside Merlin and seats himself back to his previous table. Merlin frowns, the whole interaction leaving him confused and a bit suspicious. He chooses to find out more about it later after his stomach ceases eating itself.

“Is it really fine if I don’t pay?” Merlin stares longingly at the roasted chicken and oiled vegetables in front of him.

Polly sniffs. “What, you don’t find my cooking appetizing?”

“I-It looks delicious!” Merlin hastily says, afraid to be on the end of the chef’s intimidating glare.

“Then eat up,” Polly replies simply before striding towards the backroom once more.

“Oi, barkeep! Get us some more ale here!”

“Yes, yes.” Tom turns to Merlin with a wide smile. “Well, I’ve got customers to keep happy. Don’t be a stubborn lad, now, and eat your breakfast.” With that, the inn-owner goes to attend to the morning crowd.

Merlin figures a bit of food wouldn’t hurt. He’ll find a way to pay Tom back, he promises himself. He starts digging in, and his stomach rewards him by staying silent and stopping the punishing twists. He slices a piece of the chicken leg, smoke still rising from the newly cooked food and juices sliding down the tender meat. He eats without finesse after the first bite, never having such a hearty fare in all his life. It cannot compare to Arthur’s everyday breakfast but it is much better than the gruel Gaius oftentimes prepare.

As he is polishing the last scraps on the plate, a blur of feathered gray attacks his face. He sputters and attempts to remove whatever is suffocating him. His magic is ready to act and defend him when the blur moves swiftly off his face and coils around his neck. Merlin feels cool sharp claws once again threatening the veins in his throat.

Kelly croons, the sound reverberating throughout his skin. Merlin bristles, trying to breath as little as possible.

“Merlin, you’re up!” Boisterous footfalls fills the area near the stairs.

The warlock twists around and sees Selia running down the staircase. Except, the little girl’s appearance is quite different from last night. Her sandy hair, which has to have been shoulder-length, now barely reaches her ears.

“You cut your hair?” Merlin blurts out.

“What?” Selia pats down the said hair. “No, silly! I’m feeling like a Selly today.” She wrinkles her nose, glaring at Kelly. “Well, she seems fond of you,” she grouses grumpily.

“Selly?” Merlin’s brows furrow as the warlock tries to understand Selia’s -- Selly’s? -- point. Did she decide on a new haircut and name overnight? Is that a normal custom in this world?

“There’s the man of the hour!” a burly woman hoots, lifting her drink in a toast.

“Such a fearsome lad!”

“Maiming someone twice his size!”

“Cross the mighty Selly and pay the price!”

Selly’s face grows increasingly red at each remark. Tom watches, shaking his head and looking amused. Merlin blinks rapidly in mounting befuddlement. ‘Man’? ‘Lad’? ‘His’?

“Shut up, shut up!” Selly screeches, even going so far as dashing to the nearest patron teasing her -- him? -- and kicking them in the shin.

“Ow!”

“Selly!” Tom calls his child out, tone chastising.

The hurt party merely raises an empty cup and exclaim, “I’ve been injured by your spawn, Tom. Free refill!”

Tom ignores them, opting instead to head for the kitchen. Selly huffs and climbs the stool beside Merlin, ignoring her/his father in turn. Her/His feet hangs a feet from the ground and her/his nose barely reaches the counter.

“Are you -- Are you a boy?” Merlin cannot help but ask, wanting to clarify. The warlock has thought him a little girl the night before upon seeing the long hair and soft features. But looking at the child now, he is evidently male.

“Sometimes,” Selly answer offhandedly, filching a piece of chicken meat from Merlin’s plate. “When I feel like it.”

Merlin is left even more baffled. Tom, having come back to the tavern proper, lays down a dish of chicken and vegetables in front of his son. He set down a bowl of uncooked meat further down the counter. Kelly chirrups and thankfully slithers out of Merlin’s shoulders. The griffin jumps onto the counter and scurries towards the bowl with great fervor and speed.

“Selly’s good at gendershifting magic,” Tom explains, pride obvious in his voice. “He likes to change genders whenever he feels like it.” The inn-owner ruffles Selly’s hair fondly, causing the short strands to spike up. “I reckon you haven’t met one like him?” As soon as the words leaves Tom’s lips, an odd emotion flashes by inn-owner’s face, and he side-eyes Merlin. Gingerly, he rests a hand on his son’s shoulder as he eats, fingers taut.

“No, I haven’t.” Magic that changes genders? Merlin did perform one that ages him fifty years so he supposes Selly’s type of magic is not so farfetched. “So you were a girl last night?”

Selly nods, swallowing a big bite of his food. His cheeks swell on both sides and he takes a quick curious glance at his father.

“And now you’re a boy?”

Selly nods again. Merlin becomes less perplexed as he grasps the practical applications of such enchantment. It is a useful disguise technique. A hunched back and creaking joints are things Merlin will happily get rid of if possible. On the other hand, Selly seems to be doing the enchantment for no other purpose than fun. Merlin remembers that the children were also using magic just to play with a rubber ball before. Doing magic for fun. Huh. The last time Merlin did that, Uther called for a witchfinder and Gaius almost got executed.

“Is it difficult, the spell?” Merlin inquires, shaking away the gruesome memories. He tries to finish the last of his food before his appetite wanes.

Tom lets out an almost audible breath and he withdraws his hand from Selly’s shoulder.

“Not for me,” Selly says proudly. “Da says that people usually take weeks to learn it but it took me only five days!” The boy holds out five fingers for emphasis.

Merlin makes an appropriately amazed sound. “Where’d you learn it?”

The entrance to the tavern creaks open, revealing half-a-dozen men. Tom goes back to cater to the new arrivals, leaving Selly and Merlin to talk.

“Da bought me a book in the market. He taught me how to read it.”

Merlin perks up, a cup of water halfway to his lips. “A book of magic? You can easily buy one?”

“Of course.” Selly gives him a strange look. “Well, I suppose you could steal one . . . The ones with advanced spells are very expensive.” He rubs his chin, contemplative.

“I d-don’t think that’s necessary.” Merlin hopes he sounds as discouraging as possible.

For the next half-an-hour, Selly tells Merlin about the gender shifting spell in detail. The enchantment is a basic one or so Selly claims. It alters little of the original appearance but greatly changes the inside of the body.

Merlin blinks. “The inside of the body?”

“Yes.” Selly lifts the empty plate and begins licking it. Patches of sauce stains his cheeks and mouth. “You recognize me because I still look like myself, right? On the inside, however, I’m a boy now.” After a beat, Selly sets down the plate, revealing a solemn expression. He narrows his eyes at the warlock and slowly says, “You see, Merlin, a man and a woman’s body is very different. For example, between her legs, a woman has --”

“All right, got it!” Merlin nearly screams, voice pitching high. How in the world does a child like Selly already know these things? Merlin had been fifteen winters when his mother first explained to him about the nuances of a man and a woman’s body. He clears his throat and immediately changes the subject. “H-How about the process of casting the spell itself?”

Selly seems confused about Merlin’s reaction but continues his explanation. Like Merlin’s aging spell, a potion can be made to quicken the process or lessen the magic needed to perform the entire transformation.

“Although the ingredients for the potion are not cheap so I just cast the spell as usual,” Selly says. Kelly, who has finished her meal not long after she started, is now resting on the boy’s lap. Selly runs his fingers through the feathers of the griffin’s wings. His mouth is still a mess and Merlin is trying hard to curb his smile. “It’s not that strenuous for me anyway.”

Merlin deftly unties his neckerchief. “What’s the exact spell? Wait, hold still.” The warlock wets his neckerchief with the remaining water in his mug. He then proceeds to thoroughly wipe off the grime on Selly’s face. The child grimaces, making noises of complaint, but does not pull away from the servant’s ministrations.

“What spell?”

Merlin and Selly whip their heads towards the source of the voice. Gilli yawns, slumping down on the free seat beside Merlin. He scratches his head, messing it up further. He does not look quite awake. Mordred, who chooses to occupy the chair next to his friend, looks much more put together. His curls are neatly combed and his eyes are bright and alert.

“Selly’s teaching me the gender shifting spell,” Merlin replies, facing the little boy again to finish the cleaning up. He rubs away the last of the sauce, leaving Selly with slightly reddened spots.

“Selly?” Both Gilli’s and Mordred’s stares shift to the little boy. “Selia has a twin brother?”

“No!” Selly harrumphs, crossing his arms. Kelly mimics the sound.

“Oh.” Mordred’s features alight with realization. “You can do shapeshifting spells? Impressive for one so young.”

Selly beams at the praise, puffing out his chest. Kelly puffs out her own feathers. Mordred and Gilli accepts this phenomenon just like that. Merlin is amazed that such transformations are deemed normal.

“Why do you want to learn it, Merlin?” Gilli asks, tilting his head. Beside him, Mordred flags down Tom to order breakfast.

“It might come in handy someday,” Merlin reasons with a shrug, stuffing the dirty neckerchief in his jacket pocket. In his mind, he is already considering it for his next disguise if the situation calls for it. And knowing Arthur, Merlin is almost certain a situation will call for it.

Mordred mutters, “Interesting way of looking at it.”

“But you shouldn’t be performing spells this morning.” When Merlin shoots Gilli a questioning look, the mage expounds, “You should conserve your energy for the Apprentice Exam. I predict it will be a taxing day.”

“You’re taking the Apprentice Exam?” Selly is practically bouncing in his seat.

Merlin nods, amused at the little boy’s enthusiasm. The warlock doubts the results will favor him no matter what. “Will we be able to talk to the -- to Mage Gaius during the exam?” For Merlin, that is the only thing that matters.

Gilli shakes his head, face a portrait of disappointment. “I don’t think so. They’ll be too busy appraising the applicants.”

“And I heard it’s frowned upon to cozy up to the magic-users before or during the whole exam,” Mordred adds. “They’ll be accused of biased judgement.”

“What about after the exam?”

Polly approaches their corner, bearing two platters filled with fried pork, poached eggs, and cured fish. Gilli cannot wait and grabs his share out of Polly’s arms. Mordred accepts the food with grace and a simple “Thank you”. Polly sniffs, and her severe frown never wavers as she goes back to the kitchen.

“What about after the exam?” Merlin repeats his question, which has been forgotten in the wake of hot food.

“Merlin,” Mordred begins, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone. “These people are of high position and power. Unless we prove ourselves to them, I doubt they’ll spare us another glance.”

Gaius, even the one of this world, surely cannot be like that? The physician has never cared about the status of the one he is healing; he only cares that they need his help. Merlin resolves to find Gaius after the exam and prove Mordred wrong. Merlin absolutely needs his help, and the warlock can think of no one else at the moment who has the knowledge or power to aid him.

“Don’t worry, Merlin!” Selly pats Merlin’s knee, snapping him out of his brooding. “You’ll get chosen. I know it!”

“Thanks, Selly.” No use worrying about it for now. Merlin can only act after the exam. “Now, we were talking about the exact words to the basic gendershifting spell?”

For the next couple of minutes, Selly teaches the warlock the words, enunciating each syllables. Gilli and Mordred start on their respective meals, casting strange looks at Merlin once in a while.

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Chapter Text

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“Teach me how to make that light!”

Merlin halts his soft muttering of the gendershifting spell at Selly’s excited demand. “Light?”

“The light! The blue one that you made last night.”

Mordred pauses for half-a-second then continues eating casually, expertly hiding his extreme interest. Gilli has no such compunction, shifting in his seat and staring at Merlin and Selly with unbridled curiosity.

“Er.” The warlock risks a glance at Mordred.

The druid had been abruptly suspicious of Merlin after he had produced the light. While Merlin doubts it will make a difference should Mordred see it a second time, the warlock decides to be cautious. He’s not exactly sure what it is about the light that rings Mordred’s alarm bells. Maybe the fact that Merlin has done it without a spell? When he first met Gaius, the physician had demanded to know the spell the warlock used to stop time and drag the cushion. When Merlin said he used none, Gaius had barely believed him.

“That one’s a bit hard to make. How about another type of light instead?” Before Selly can protest, Merlin holds out a hand, palm up and fingers spread wide. Despite Gilli’s advice of saving his energy for the exam, he mutters a “Léoht.” A soft beam of white light flickers to life atop his hand, just barely seen in the mid-morning sun.

Selly let out an awed sound. He tries to touch the light but his fingers go through it without resistance. This seems to amaze him even more. Kelly chirrups, lifting and tilting her head. She opens her sharp beak and heads for Merlin’s hand. The warlock flinches, pulling back and almost falling out of his seat. The summoned sunlight vanishes. Gilli steadies him with wide confused eyes.

Kelly hangs her head, crooning sadly. Selly pets her in comfort.

“Don’t be afraid,” Selly says, lower lip jutting in a pout. “She won’t hurt you. Kelly likes you!”

“Right, sorry.” For a moment, Merlin has seen an adult griffin darting in to pierce his insides.

He releases a deep breath. As a way of an apology, Merlin produces the same light again. He brings it closer to Kelly, who perks up. The baby griffin looks at it curiously. Much more slowly this time, Kelly moves her beak and tries to eat the light. Merlin feels the pointed tip poke his palm but never breaks skin. He exhales the breath he does not realize he is holding.

Selly wiggles his fingers, adopting a very solemn expression. “Leoht, Leoht, Leoht,” he repeats without the intention behind a spell.

Merlin lets the light dissipate. Kelly croons in disappointment at the loss. “No, Léoht.”

Selly frowns. “That’s what I said.”

The warlock and child argues about the inflection for a good while. Mordred and Gilli give them amused looks as they continue to squabble about a trivial thing.

“Ohoh, you practice magic, Merlin?” Tom notes when the number of customer ebbs and he finds the time to check up on his son.

“Merlin’s gonna take the Apprentice Exam!” Selly exclaims loudly as if he himself is participating.

“Not surprising,” Tom replies with a smile. “In the past few days, every other person you see on the street is joining in on the exam.”

That many? Merlin is taken aback. How big of an event is this exam? He keeps the question to himself and instead asks, “Where exactly is the exam taking place?” Merlin can think of no place in the citadel where a great amount of people can fit.

“Supposedly, in the training grounds in front of the castle,” Mordred answers as he finishes the last bits of the fish. “For sorcerers anyway. Mages’ tests are held indoors.”

Gilli snorts. “We’re not in the habit of showing off, unlike you lot.”

“It’s held indoors because no one would want to see you staring at a bowl of water,” Mordred teases, earning him a punch on the shoulder from Gilli.

“There’s more to mages than staring at a bowl of water!” Gilli defends, lifting his chin. “We also stare at clear-cut crystals, I’ll have you know!”

Gilli and Mordred stare at each other. After a beat, they both burst out laughing, eyes crinkling with mirth. Merlin cannot quite fight down the smile threatening his lips at their antics. They are so unusually carefree and childlike, unburdened in a way no magicians are under Uther’s rule. Because of this, Merlin completely sheds all the biased notions he has of them; this Gilli and Mordred are completely different at the core. This is not the man who once tried to kill King Uther, and this is not the druid prophesied to end Arthur’s life.

“What’s the difference between a mage and a sorcerer?” Merlin feels comfortable enough to ask the question that has been bugging him since the night before. Gaius and Merlin himself has been using the term interchangeably but clearly, in this world, there is a distinction.

Four sets of wide eyes settle on him as soon as the words leave his lips. Merlin shrinks a bit from their incredulous stares, wondering if he should have just figured out the answer to his question instead of asking.

“Have you been living under a rock?” Selly is a portrait of indignation, as if he’s taking Merlin’s ignorance as a personal offence. “Even I know the answer to that!”

“W - Well, I’m not very educated in the ways of magic. Too busy with other things to learn.” Merlin replies truthfully, sounding properly apologetic mainly to calm Selly down. Hastily, he repeats the question to prevent any further probing about his lack of knowledge. “So, mages and sorcerers?”

Thankfully, Mordred accepts his excuse and answers casually, “Sorcerers are usually ones whose expertise lie in elemental magic.” Mordred whispers a short spell, the fingers in one hand shimmying smoothly. His eyes flash a bright gold. Water ascends from his cup, weaving a beautiful trail in  the air. “Sorcerers are very good at manipulating water, fire, air, earth, lightning, metal, or some other naturally occurring anomaly.”

Tom, Selly, Kelly, and Merlin watch with no little bit of admiration as Mordred brings the water back down to the tankard without spilling a single drop.

Gilli rolls his eyes, swallowing another morsel of his meal. “Show-off.” He proceeds to continue Mordred’s explanation. “Mages, on the other hand, are ones who prefer arcane types of magic. Mixing potions, healing flesh wounds, scrying for information, and the like.”

Oh. It is no wonder Gaius is labeled as a mage here. “What’s a warlock then? Is it another term for sorcerers?” Merlin is almost sure his guess is right.

When Tom, Mordred, and Gilli visibly bristles, however, Merlin suspects his guess is actually very very wrong. Selly soundlessly forms the word ‘warlock’, as clueless as Merlin as to its connotation.

“No, a warlock is not another term for sorcerers,” Mordred responds calmly. Too calmly.

Gilli whirls towards him, anger radiating from his posture. “Has someone called you that? Tell me who!“ His expression darkens. “I’ll give them the tongue-lashing of a lifetime!”

Merlin imagines Gilli mouthing off to Kilgharrah, and decides it’s better to lie. “N-No. I just -- I just heard it in passing and wondered what it meant.”

Gilli huffs, barely mollified at that. “It’s a very rude word, Merlin,” is all he deigns to say on the matter.

The inn-owner tells his child in a firm tone that brook no argument, “Don’t repeat that word, Selly, all right?”

Selly nods obediently, still as confused as Merlin. Merlin chooses not to push the issue further, figuring that he has stepped on too many toes for the day with his questions. Obviously, ‘warlock’ is an insulting title in this realm. Has Kilgharrah been purposely mocking him all this time? He feels belatedly offended. When he gets back, he’ll need to have a serious talk with that blasted dragon.

Tom goes back to work once more when the calls of the patrons for more mead get too deafening. Selly drags Merlin into another conversation, rambling about the history and purpose of the Apprentice Exam. It’s information that Merlin has already garnered the night before but the warlock listens patiently nonetheless.

“Did your father participate in the exam before?” Merlin asks Selly, certain that Tom is the cause of the boy’s interest in the magical recruitment.

Selly’s mouth closes with a click. He appears wrong-footed. “Da can’t do magic.”

“What?” Merlin nearly exclaims. “B-But --” He was executed for the crime of sorcery in my Camelot.

“Da might not have had magic but he’s still the best da ever!” Selly declares proudly. Merlin barely hears the words, mind already working on the implications of Selly’s previous statement.

If Tom can’t do magic, then how was he charged with the crime? Merlin knows innocents are sometimes charged with crimes they did not do -- Gwen’s trips to the dungeons are proof of that -- but what exactly did Tom, a man without magic, do in Merlin’s world that landed him in the execution block?

Another question arises as Merlin’s thoughts progress; where is Selly in Merlin’s world? The servant stares at the said child as Selly continues to sing praises about his father. A hyper boy like Selly will surely leave an impression. Had he been living in Camelot, Merlin will surely have met him. Mayhaps someone has taken him out of the kingdom when his father was executed, smuggling him away to keep him safe? Seven years ago . . . Selly would have been a mere babe. Or perhaps Selly simply hadn’t been born in the warlock’s world? Or maybe . . .

Merlin never did find out the details of Tom’s trial; the man clearly loves his son and . . . the servant knows Uther’s crusade against the Old Religion did not exclude even the youngest of children.

A sour taste climbs the back of his throat. Merlin’s magic simmers quietly just beneath his skin at the mere possibility. He fails to notice Mordred’s head snapping up and to him.

“I’m certain your father has talents that far exceed magical ones,” Merlin replies with an earnest smile, subtly tightening his hold over his magic.

Selly nods in a rapid rate that Merlin fears he may nod his head off. “He does! Did you know he can fold his eyelids outward? It’s horrible and amazing!”

That invokes a laugh out of Merlin, dissolving his downtrodden mood. “That is incredible.”

Selly and Kelly giggles with Merlin. He resumes his tales about his father’s fascinating exploits and skills. Most stories involve the use of hardy pans, and sticky food.

A few minutes later, Mordred and Gilli finish their respective breakfasts. They call for Tom and pay three silvers for the meals and the room. Merlin guiltily shifts in his seat, hoping that he will find a way to pay back Tom’s kindness in full soon. Mordred and Gilli also rent the room for the whole day, opting to leave their clothes and knick knacks in Tom’s inn while exam is taking place.

“Hopefully, when we come and fetch our things later, it’s to transfer them to the castle,” Gilli remarks blithely as he gets to his feet. Mordred follows his lead, smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt as he rises.

“Da and I will come and cheer you on from the stands!” Selly informs them, beaming. “And Kelly too, of course.” The griffin chirrups merrily.

“F-From the stands?” An audience is allowed during the exam? Merlin supposes that since the sorcerers’ tests are held outdoors, people will be watching for entertainment. It’s no different from jousts and tournaments after all.

“We’ll see you later then, Selly,” Mordred promises with a small smile. “Wish us luck!”

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“If you lot ever need jobs,” Levi slurs out as the three of them are exiting the tavern. “My fine establishment is located at the end of the road.” He sends them what may have been a wink or simply weird blinks. “Especially for you,” he points at Merlin or maybe at Mordred. They know not because the finger is swaying widely.

Mordred’s brows rise. Gilli and Merlin remain befuddled. “We’ll keep that in mind,” the druid says with no levity. He pushes both Gilli and Merlin out of the door before both of them can ask for clarification.

“He accosted me earlier too,” Merlin confides outside, now terribly curious as to what kind of work the man is offering. Mordred seems to know. “Tom implies that he was recruiting.”

“Wonder what kind of job it is.” Gilli hums. “He must be desperate for workers if he’s recruiting in a tavern.”

The corners of Mordred’s lips quirk upwards. “Do you want to know?”

Merlin and Gilli nod, leaning closer to the druid. Mordred whispers the answer in the crowded street.

“Oh,” Merlin says feebly. Not illegal but definitely shady.

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Gilli follows, voice just as weak.

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The castle looks no different from the outside, Merlin notes as he stares up at the north tower. The same gray bricks, the same shape of the turrets, the same enormous windows . . . A pang of homesickness hit him suddenly, stinging his eyes.

The warlock walks towards one of the archway, wanting to see if the castle is the same from the inside, wanting to see if the same steps lead toward familiar rooms. A feet away from the entrance, he smacks into something firm and unyielding. He staggers back, disoriented and holding onto his throbbing nose.

“What?”

He slowly extends an arm and his palm meets an invisible barrier. He moves his hand to another spot. The same resistance halts him. He pushes against it, lightly at first. When the barrier does not give, he increases the force, almost putting all of his weight against it.

What manner of spell is this? Merlin frowns, ceasing his attempts to overcome it.

“Merlin!” Gilli and Mordred run toward him, confusion etched on their features. “What are you doing? The registration tables are on the east side of the castle.”

“There’s something --” Merlin presses a hand against the invisible barrier again. “See?”

“Oh!” Mordred siddles beside him and skims the barrier with the pads of his fingers. “It’s the castle shield.” His face and voice are filled with undeniable reverence.

To Merlin, it looks a bit like the druid is caressing air. “T-The castle shield?”

Gilli walks towards them and joins them. “It is said to be the combined work of hundreds of sorcerers and mages under Queen Ygraine’s employ. It surrounds the whole of the castle.” The mage grins brightly, tapping on the barrier. The sound of muffled underwater bubbles is produced by Gilli’s actions.

Merlin denotes that yet again, no one has made mention of King Uther. Merlin is itching to find out where that king is and what happened to him in this world but refrains from asking. He has to figure that out for himself, seeing as everyone seems to know the answer and thinks it’s obvious. The warlock knows he will only draw suspicion and attention to himself if he lets his ignorance known about the matter.

“No physical or magical force can lay a single scratch on it,” Mordred continues praising, tone that of a child receiving presents for the first time. “And no intruder can ever hope to penetrate it.”

The warlock’s interest is piqued. That sounds exactly like what Merlin’s Camelot needs. Such a shield will definitely make Merlin’s job of protecting Arthur easier; the warlock can remember more than one instance wherein trouble could have been avoided if the security around the castle is tighter.

“How do people get in then?” Even as the question leaves his mouth, Merlin recalls the question guards at the entrance posed. Where’s your castle talisman then? “You need a talisman to go through it?”

“Yes.” Mordred turns to Merlin, bright smile never wavering. “Each talisman is tailored to the person wearing it. If anyone steals it from them and tries to use it, the shield will still deny them entry.” Mordred strokes the magical wall once more, longing in his features. “Isn’t it magnificent? Imagine, before the end of the day, we’ll get our very own talismans and be able to get enter the castle!”

Merlin supposes it will be difficult to sneak in to the castle -- not that the warlock has any plans of that. He just needs to talk to Gaius and he can do that outside the castle.

“Hurry up, lad!” Quick footfalls pound on the stoned pavement, and an awfully familiar voice echoes through the area. “The exam’s starting soon.”

Merlin, along with Gilli and Mordred, whirls around to face the people striding towards their direction. One of them is a tall brunette with short curly hair and narrow eyes. Morris, Merlin immediately recognizes. Morris was Arthur’s previous manservant, one whose job Merlin stole. He winces inwardly, remembering the man’s cold shoulder for weeks and refusal to train him for the role. They eventually came into a mutual agreement, and, not quite friendship but something close to it.

Morris is carrying in his arms a stack of thick books. The pile nearly blocks his vision but he manages to gracefully navigate through the path nonetheless.

The man leading and ordering him around is . . . Merlin blinks, trying to clear his vision. The man’s face and voice clearly belong to Gaius. Little else does, however.

Purple fineries of tunics and breeches wrap snugly around lean arms and torso. Long white hair, the length of which reaches mid-back, gathers in a tight ponytail, the ends swinging slightly with the man’s movements. Instead of a hunched back, the man walks with his chest out, dignity and nobility drape heavily on his shoulders like the blood red cape he is currently sporting.

Merlin gapes unbecomingly, struggling to wrap his head on yet another anomaly. Gilli decides to do something more productive.

“Mage Gaius!” Gilli exclaims, excitement overflowing.

The man and Morris glances at the trio. There is no spark of recognition as Gaius’ gaze go over Merlin’s form. The warlock’s heart sinks. Of course, this is clearly not his mentor. Of course this Gaius does not know him. It occurs to Merlin then that his friends, should he meet them in this world, will all fail to recognize him. They do not share the same memories he’s had with them. His stomach turns at the notion, and he swallows past the ball of distress building in his throat. His fingers flit over the metal under his tunic as he feels, for the first time, utterly alone in this.

Gaius nods at them in acknowledgement but his treads do not falter.

Merlin realizes this is the opportunity he has been waiting for. Pushing away the unreasonable hurt to the back of his mind, he hurriedly approaches the physician, “Ga -- Mage Gaius, if I can --”

Gaius deftly holds out a palm, interrupting Merlin. “I'm very busy, lad,” he replies stiffly.

Merlin quickens his pace to match Gaius’. “It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise!” Darn it, Gaius isn’t even looking at him.

Mordred and Gilli both grab each of the warlock’s arms as he nears the northern entrance of the castle and pulls him back, saving him from slapping against the invisible barrier again. The shield lets Gaius and Morris pass without a fuss. Morris looks back at them with a confused frown but Gaius resumes walking inside the castle without a backward glance.

When both disappear from sight, Gilli scowls at Merlin. “You shouldn’t bother Mage Gaius. He’s very busy preparing for the mages’ exams,” he chastises.

Merlin blinks away the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “Yes, m-my mistake,” he replies, voice thick. Even when Gaius had been possessed by the goblin, he hadn’t treated Merlin like he wasn’t even worth a second glance. Merlin’s used to that treatment from visiting nobles but not from the man who wears his mentor’s face.

Gilli’s features smoothens upon detecting the melancholic quality of his tone. “Merlin?”

The warlock shakes off their grips. “I’m fine,” he assures, sounding otherwise.

“Some nobles act as such,” Mordred says gingerly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll prove ourselves to them soon enough.” He claps a hand around Merlin’s should in comfort.

Nobles? Oh, Merlin has forgotten that Gaius must have noble blood in him to be appointed court physician. His mentor doesn't act like a pompous ass most of the time. But that wasn’t Gaius, Merlin tells himself. Just as this Mordred and Gilli are not the ones from his world. It’s just . . . the warlock stupidly assumed this Gaius will have the same attitude towards Merlin as his counterpart. The warlock rids himself of the disappointment piercing his chest. He should not have expected anything.

“And I’m sure Mage Gaius is just busy at the moment to talk to us,” Gilli defends vehemently. “The exam is today after all.”

“Right.” This Gaius also does not know him in any possible way so why would the physician give him the time of the day?

He must’ve sounded like an entitled brat earlier, demanding the mage’s time. The warlock grimaces. Mordred is right. Merlin needs to prove himself in this world just as he’s proven himself to his Gaius over the years. He needs to be worth this Gaius’ time.

“Let’s get registered for the exam then.” He gives them a sunny smile, one that, Arthur remarks, makes him look like an oblivious naive peasant boy.

Mordred and Gilli seems taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm. They offer their own smiles though -- a bright one from Gilli and a restrained small one from Mordred.

“Let’s hurry up! I’m sure the lines are long now.” Gilli beckons them forward as he hastens his steps himself. “I’ll get a sunburn if we stand too long in the sun.”

Mordred shoots Gilli a teasing remark, saying Gilli would look better with a bit of sun on his skin. Merlin’s smile drops as the two turn away from him. He glances at the castle from time to time as they walk.

A shielded castle that is impossible to breach and a Gaius that have little patience for ordinary commoners . . . Merlin sighs heavily, coming to an irrevocable conclusion. A talisman is needed to get inside the castle and a talisman is given to a chosen apprentice.

If Merlin wants to talk to Gaius and desires for the mage to really listen, the warlock needs to get chosen as an apprentice. He groans to himself. Now, he has to actually make an effort in the exam.

Should be easy, Merlin tries to think positively. He has done some extensive magic to defend Camelot before and that surely counts for something -- nevermind that he barely uses his magic aside from those instances, nevermind that he has read one spellbook, nevermind that he knows nothing of the magical concepts that seem obvious to all magic-users of the realm, nevermind that the other applicants have had weeks to prepare, nevermind that he’s probably going to make a fool of himself because he has never been a participant to any sort of contest before.

He groans again. He thinks finding a hole or weakness in the castle shield will be less impossible.

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Chapter Text

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When the three of them turn the corner that leads to the eastern side of the castle, bustling crowds meet their sight and chatter fills the once quiet air.

Gilli moans in exasperation. “I knew we shouldn’t have dawdled!”

Mordred claps his friend’s back, unperturbed by the intimidatingly large mob. “There, there. At least you personally got to meet Mage Gaius.”

Gilli grumbles but concedes to Mordred’s point, looking slightly mollified. The trio weaves through the horde of applicants, struggling to find and join the shortest line. Seeing as more people are pouring in by the minute and each line is at least twelve people long, the quest is more difficult than they initially think.

Merlin peers at the proceedings ahead as Gilli and Mordred search, unable to curb his desire to find out what the long lines are for. Even when the centuries-old traditional no-rules tournament was held in his Camelot, the lines never stretched as far. On the other hand, even that tournament didn’t have nearly as much participants as this exam clearly does.

An assortment of people form roughly six lines. There are some as young as sixteen summers and those as old as twenty-five. There are blondes, brunettes, red-haired and dark-haired, males and females wearing either earth-colored garments or lavishly colorful wears and headdresses. Most of them are performing simple spells such as creating a small fire or lifting stones while waiting in line. Merlin’s heart clenches once more at the casual and open use of magic in front of Camelot’s castle; he has never before seen such an impossible sight.

The front of each line ends at varnished wooden tables. From the little Merlin can glimpse, parchments and quills litter the surface of the opulent tables. On the other side, six finely dressed men and women are seated beneath the shade of an enormous agape red tent. Each of them are conversing with an applicant in front of the line, countenance varying from polite to bored. Merlin supposes the lengths of their talks cause the long lines; they seem to be exchanging more than just names and birthplaces. In one line, the seated man hands an applicant, a blonde girl of sixteen summers, an unusually shaped black stone. The girl accepts it without hesitation in her palm and then --

Distracted by his intense observation of the affairs, Merlin reckons that he really should have expected what happened next.

There is an applicant already obediently standing in a line, a boy with hair the color of hay running off in a hurry, and Merlin who is absentmindedly following behind Gilli and Mordred. After two more moments, the paths of these three collide quite violently.

The air abandons Merlin’s lungs as he, for the second time that morning alone, slams into a firm clothy surface. However, this time, the impact does more than force him back; his feet betray his clumsy self and lose the ground underneath them. Someone yelps and the world is spinning and tanned hands are grappling with Merlin’s shoulders. Earth-colored cloth fills Merlin’s vision and the fluttering of leather reaches his ears. He sees a sleeve and a pale slender hand stretching towards him but fail to grasp him. Merlin braces himself against the fall using his elbows, and bites off a cry when spikes of electrified pain climb up his forearms. A split second later, All his efforts to prevent his head from meeting the ground fail as a heavy body crashes right on top of him. His back unceremoniously lands flat on the dirt. This time, Merlin lets out a groan.

“Sorry!” The boy that is languishing on his torso swiftly sits up, thighs bracketing the warlock’s hips. His bright green eyes refuse to focus on Merlin’s face but his expression exude mortification and earnestness. “I’m so sorry!” He start patting down Merlin’s chest and stomach for injuries. “Are you hurt? Oh Goddess, I’m really stupid and clumsy. Oh no, your head!” The boy’s fingers sweep the back of Merlin’s skull, pulling at hair. “Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy?”

“Uh, no, I-I’m fine.” Merlin awkwardly disentangles himself from the boy, attempting to escape the boy’s fussy ministrations. Thankfully, Merlin thinks he won’t suffer a head wound for the second time that week.

The applicant donning a brown cloak stands in front of them, still and silent. Even with the hood up and their face shrouded in shadows, their gaze is evidently on Merlin and the boy. Slowly, they lower their outstretched arm.

“Merlin!” Both Gilli and Mordred call out upon seeing the warlock’s sprawled out form. The druid and mage dash toward the fallen men and help them get back on their feet.

“I’m really sorry!” The boy continues babbling apologies as they dust the dirt out of their clothes. “I’ve forgotten my glasses and I was in a hurry, I could barely see without them, I don’t even know how I managed to --”

“Breathe.” Mordred halts the boy’s endless rambling, although Merlin finds amusement dancing in the druid’s eyes. The boy complies, panting like he can’t get enough air in one breath and the next. Mordred turns to Merlin. “Will you be willing to accept his apology, Merlin?”

“The fault is all mine,” Merlin admits hastily, trying to placate the nearly breathless boy. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The warlock switches his gaze to the cloaked applicant, the third victim of the altercation. “I apologize for bumping into you too. I shouldn’t have been daydreaming.” Merlin gives them a feeble and apologetic smile.

The boy looks utterly relieved. “No harm done on my side!”

The cloaked applicant nods in agreement and replies, “None on mine as well.”

The smile freezes on Merlin’s face and every hair on his body prickles. He distantly notes the boy bidding them farewell and hurrying off somewhere. The warlock’s stare has locked onto the the shadows covering the figure’s face, trying to make out their features. The recipient of the scrutiny stiffens and subtly pushes their hood further up.

“Are you sure you’re fine, Merlin?” Gilli’s concerned inquiry jerks the warlock’s attention to him. The mage quickly gives him a once-over, attempting to determine any injuries.

“We’ve no idea you’re so fond of the soil here in Camelot,” Mordred remarks with a smirk.

Gilli elbows his friend in the stomach. “Don’t tease him.”

“Y-Yes, I’m all right.” Merlin eyes the veiled applicant once more, wanting no more than to rip off their hood and confirm their identity. But what then? This isn’t his world. If they are who he suspects and he manages to prove it, what is his next course of action?

Absolutely nothing, Merlin concludes because there is nothing for him to do. No matter how much he knows them in his world, he knows nothing of their circumstances in this one. He vows to avoid them from here on out; to do otherwise will just complicate matters.

“Come on then.” Mordred beckons them, already walking ahead. “I think I saw the shortest line over there.”

Gilli and Merlin trail behind him, the former conveying more enthusiasm at Mordred’s fruitful find than the latter. The warlock glances at cloaked figure once more and catches them facing his direction. He forcefully tears his gaze away, hands curling into a fist on his sides.

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“What are the tests like?” Merlin asks without preamble when they get settled in a line, trying to stop himself from thinking about the applicant he has bumped into. “We’re not going to fight each other but how are they going to appraise our m-magic?”

“The exam changes every time.” Gilli bites his lower lip, apprehension hinting at his face. “No one knows how we’re going to be tested except for the ones judging us.”

“Don’t worry, Merlin, we haven’t heard of anyone dying from the exam,” Mordred reassures with a boyish and mischievous grin. “Though there are a few who may have lost a limb or two.”

“Sounds about right,” Merlin mumbles, letting out a sigh. Given the turn of his luck in the past few days, Merlin half-expected himself to be knocked out again in the duration of the exam.

It seems there is no way to actually prepare for the exam. It means he may be in slightly even footing with the other applicants; they are just as clueless as he is.

“Why does it take so long for the exam officials to talk to each person?” Gilli frowns, voice dipping in a whine.

Just then, the applicant at the front finishes speaking with the seated woman -- the exam official, Merlin presumes -- and proceeds to the training grounds. The trio steps forward as the line moves.

The mage wipes the sweat dotting his brows with the back of his hand. “What can they possibly be talking about?”

Merlin agrees with the sentiment. Since the registration is located at the east side of the castle, the people waiting in line can find no shade to defend against the intense mid-morning heat. Except, of course, if they are already first in line and can bask in the shadow the enormous tent is providing the exam officials. Merlin is used to being under the sun at length though, courtesy of Arthur’s impossible chores and quests-that-princes-should-do-alone. Still, he actually doesn’t want to needlessly suffer, and hopes the line moves a bit faster.

Mordred shrugs, looking totally unaffected, eyes glimmering and lips clearly fighting down a smile. “It’s not that bad, waiting in line. You get the chance to observe all the people you’ll be competing with.” He takes a fleeting glance around the area to prove his point.

Their line shortens once more and they dutifully push forward.

Merlin feels a bead of sweat rolling down his right temple. He uses his palm to flick it away before remembering his neckerchief. He is sure he can find a clean spot in it somewhere . . . or he can perform a quick cleaning spell to remove the remnants of Selly’s food, with magic allowed in Camelot and all.

“‘Not that’ -- It’s so hot!” Gilli complains, indignant that Mordred should ever think that it is anything but. “How can you not feel that?”

Merlin reaches into and rummages around his jacket pocket. He pauses. He could have sworn --

“You utter clod!” Gilli’s sudden and emphatic exclamation nearly makes Merlin jump. “You’re using a cooling spell.”

“A cooling spell?” Merlin searches for anything different in Mordred’s appearance.

Mordred, unable to keep his expression straight in the face of Gilli’s accusation, snickers akin to a mischievous teen stealing their neighbor’s socks. Merlin notes, for the first time, that not a hint of perspiration plagues the druid.

“Use one on me too!” The mage demands fiercely, stepping adamantly closer to the druid.

“All right, all right, calm down.” Mordred lets out one last boisterous laugh. He clasps Gilli’s shoulders. “Gecélan.” His eyes flash a brilliant gold, and Merlin feels a brief whiff of a cool breeze radiate from him.

Gilli sighs in relief, shoulders visibly slumping. “I can’t believe you would wait until I asked to do that.”

“You’re the one who told us to save our magic for the exam.” Mordred’s ribbing earns him a punch on the shoulder from the mage. The druid turns his attention to Merlin. “Merlin, if you want?” He wiggles his fingers. “I promise I won’t purposely freeze you to death.”

“You . . . You want to do magic on me?”

Hesitation grips Merlin. He knows Gilli must have used a healing spell on him days before but now that he is conscious and aware . . .  images of cold blue eyes and a cracked colored window races in his mind even though he has promised himself never to compare the two again. Several other memories flash in his mind’s eye: a fireball spinning towards his chest, a blast of air causing him to smack against stone walls, a snake head burrowing its way at the back of his neck with green eyes drowning him with contempt --

Merlin fights down a shudder. He plasters on a wide smile, hand coming up to rub the back of his bare neck where a marginally raised portion of skin meets the pads of his fingers. “Thank you but I think I can endure the heat for a little while.”

Mordred drops his arms, cocking a brow. “If you’re sure.”

The warlock nods curtly, gaze flitting back to the cloaked applicant that he has been trying hard not to think about. He is slightly astonished to find them already in front of their own line. Then, Merlin’s eyes wander to Mordred, who has began lecturing Gilli about some useful enchantment or another. A ball of uneasiness settles at the pit of his stomach. How are they are both -- No, no. Merlin smothers the line of thought halfway through. This is not his reality, he reminds himself.

Suddenly, a wave of gasps and murmurs ripples through the crowd, startling them out of their discussions. The three of them search for the source of commotion.

Merlin finds it immediately because it is the first place his head whipped to. Everyone’s attention is on the brown-cloaked applicant, whose right hand is loosely wrapped around an irregularly shaped stone. The stone glows a soft pure white light. Merlin blinks in mild bemusement; he has only seen black stones on the tables. He wonders where the white stones were hidden.

“A White Level,” someone mutters reverently.

“They’re definitely going to get chosen,” another remarks, a hint of worry slipping in their voice.

“They might have taken a Drýcræftéaca potion, you know?” one sneers.

“The officials will surely disqualify them for that.”

Merlin knows not what the fuss is all about and is about to ask for clarification. But then, the cloaked applicant gently sets the crystal down on the table. As soon as their touch retracts from the stone, the white ebbs away and lustrous black takes its place. Merlin’s eyes widen fractionally. The stones glow white upon touch?

The exam official in front of the cloaked applicant appears undoubtedly impressed. Most of the people remaining in line express different variation of disbelief and wonder. Merlin feels his stomach twists into uncomfortable knots, more than confused at the reactions of the people around him. What is so special about a black rock turning white? What do the stones do?

A middle-aged guard approaches the cloaked figure. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to take the hood down,” the guard says as politely as possible.

“Yes.” The exam official clears his throat, picking up a quill and gathering his composure. “We can’t have any, uh, suspicious character running about. We also need your name.”

The applicant dithers, fingers gripping the material of their hood. After a short while, they give a sharp nod. “I understand.”

They reach out and pull the hood of their cloak down to rest on their shoulders. Behind the shadows of the cloak lie long dark locks framing a pale slender face. Lips painted a deep red press in a tight line. A straight back and confident countenance emerge, although emerald eyes bely a hint of uncertainty.

Merlin detects the meaning behind every gesture and every tic because he has known them. He has once known her.

Chin lifted, she speaks, “I am Morgana Le Fay.”

Merlin has almost forgotten what Morgana looks like without a hateful glower. Now, he drinks his fill of her face free of maliciousness, of the smoothened lines on her forehead and the tender smile touching her lips; he has thought he will never see such visage from her again. A pang of remorse shoots through his chest, terribly missing the friend he once betrayed.

“Did she just say ‘Morgana Le Fay’?” Gilli whispers harshly, eyes almost popping out.

Even Mordred is fazed, mouth opening and closing not unlike a landed fish. After several moments, he releases a quiet groan. “Drat, why did she have to apply the same time as us?”

Morgana cocks an amused brow at the gaping exam official and guard, unheeding of the whispers and exclamations surging through the crowd. “I believe you have some more questions?” Morgana prompts gently, hands clasped together in front of her.

“O-Of course.” The exam official yet again visibly gathers his composure, swallowing audibly.

Merlin can listen no longer and tears his attention away from her. He sees a once friend; at the same time, however, he cannot help but envision hidden smirks, glinting scheming eyes, and treacherous sneers reflected upon her benign mien. They’re not the same person, Merlin repeats what he has previously told himself regarding Mordred and Gilli.

The warlock misses the quick glance thrown his way by the sorceress currently occupying his thoughts.

“There goes the spot for the Court Sorcerer’s apprentice,” Mordred grumbles, tracking Morgana’s movements as she strides towards the training grounds after her short conversation with the official.

“Do you know her?” Merlin inquires as offhandedly as he can of Mordred.

“Everyone knows the prodigious Lady Morgana,” Mordred replies, preceded by a hopeless sigh.

Gilli pats his friend’s back in comfort. “There, there, Mordred. You were never going to get that spot in the first place.”

Mordred responds by muttering a spell. Judging by Gilli’s surprised squawk and the beads of perspiration appearing upon the mage’s forehead, the druid has relinquished the cooling enchantment upon the mage.

“Wha -- It’s true! He has taken only one apprentice in the history of the exam!”

Mordred huffs, crossing his arms. “You don’t have to crush my dreams of being the chosen one special enough to rekindle his interest in mentoring.”

Merlin tunes out the two as they continue bickering. Mordred has implied Morgana’s fame to be the only reason why the druid knows of her. They have not met. Now, however, with her and Mordred vying for the same position, Merlin doubts it will stay that way. What an interesting coincidence that the two would apply for the exam at the same time.

‘The ancient prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana, united in evil,’ echoes in his mind. Merlin shakes his head and rids himself of such thoughts. He needs to focus on getting home. Whatever prophecies that exist in this world are none of his business.

But what is Morgana’s situation in this realm? Is she still of Camelot? Do her parents still live? What deeds of hers ignited her popularity? What of Morgause? Merlin cannot bear the uncertainty and unanswered questions any longer. He turns to Mordred and Gilli, planning to interrupt their argument to interject queries of his own.

“Oi! You’re next!” The annoyed voice of an exam official, a young dark-haired woman, interrupts Merlin before he can begin.

It takes the warlock a second more to comprehend that she’s referring to him, seeing as there is no longer a person between Merlin and the tables. Mordred and Gilli ceases their bantering, coming to the same realization.

“Go on then, Merlin!” Gilli prompts, clasping both Merlin’s shoulders from behind. A gleeful smile adorns his face as he pushes Merlin onwards.

“B-But, maybe you should go first?” Merlin squeaks out. The warlock has neglected to observe the processes happening at the front. “I don’t know what to do!” He admits.

Before Mordred or Gilli can reassure him, the exam official drawls out, “None of these people here do, boy. Now, hurry up here so I can explain.”

Merlin blinks and then complies after a moment. He staggers near the table, eyes taking in the parchments stacked in two small piles, feathered quills, and an irregularly-shaped black stone lying between them. Strangely, there are no ink bottles around.

The exam official plucks out a parchment from the stack, quill already in hand. “Age?”

“T-Twenty-four winters.”

The official tuts, nose wrinkling as she scratches out some words onto the parchment. Ink flows through the tips of the quill even though it hasn’t been dipped. “Should’ve joined a bit earlier. The court’s magic-users will be prioritizing younger applicants, understand?”

“Right.” Yet another obstacle for Merlin. The warlock attempts to peer into whatever is being written about him. The official shoots him a quelling stare and covers most of the words with a slender hand.

“The use of Drýcræftéaca or any magic-altering substances on yourself or any applicants is strictly prohibited. Do you swear that you’ve not done such in the past day?” She lifts her gaze and gives the warlock a look one would give to a charlatan trying to sell you forgeries.

“I s-swear that I have not.” Magic-altering substances? Merlin hopes he has not inadvertently taken one. His magic does not feel different in any way so he takes that as a good sign.

The exam officials hums. She extends a palm. “Hand.”

Merlin places his hand atop hers, curiosity overflowing. With a quick movement, she pricks his index finger with the tip of the quill in her other hand.

“Ow!” Blood bubbles from the small wound. Merlin takes his hand back and glares at the official “What was that for!?” A metallic taste spreads in his mouth as he puts the finger in to staunch the bleeding.

She grimaces unbecomingly at the warlock’s actions. After a shake of her head, she writes on the parchment again, ignoring Merlin’s question. The ink of the quill remains black even though the nib has been coated with Merlin’s blood. The official nods with brief approval.

She meets the warlock’s gaze and proceeds to sternly explain, “Had you taken Drýcræftéaca, the ink would have turn a blue color when soaked in your blood.” No trace of illegal substances in blood, Merlin finally manages to read. The officials points at the black stone. “Hold that in your palm then.”

“What does this one do?” Merlin also points at the stone with his injured finger, now suspicious and hesitant to adhere to her orders.

Belatedly, Merlin notes that behind him, Mordred and Gilli are oddly quiet. He ventures a brief glance at them. He finds them staring intently between him and the stone. Upon seeing him looking back, they plaster on encouraging smiles. Merlin turns his attention back in front; mayhaps they are just as nervous as he is.

The official pauses, looking taken aback at Merlin’s question. “You don’t know what a scinncræfte crystal is?”

Merlin shakes his head, eyes on the stone -- the crystal. That explains the glossy quality of its color. The young woman mutters, “They get worse every darn year,” under her breath before ruffling through the papers.

Merlin has no doubt his intelligence has just been insulted. He scowls; it is no fault of his that the Djinn didn’t directly pour in knowledge of this new world into his head when he was unwillingly transported.

The official pats the papers down and steeples her fingers together, a condescending expression marring her face. “A scinncræfte crystal measures the magical capability of the one who holds it,” she says slowly as if talking to a child incapable of understanding common sense. “The stone will turn a different color; the brighter the color, the greater the magic. We, unfortunately, only accept applicants with Yellow level and above.”

“Oh.” The warlock stares at the crystal with new eyes, mouth parted.

He doesn’t recall encountering such devices in his world. Unbidden, the morbid notion of Uther making use of such crystals to identify sorcerers to burn crosses his mind. He purses his lips and banishes the thought.

So that is why people were so astounded at the white radiance when Morgana held a crystal. Merlin guesses not a lot of magic-users can achieve that shade. “Y-Yellow’s a pretty bright color.”

“Indeed it is.” The exam official bestowed upon Merlin a look one would give a simpleton. Merlin recognizes it because it is the one he gave to Arthur when the king was an actual a simpleton spouting random things. “Now, if you would.” She gestures at the crystal with flourish, raising both brows.

Merlin nods, setting his shoulders in a determined line. Surely, all that ‘most powerful sorcerer to ever live’ counts for something, right? Surely, the scinncræfte crystal will turn at least yellow with him. But then again, a lot of the magic in this world appears quite different from the one in his. With the not-deaths of hundreds of magic-users, there is no doubt that this realm’s advances in magic are far greater. The ‘most powerful sorcerer to ever live’ may just translate to the ‘most mediocre magic-user in Camelot’.

He lets out a noisy breath and reaches out with his right hand. He wraps his fingers around the crystal, feeling the ragged edges and smooth facets. It is light, cool, and roughly the size of his palm. He grips it tightly, lifting it nearer to his face.

Yellow, yellow, yellow, please turn yellow, Merlin chants, unblinking eyes never wavering from the obsidian crystal. Which stays raven-colored.

One, two, three . . . the seconds tick by with the crystal not gaining the slightest bit of hue. For each unchanging second, Merlin’s heart gradually thumps its way down to his boots. He knows the whole process should not have been taking this long.

“What?” he hears Gilli breathes out in incredulity.

“But he --” Mordred starts before cutting himself off.

A ferocious frown is inching its way through the exam official’s youthful face after ten seconds of nothing. She opens her mouth wide, no doubt preparing a sour speech.

Then, a blinding white light engulfs the whole east side of Camelot’s castle.

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Chapter Text

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The Court Sorcerer gazes down through the gap of the half-opened third story window, face solemn. Magic-users of all sorts clump around the long tables positioned just outside the castle shield, numbering approximately a hundred. Guards usher the crowds into organized arrangements, although some rebellious applicants try to cut the line and insert themselves way ahead of the others who came before them. The exam officials are already seated in front of the tables, piles of papers and quills at their hands and glossy black scinncræfte crystals at their side. They have begun processing applicants almost an hour ago, and it seems an hour more is needed to handle the rest.

Already, he distinguishes two who emanate great magical capacity — a pale lean boy in a green tunic and a brown-cloaked hooded figure near the front of the line. If they both prove to be more than their raw power and should they choose the path of sorcerers, he thinks Jayden will gladly have them.

He observes the rest of them with a clinical eye, contemplating and assessing. So deep he is in thought, he only notices he has a companion when they speak.

“Everything seems to be going well.” Strands of dirty blonde tresses trickle down from a tightly coiled bun as the man beside him props himself against the window frame.

“It’s barely begun, Tristan,” he replies monotonously, casting his companion a side glance before he resumes his scrutiny of the people below.

“Is there anyone you favor so far?” Tristan asks, tone casual and features revealing nothing as he gestures with his head at the mass of applicants.

Still, the Court Sorcerer knows of his goal. His fingers tighten imperceptibly on its grip on the window sill. “I’ve found a few Jayden will surely take a liking to,” he says coolly.

“Have you?”

The Court Sorcerer responds with no words, tired of the conversation and hoping Tristan will leave him alone. After several seconds of silence and of the other man’s continued presence, he concludes that luck is definitely not on his side this day.

Tristan sighs the sigh of a man preparing for a difficult conversation. “Come now, it’s been three years. Won’t you consider taking apprentices again? At least one?”

“It’ll be four years in a week,” he cannot help but correct softly, pointedly overlooking his companion’s last remarks. “Not that anyone’s counting.”

He faces the bustling mass instead of Tristan; nevertheless, he feels the blonde’s pitying glance boring through the side of his head. The Court Sorcerer ignores him. He sees a dark-haired lass of barely sixteen summers happily skip towards the northern side of the castle instead of the training grounds. An apprentice mage, then.

Tristan follows his gaze. “She wouldn’t want you to be like this, you know?”

The Court Sorcerer snorts. “Your sister? Of course not. She’s been hounding me to find potential successors.”

“No, not my sister.” Tristan pauses, taking a deep breath. “Lily.”

Fire flares unbidden on a torch a few feet away. The Court Sorcerer’s face mimics a statue as he slowly lifts a hand and extinguishes the fire with a flick of a finger.

Tristan rubs his forehead, grimacing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

“It seems the Lady Morgana’s joining us this year,” he interrupts smoothly as murmurs burst forth from the crowd below. The brown-cloaked applicant he has been eyeing has just revealed their White Level status and identity, the latter of which is that of the gifted Morgana Le Fay.

“What?” With wide eyes, Tristan leans forward and looks for her. He finds her calmly conversing with an exam official. “What’s she doing here?” Tristan whispers harshly, brows rising when he recognizes the face beneath hood. Albeit it has been years since Gorlois and Vivianne’s youngest daughter visited Camelot, no one in court can fail to identify her face.

The Court Sorcerer’s expression remains unchanged, having already suspected her identity before she even pulled down the hood. Still, Tristan asks the same question he has been asking himself. Last he heard, Vivienne wanted her daughters to study under Mercia’s court.

They both watch as the Lady Morgana saunters over the training grounds with other processed participants, indicating her desire to apprentice under a sorcerer. The Court Sorcerer wonders why; in her younger years, she often preferred scrying and mixing potions over performing elemental magic.

Tristan begins, “The Lady Morgana is a brilliant magic-user —”

“And Jayden will be glad to have her should she pass the tests,” he finishes, irritation underlining his words.

In another line, a gangly boy in a brown jacket and blue tunic stumbles forward as he takes his turn.

Tristan’s fingers tap the stone of the window sill. The lull in their uncomfortable conversation is strained and overflowing with things unsaid. Both are stubborn but neither are patient. The Court Sorcerer opens his mouth, prepare to fire off a snipe that will surely get Tristan to leave.

The spectacle that ensues traps the words in his throat. His breath hitches.

A bright pale light consumes their visions, bathing their surroundings in white. Any kind of sound, even that of the chirping birds, becomes muted in the face of such phenomenon.

“Goddess above!” He hears Tristan yell.

The Court Sorcerer’s eyes water and he has to tear his gaze away. Even though he knows no harm can possibly penetrate the castle, he shields himself and Tristan with his sleeved arms, forcing both of them several steps away from the window.

The light dies off just as abruptly as it had come to life. He blinks away the dark spots pelting his view and sprints back to the window, fiercely searching for the cause.

“What the bloody hell was that!?”

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“Watch your footwork, Bedivere! You’ll lose a limb if you keep your left leg open like that.”

Bedivere nods curtly and swiftly pulls his leg back just before Galahad hits it with a dulled blade. Galahad abruptly switches the direction of his blade, swinging it upwards. Bedivere expertly blocks the strike aimed at his left side.

“Good, good. Galahad, you have to be faster than that.”

Ris continues instructing the two young knights, circling them as they spar. His hawk-like eyes observes all the weaknesses and openings they expose. Practicing behind the audience stands gives them quite a bit of protection against the intense heat. The extraneous activity makes them all profusely sweat anyway.

A couple of people walk by, giddy and excitement overflowing from their gestures. Ris glances at them, watching as they enter the training grounds with a skip in their steps. While his view of the training grounds itself is hindered by the high wooden stands placed around the area, Ris can still hear the incessant chatter of the people inside.

It seems the seats will be filled again this year, Ris concludes by the degree of the noises. The audience is never this many or so enthusiastic when it is the knights themselves holding tournaments.

Bedivere yelps, and Ris’ gaze snaps back to the two he is supposed to be mentoring. He sees Bedivere sprawling onto the ground and Galahad pointing a sword at his throat.

The older knights sighs. “All right, that’s enough. Cool down.” He rummages through the bulging packs gathered at the corner of the field.

Bedivere sits up. “But —”

“The exam’s starting soon,” Ris interrupts, tossing each of them a waterskin. Both catch them without looking. Ris gracefully leans against the flat surface of the back of the audience stands. “I’d rather not get scolded by our esteemed Court Sorcerer for interrupting a very prestigious event.”

“So what? I’ll tell him it was all my idea.” Something akin to a pout crosses Bedivere’s face.

“Which is true,” Galahad points out. “But we really should be enjoying the rest of our day off,” Galahad mutters before taking a swig from the waterskin.

Every year, on the day of the Apprentice Exam, all the knights are given the day off from their daily training. Their training grounds will be occupied by aspiring sorcerers, and, therefore, cannot be of use to them. But Bedivere, who has just recently been promoted from squire to knight, had not wanted to miss a single day of practice. The young knight, through his youthful charms and sheer stubbornness, has managed to rope in the third-in-command, Ris, and a fellow neophyte, Galahad, into humoring him.

Galahad offers Bedivere a hand. Bedivere takes it and uses it to raise himself back on his feet.

“All the other knights are in the tavern. Why don’t we join them?” Galahad recommends hopefully as Bedivere dusts himself off.

A pint would not be unpleasant, Ris thinks.

Bedivere huffs instead. “All the other knights except the ones that accompanied the Head Knight in the patrol.” Envy drips from his every word.

Ris understands his bitterness; when the Head Knight and the second-in-command declared an impromptu patrol before dawn broke that morning and explicitly ordered him to stay behind, Ris can do nothing but comply. He can admit only to himself that he is the tiniest bit wounded at being left behind. Something is clearly afoot and he can only hope they will choose to inform him of the issue soon.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out another sigh. Yes, a pint is more than welcome at this point.

Bedivere takes a long drink from the wineskin given to him. After wiping his mouth, he resumes whining, “Why wasn’t I picked? Why was Gertie, who came to training drunk on more than one occasion, allowed to join?”

“Gertie’s a senior knight, Bed,” Galahad argues. “And look, even Sir Ris got left behind.”

“Well, that’s a comfort,” Bedivere murmurs, oozing sarcasm.

Ris rolls his eyes, taking little offence. “No respect for your elders, you lot.”

A glimmer of white at the corner of their eyes steals their attention, halting their conversation. All their heads snap toward the cause at the same time.

A light brighter than the mid-morning sun originates from the east side of the castle where, incidentally, registration for the exam is being held. Ris remembers the short briefing they had the day before; no one mentioned a scheduled lightshow of any kind before or during the exam. The light fades away soon after as if Ris’ suspicions have made it shy.

“What the heck was that?” falls from his mouth as he straightens, uneasiness clawing at him.

The knights exchange calculating glances. After a beat, they simultaneously dash towards the source.

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Merlin, alarm ringing throughout his entire being, flings the crystal away. In midair, the crystal shatters into hundreds of little pieces. The warlock feels and hears it rather than see it because the brilliant light emanating from it clouds everything else. The whiteness unbearably stings his eyes. The blazing light disappears suddenly, as if heeding Merlin’s silent plea, and obsidian shards drop onto the wooden table with musical clinks.

Merlin stares at the fragments blankly, still seeing dark spots in his vision. He glances at the exam official, who has apparently gotten to her feet in the midst of the whole debacle and now stands a few steps away from the table. The other five officials are also out of their seats, all of them wearing expressions of pure dumbfoundedness. Their gazes keep flicking between Merlin and the crystal shards.

Deafening silence reigns for several moments. Then, a burst of exclamations violently break it.

“What on earth —”

“Did ye see that!?”

“I doubt there’s a soul here that didn’t.”

“That crystal just exploded.”

“What the hell happened?”

The warlock himself would like to know. Judging by their slack jaws, Merlin reckons what happened is more unusual than the crystal turning mere white. Merlin just held the crystal as he has seen others do. What exactly did he do differently? He looks at his hand, the one that grasped the crystal, and curls and uncurls his fingers.

The brighter the color, the greater the magic, the official has said. Huh. Mayhaps this whole 'most powerful sorcerer to ever live’ business does have some merit. The title didn’t exactly benefit him before but he is glad it is of some use now.

“Well . . . that was pretty bright, wasn’t it?” Merlin remarks before letting out a nervous chuckle.

“‘Pretty bright,’ he says.” A note of hysteria pitches Gilli’s voice higher.

Merlin turns to the mage at the remark. Gilli’s eyes resemble dinner plates, disbelief and wonder warring in his expression while Mordred . . .  The wideness of his azure eyes makes him look vulnerably younger, as does the pinch of genuine fear hinting the edges of his facade. His hand encloses around Gilli’s wrist, and he gingerly drags his friend a few inches back. Merlin does not miss the way the druid subtly places himself between the warlock and the mage.

Merlin blinks rapidly in response, unknowing of what to feel. Mordred, who has been nothing but amicable, now treats him as if he’s a wild animal on the loose. Merlin’s gaze darts back to the shattered remains of the crystal he held; what has the druid gleaned from it that caused him to act undoubtedly wary? He opens his mouth — to reassure them or to express his confusion, he does not know yet. However, before he can speak a word, thunderous footfalls and clanging metal silence the speech out of everyone in the area.

The crowd parts to let through three armored knights and a handful of guards. Two men lead the intimidating group, their nobility status showing in their purposeful gait and regal and colorful apparels. Streak of grey pepper both men’s hair, and wrinkles line their eyes, indicating their ages to be more than forty summers. One of them bears blond curls clustered in a bun, his stormy-blue eyes narrowing as he takes in the astounded mob. Merlin, however, is more perturbed by the way the dark-haired noble’s glare immediately settles on him. The dip between the noble’s brows deepens in a frown as he stalks towards the warlock, his broad and prominent stubbled chin raised determinedly.

Their arrival arouses more whispers, although they are much more subdued than before.

“Who’re those then?”

“Some very important nobles, to be sure.”

“Ack! Don’t you recognize that one from paintings?”

“I think that’s the Court Sorcerer!”

Merlin’s eyes widen in further alarm at that; his gaze flits between the two nobles, attempting to distinguish which one is the famed Court Sorcerer.

“My lords,” each of the exam officials murmurs softly with a bowed head as the two nobleman pass by.

Merlin swallows around the lump in his throat and instantly drops his head and eyes when the dark-haired noble halts less than a feet away. Contrary to Arthur’s claims, the servant does know how to act around the highborns; he just chooses to ignore proper etiquette around the king himself. The blonde noble stops half a step behind the dark-haired one, the knights and guards aligning themselves around the former.

From the corner of his eye, the warlock sees Mordred and Gilli emulating his actions. Although, Mordred seems to be sneaking glances at the dark-haired noble, looking akin to a child given the amazing toy he has always wanted.

Ah. So the one piercing the warlock with his eyes is the Court Sorcerer. Good to know.

“Tina.” The Court Sorcerer’s rough and low voice causes the official that questioned Merlin to jump. “What happened here?”

His voice is familiar, distantly crosses Merlin’s thoughts.

The exam official, Tina, clears her throat. “I-I was just processing an applicant as usual, my lord.” With a frail hand, she gestures at Merlin. “I asked him to hold the scinncræfte crystal so I can take note of his magical capability. As you have no doubt seen, the crystal lit up brightly. Then, it shattered.” With a slightly trembling finger, she points at the raven-colored shards.

“Shattered?” The blonde noble almost exclaims, hastily approaching the table and observing the remains closer. The knights and guards tense imperceptibly, their grips on their respective weapons tightening. Tina nods vigorously, wide-eyed gaze going back to Merlin.

“Lift your head, boy.”

It takes Merlin a while to realize that the Court Sorcerer is talking to him. The warlock slowly looks up, meeting the nobleman’s hazel eyes. Merlin attempts to appear as guileless as possible, which isn’t too difficult; as far as he knows, he hasn’t done anything wrong (yet).

Looking directly at the face of Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, Merlin suddenly finds familiarity in the lines of his forehead, on the shape of his nose or maybe on the curve of his jaw. Where have I seen him? Merlin tries to place the noble’s features, rather irritated with himself when the answer does not immediately come to him. It is there at the tip of his tongue . . .

The Court Sorcerer’s bushy brows furrow deeper, and the noble’s lips press into a moue of displeasure. His glare sharpens even more.

Oh, right. Merlin thinks he has been asked a question.

“S-Sorry. Can you repeat that?” A second too late, he adds a “my lord”.

“Have you drank or applied any sort of magic-enhancing potions or ointments?” The dark-haired noble emphasizes each and every syllable, annoyance shining through.

Merlin shakes his head vehemently. “N-No, Sire.”

“I’ve checked for that, my lord,” Tina interjects respectfully. “His blood is clear.”

“A charm, then?” The noble nods at Merlin. “What’s that around your neck, boy?”

Without his neckerchief, Merlin realizes what must be showing. His hand darts up to hide the leather cord peeking through his tunic. “Nothing,” he replies instinctively, wincing when his voice comes out a bit squeaky. Knowing how he sounds, he amends, “It’s just a normal pendant, my lord.”

The noble cocks a brow in disbelief. He holds out a palm, his countenance both intimidatingly demanding and coolly expectant.

Merlin valiantly fights the sarcastic remark threatening to erupt from his mouth. If only he knew beforehand how much trouble it would bring him, he never would have laid a single finger on that damn crystal.

Better get this over with. Already, he is tired of all the unnecessary attention he has attracted. So much for laying low. He has to remedy this, and acting like an obedient little peasant feels like the right step. With gritted teeth, the warlock calmly removes the cord and its corresponding brooch, trying not to show how much the action pains him. When he releases them atop the noble’s hand, Merlin has to stamp down the anxiety threatening to strangle him; rarely has the brooch left his person in the past year.

The Court Sorcerer stares at the brooch for a very long time. Something in his expression shifts, although Merlin fails to read it now. The blonde noble frowns at the Court Sorcerer’s prolonged silence and strides towards him. He glimpses the object lying on the other noble’s palm, and pauses abruptly.

His head whips to Merlin. “Where did you get this?” he demands, tone a laced with fury and incredulity.

“I, ah, my friend gave it to me as a gift,” Merlin answers cautiously, worried now that they are going to claim the brooch for some unreasonable reason.

“And where exactly did your friend get it?” This time, the Court Sorcerer asks the question, voice as casual as one can be but amber eyes promising something dangerous.

Merlin cannot exactly tell them, Well, it bears his mother’s sigil so I assume he inherited it because . . . the warlock belatedly comprehends what a thoughtless idiot he is. The brooch bears the sigil of Arthur’s mother, Ygraine, who now rules Camelot’s court. These two nobles recognize the mark, and are now suspicious as to how and why Merlin, a mere peasant, possesses such a valuable seal.

“M-My friend saw it in the market.” Merlin hurriedly weaves a viable story in his mind. “He, uh, he sees the bird! Yes, right there on the brooch is a bird. He thought it would suit me because of my name. Merlin — that’s my name. Merlin is a type of bird, you see. S-So, my friend bought it and gave it to me.” The warlock clears his throat, mentally patting himself for such a brilliant on-the-spot lie. “Rest assured, it’s a complete forgery. It’s not even real silver. I-I didn’t even realize that it’s engraved with such an important sigil until much later.”

The nobles, knights and guards are silent as they digest Merlin’s story. Meanwhile, the people in the crowd continue gossiping, their words thankfully unintelligible. Merlin does not want to know what kind of assumptions they’re spreading.

“I see no runes nor do I sense any magic from this,” the dark-haired noble proclaims, face devoid of any emotion. He hands back the brooch.

Merlin accepts it a bit too hastily. When the sigil settles securely underneath his tunic, he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Merlin, is it?” The Court Sorcerer waits for the warlock to nod before continuing. “We must resolve this issue and it would be much quicker if you were not pretending to be magically impotent.” Judging by the titters that arise, Merlin feels as though he has just been insulted. The nobleman’s expression belies nothing though. “I ask you to unsuppress your aura for a moment.”

“Right, of course.” Merlin nods vigorously, understanding only half of the words the Court Sorcerer spouted. “How — How exactly do I do that?”

The nobles’ brows practically fly through their hairlines. The blonde noble looks mightily displeased, as if Merlin has spilled a tray of his favorite food. “Boy, you cannot be —”

“I see.” The Court Sorcerer halts the other man’s tirade before it can begin. “Very well then. Ris,” he calls out.

One of the knights, a middle-aged man with dirty blonde hair cropped near his ears, calmly approaches. Merlin stares at him. He immediately recognizes the weathered face of Tristan, the smuggler who helped them take Camelot back from Morgana’s claws for the second time.

The fact that Tristan is a knight of Camelot in this realm comes only as a little bit of a surprise. In Merlin’s world, Arthur had offered the smuggler knighthood. However, Tristan, still grieving from the loss of his lover, could not bear to be near the place where she breathed her last.

“Fetch me another crystal.” The Court Sorcerer’s order snaps Merlin out of his reverie. The knight hurries to obey.

The blonde noble frowns disapprovingly. “Balinor, you cannot possibly believe the boy is telling the truth!”

Merlin loudly chokes on air, causing everyone’s eyes to settle on him once more. In his mind’s eye, the dark-haired noble’s cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard superimposes with the image of the ragged man whom he called father in his memories. Merlin does not know how he missed it.

My father’s alive, is the first coherent notion that occurs to him. A ball of warmth pulses in his chest. Complete bewilderment is the only thing restraining him from doing something stupid like hug the man in front of him. (That first and last time he had held his father in his arms, the man had been on his final moments). And he is Camelot’s Court Sorcerer. The second one brings forth a wave of hysteria. How? Why? Millions of questions races in his mind, all struggling to be the forefront of his thoughts.

The Court Sorcerer — Balinor, his father — gives off an unimpressed glance as Merlin gapes at him. To the blonde noble, he says, “There’s no harm in testing him again, is there? Obsidian scinncræfte crystals can see through any kind of suppression magic.”

While Merlin is having his inner crisis, Tristan — Ris? — has grabbed another black crystal from the table. The Court Sorcerer jerks his head at Merlin when the knight holds it aloft. Ris offers the item to the warlock then, his bright cerulean eyes wary and vigilant.

Merlin takes it numbly, still off-kilter.

Ten seconds of tense silence follows.

Then, the same brilliant light consumes the surroundings, forcing everyone to once again shield their eyes. Merlin is less surprised and impressed this time, though the fact that his mind is on other things may be a factor to that.

The light dissipates, and the crystal splinters in Merlin’s hands before he can think to drop it. He hisses as a great number of the shards bury themselves into the skin of his palm instead of falling to the ground, creating shallow bleeding lacerations. Blood flows in rivulets along his arm.

Incredulous cries start off once more, each applicant now exchanging anxious glances. The knights, guards, and nobles are oddly quiet and nonplussed.

“Merlin.” Gilli draws closely to the warlock, concern etched on his face.

“Gilli.” Mordred attempts to grasp his friend’s sleeve and pull him back. Unfortunately, Gilli stubbornly pushes ahead.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Merlin reassures. He yanks out three fragments in quick succession, wincing. Horror befalls the mage and he reaches out to stop Merlin.

Someone beats Gilli to it. “Don’t —” In one swift move, Balinor has encircled his fingers around the wrist of Merlin’s injured hand. “— do that.”

The warlock startles, almost withdrawing, but the Court Sorcerer’s grip holds true. Merlin opens his mouth, words like ‘Father?’ about to stupidly pass through his lips. Thankfully, Balinor gives him a quelling look that steals his speech. “If you carelessly pluck them, they might break off halfway and get stuck.”

“Of course.” Merlin nods almost mechanically. He starts to take his hand back but the Court Sorcerer does not relent.

“Áswæpaþ,” whispers the Court Sorcerer. Merlin watches with dumb amazement as gold furnishes his irises. It’s the first time he has seen his father blatantly do magic.

Pieces of the crystal gently slide out of Merlin’s flesh. Even the tiniest shard falls away with little resistance, and the warlock barely feels their movements.

When the last of sliver of crystal deserts Merlin’s palm, Balinor mutters another spell. “Þurhhæle dolgbenn.” The cuts on the warlock’s hand heals without a fuss, leaving not even a scar. Even the pierced skin caused by the exam official’s sharp quill disappears.

Finally, the Court Sorcerer releases him to fish an embroidered handkerchief in the space of his sleeves. He sets it atop Merlin’s palm and the obviously expensive cloth is immediately soaked with blood.

“I apologize for the implied accusations,” the Court Sorcerer says stiffly as Merlin properly wipes his hands. Balinor does not appear at all apologetic. To Tina, he says flippantly, “Note him down as White Level and proceed.”

“Balinor —”

“Tristan.” The Court Sorcerer shoots the blonde noble a deadpan look. “Would you prefer that we let him smash every scinncræfte crystal we have? They don’t exactly grow on trees.”

“But —”

“Ris, with me. We’ll need to fetch two more crystals.” The Court Sorcerer gives the huge crowd a once-over. “I doubt we’ll finish in time with only four.”

With that, the Balinor and Ris strides into the castle. The blonde noble, Tristan, and the other knights follow them reluctantly after bestowing unreadable glances upon Merlin. The guards go back to their posts, muttering to themselves.

Eventually, the exam officials sit back down. They call upon the first applicant in line and resumes the registration. Slowly, most of the gazes stray away from Merlin as the proceedings continue. Normalcy never returned, though; the air is filled with a bubble of anticipation that seems minutes away from bursting.

Gilli, without preamble, takes Merlin’s newly healed hand into his own. “I can’t believe the Court Sorcerer used his magic on you!” A big grin almost split his face in half as he examines said Court Sorcerer’s handiwork.

“Yeah,” Merlin replies distractedly, eyes on the spot where Balinor has disappeared to. He pockets the bloodied handkerchief.

“Look at that. Not even a trace of the wounds.”

“If you wanted to hold hands with Merlin,” Mordred speaks for the first time in a long while, lips twitching into a smile as he steps forward. “You need not use the Court Sorcerer as an excuse.”

Gilli drops Merlin’s hand as if scalded. He shoves Mordred, spluttering. Merlin’s head snaps at the druid, wondering at the sudden switch of his manner. Just earlier, Mordred had looked ready to get Gilli and himself as far away from the warlock as possible.

Tina clears her throat loudly, getting the trio’s attention. “You still have some question to answer.”

Merlin steps closer to the tables once more, head still a jumble of half-formed thoughts.

“Name?”

“Um, Merlin.”

“Your full name?”

“Merlin of Ealdor.”

“Have you apprenticed under anyone?”

Again, Gaius comes to mind but Merlin shakes his head instead.

The exam officials politely asks for a few more information such as how many spells he knows (less than fifty) and where he learned them (in a book).

After dotting the last sentence, Tina explains the additional rules to the exam, “Staffs, charms, crystals, totems or any magical tools are not allowed inside the area during the exam. Some parts of the exam involve a certain degree of risks. Do you agree to participate knowing this?” She pulls out a parchment filled with blocks of texts and reads from it. “The Court of Camelot will not be responsible for any harm inflicted upon participants due to recklessness or failure to follow instructions.”

Of course. Merlin never expected any less. “I-I agree.”

“Any attempt to violate the rules is grounds for disqualification and/or for banishment from future exams,” the exam official emphasizes.

When Merlin nods in understanding, Tina gathers all the papers she has inadvertently scattered. She gestures to her right, offering Merlin a jittery smile. “Kindly proceed to the training grounds and wait for the exam to start.”

Merlin blinks. That’s it? After all that commotion about the crystal, what followed is a bit underwhelming. Merlin is almost disappointed.

“See you later, Merlin.” Gilli bids as Merlin walks towards where he assumed the training grounds are. Mordred gives a small wave. Merlin waves back with a wan smile.

The stroll to the area of the exam leaves Merlin alone with his thoughts for the first time. The revelations of the past few minutes has left him reeling. He rubs his wrists where uncalloused fingers once were, warm with impossible life. Balinor acts much the same as he did when Merlin first met him; suspicious, sharp-tongued, and dignified.

But Merlin knows this Balinor is not his father. He mustn’t confused himself. His father is dead, has been dead for a few years now. He has grieved him and he has moved on.

He lets out an explosive breath, and strengthens his resolve to avoid complicated matters. To be involve as little as possible in the affairs of the realm that is not his is the best course of action. Everything that has happened or will happen in this world is none of his business.

Likely, after the exam has concluded, Merlin will never again see the one who bears his father’s face. After all, what business would Camelot’s Court Sorcerer have with a magically inexperienced peasant?

As he enters the training grounds, he pretends the notion does not sadden him in any way.

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Chapter Text

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As soon as all five of them enter the castle proper, Balinor spins on his heel to face the knights.

"You two."

Bedivere and Galahad stands to attention as the Court Sorcerer points at them. "Sire."

"Today is supposed to be your day off." Bedivere winces inwardly, thinking that they are about to get scolded for practicing near the training grounds. But the next words out of the Court Sorcerer mouth alleviates Bedivere's worries. "But I must ask you a favor."

"Anything, my lord," they reply.

"Change into a less conspicuous attire." The Court Sorcerer's gaze skims the knights' heavy armors. "Find out whether the boy went to the scrying room or the training grounds." Balinor lowers his voice. "Keep an eye on him and take note of any suspicious actions."

Bedivere is glad to be given a task worthy of a knight. He cannot quite fight down the broad grin creeping on his face. "Yes, sire."

"Yes, my lord," Galahad affirms, expression disgustingly neutral.

Bedivere does not understand how the other novice knight can hide his excitement so thoroughly. It is the first time someone has entrusted them with such a crucial duty.

The Court Sorcerer nods. Taking the nod as dismissal, the two knights hurry out of the castle once more. Balinor waves his hand at Ris as he begins trudging along the castle's vast halls, indicating the knight to follow him. Ris complies without a word.

Tristan hastens to match Balinor's steps. "Scinncræfte crystals don't shatter," he states the obvious.

"I know," Balinor replies.

"We can't even cut and polish them. They don't shatter."

"I know," Balinor repeats.

"Then, tell me: why did you allow someone who is obviously cheating into the exam?"

"Is he?"

Tristan blinks. "What?"

The Court Sorcerer halts abruptly. Tristan gracefully comes to a stop. Ris almost bumps into them.

Balinor turns to Tristan, unamused. "Is he obviously cheating? You must have noticed something I, the Court Sorcerer, hadn't."

"Balinor, the scinncræfte crystals shattered," Tristan restates as if Balinor wasn't there to witness the impossible feat.

"Yes. Yet none of things he wore bear the slightest hint of an enchantment, and his blood failed to provoke a reaction from the aárásae quill." Balinor's gaze loses their sharpness as his thoughts drift. "I know of no spell that can destroy a scinncræfte crystal upon touch."

Tristan raises both brows in disbelief and his tone is as dry as summer when he says, "Are you saying the crystals shattered because his magical capacity is too much for the them to handle?"

Ris shifts uncomfortably at the implication. Balinor shakes his head briefly and resumes walking. "I don't know. But I have observed nothing that disqualifies him from the exam."

Again, Tristan and the knight treads half-a-step behind him. Tristan adorns a contemplative frown as they round the corner and enter the spiralled staircase leading underground. The air grows damp and cold the further they go down, strategically placed torches the only thing lighting up their path. Tristan opens his mouth then immediately closes it half-a-second later, eyes flicking to the knight dogging their steps. The three of them march together in relative silence.

After climbing down for several minutes, they finally reach the bottom. A black metalic door twice their height and just as wide greets them with its intimidating presence. Tristan and Ris remain at the last step of the stairs while the Court Sorcerer unhesitatingly draws closer to it.

A groove lays carved in the left corner of the door. It takes the shape of a perfect circle with two half-circles woven on each of its sides — the symbol of the triple moon. Balinor pulls out a similarly shaped talisman from under his tunic and fits it into the embossment without removing it from around his neck. He plants his free hand flat on the metal door, and murmurs a long string of spells. The locks behind the door boisterously click out of place. After a few more seconds, the noises cease and the door grunts the slightest bit open.

Balinor removes the talisman from its place and slips past the gap, leaving the noble and knight standing in the ominous and relatively narrow hallway.

"What do you think, Sir Ris?"

Ris glances at the lord. "Of the boy, Sire?" He returns his gaze back to the door. After a beat, he answers, "I don't know, my lord. He does not appear dangerous at first glance."

Tristan cannot find it in himself to agree. Something about the boy triggers a rush of alarm within Tristan. The way the boy unhesitatingly had met Balinor's eyes, the fact that he had barely remembered to tack on titles when speaking with them — an ordinary commoner would not have been so insolent in their actions. There is also the matter of the De Bois' sigil . . .

Balinor exits from the the room beyond, cloth-covered scinncræfte crystals under his arm. He roughly pushes the door close behind him.

"Hurry now, Sir Ris," the Court Sorcerer commands, handing the crystals to the knight.

Ris nods curtly as he accepts the package. He jogs up the stairs without a second look. Balinor and Tristan climb up in a much more sedate pace.

When Tristan is sure the knight is out of earshot, he tells Balinor, "Put up an anti-eavesdropping spell."

The Court Sorcerer complies, already having suspected that Tristan will ask him to. He utters a short spell and gestures in an arc. Both are immediately enveloped in an invisible bubble; sounds filter in but not a spoken word can be heard from the outside.

"That seal wasn't fake," Tristan begins abruptly.

The fingers which held the said sigil tingle at the remembrance of the warm metal. From the moment Balinor touched and saw it, the weight and details of its engraving betrayed its authenticity. "It's rare that someone who holds a genuine seal would pass it as a fake. It's usually the other way around."

Tristan gives Balinor a narrow-eyed look. "You don't think he stole it." It isn't a question.

"Perhaps he did. But to what end? He insisted it was fake in front of the very people who can confirm its credibility." Balinor tilts his head. "Or maybe he is simply a fool."

Both remember how the boy's eyes looked everywhere but Balinor's, how he fidgeted minutely, and how his phrases halted unnaturally. Evidently, the boy had been lying through his teeth regarding where he got the seal. Balinor suspects the boy is aware of the sigil's authenticity. The Court Sorcerer can only think of a few reasons to his denial, most of which spell scandal for the royal family. Balinor also cannot help but find the boy extremely familiar. He knows not where or when he has seen the likeness before but seen it he has. It bothers him tremendously; is the boy someone he has met before? Or a close relative of someone he knows?

They reach the top of the stairs and find themselves in the castle halls once more. Swiftly, Balinor swivels to the right and heads deeper into the castle. Tristan's eyes widen a fraction as he realizes the other man's intended destination. Again, he follows.

"Your own sigil?" Balinor queries.

"I know it was inside my desk just this morning." Tristan answers. "Besides, the seal the boy held is smaller than mine."

They clamber up an opulent set of stairs, leather boots making barely a sound onto the carpeted stone. The noblemen stride in anticipatory silence, their minds whirring with possibilities. They arrive at the fourth story of the west wing, and halt just outside the first intricately decorated door.

Balinor relinquishes the anti-eavesdropping spell and knocks. After a few moments, a voice from inside says, "Enter." They comply and get into the lavish chamber twice the size of the standard rooms.

An unlit fireplace littered with unused logs and adorned with deep red tapestries sits directly across the entrance. A long varnished table surrounded by oaken chairs takes up the left side of the room while an enormous bed fills up the right. A wardrobe that can fit five adults lays open, displaying a sizeable collection of garments. Pushed in a corner beside the wardrobe is a gilded desk where the sole occupant of the room sits.

Queen Ygraine Pendragon pauses in brushing her flaxen-colored hair as she meets the eyes of her visitors through the vanity mirror. She stands from the cushioned stool, grace and confidence draping around her like a cape. The velvet skirt of her midnight blue dress swishes as she swivels to face her brother and Court Sorcerer.

"Is there a problem?" A concerned frown deepens the lines on her forehead.

"Not yet," Balinor says.

Ygraine delicately lifts a brow in disbelief. Tristan closes and locks the door behind him. "An applicant has a De Bois sigil," he explains, cutting right to the point.

Ygraine sets down her brush and confusedly asks, "Who gave it to them?"

"He claims that it's a forgery, an item he found in the markets," Balinor answers. "Where is your sigil, Your Highness?"

Ygraine's brows rises at the implication of the inquiry. She pulls back the drawer of the desk, revealing a silver brooch lying amidst an array of colorful perfumes, white powders, and shiny jewelries. It is identical to the brooch around the boy's neck.

"Judging by your presence here, you don't think the sigil's fake," Ygraine says pointedly, crossing her arms.

"It's not." Tristan lets out a breath upon seeing his sister's seal. "And looks like he didn't steal it from the castle either."

The queen's bright blue eyes narrow. "Agravaine's?"

Tristan shakes his head. "Agravaine's sigil is the size of a ring and the boy's has the same size as yours."

Ygraine hums. "Someone has issued another seal to be made then." She shoots her brother a meaningful look.

"I haven't ordered a copy," Tristan defends quickly.

"Nor have I," Ygraine replies before she favors a thoughtful look. "That leaves only Agravaine."

Tristan frowns. "Agravaine would have informed us had he awarded someone with a De Bois seal."

"And if the boy had indeed been given the sigil as a reward, why would he claim that it's fake?" Balinor asks further.

"I suppose we can't put it down as a commoner willing to be humble?" The queen suggests before letting out an almost unladylike snort.

"Is it out of humility then?" Tristan looks and sounds as unconvinced as his sister. "I doubt it. There's also the fact that —"

A knock interrupts Tristan in the middle of informing the queen about the unusual reaction of the scinncræfte crystals. Three heads whip toward the door and a wave of relief ripples through them as they see it still locked.

"Mother?" is the muffled call from the other side. "Are you nearly done? The exams are starting soon, I think."

Tristan and Balinor remain quiet as Ygraine faux blaisely answers, "I'll be delayed for a while. Why don't you go on ahead, dear?"

For a few seconds, a loaded silence greets the queen. Then, her son replies with the same fake brisk tone, "I'll see you there, Mother." Uneven footsteps echo in the halls and eventually peter off.

Ygraine turns to Balinor when she's certain her son is out of earshot. "Do you believe the boy will use the sigil to ask for special treatment during the exam?"

The Court Sorcerer's expression holds a hint of a sneer. "Even if he does, I'm afraid I cannot grant it, Your Highness. You know the exam does not condone —"

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm not asking you to favor him." Ygraine picks up her brush again. "In that case, I see no harm in putting this matter aside for now."

"But —" Tristan begins protesting.

"We have the esteemed Apprentice Exam to host, Tristan." Ygraine's slightly patronizing tone brook no argument. "I'll write to Agravaine and ask him if he made copies." Ygraine waves a dismissive hand. "Most likely, he had given the applicant the sigil and neglected to tell us. Interrogate the boy later if you must. Privately and discreetly, that is. But for now, we focus on the exams."

Balinor, as the one who spearheaded half of the planning for months, cannot help but agree. "I believe that would be wise, Your Highness."

"I'm glad you approve, Lord Balinor," is the queen's dry response.

Balinor arches a brow. The corners of the Ygraine's lips curl up. Tristan resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"We'll leave you to your preparations then." The Court Sorcerer bows his head and heads for the door, mind half on the boy, half on the oncoming sorcerer's exam.

"I truly hope no harm comes from putting this aside." Tristan's face blatantly expresses his doubts. He gives one more shake of the head before following Balinor out.

The door closes behind both men as they exit the queen's chambers. Ygraine sits down once more and faces the mirror. Her expression remains serene even as millions of thoughts bombard her.

First, the incident this morning, and now, a dubious applicant with a De Bois seal. It is unlikely that the two problems are related but Ygraine takes them as ominous signs for the day. The Head Knight has yet to return or to send word, and Ygraine cannot help the worry nibbling at her core.

She prays that the examinations will go on without further trouble, if only for Arthur's and Balinor's sakes.

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"Why did you not ask him about the type of exam he wants to take?" Mordred questions as he takes his turn in the line.

While the other four lines continue on as normal, two of the adjacent lines have stalled in their processes. Without a scinncræfte crystal of their own, the registration for them cannot possibly resume.

Tina looks up with a frown. "Lord Balinor has shown obvious interest." In a low but still audible mutter, she voices, "which he never does." Her voice picks up once more. "I just assumed he would want to take the sorcerer's exam."

Mordred has assumed otherwise. With Merlin's inquiries about Mage Gaius, the druid thought he would be more inclined to take the mage's exam. Has the Court Sorcerer's notice truly changed his mind? For a moment, relief courses through him when he realizes that Merlin will not be in the same room as Gilli for an extended period of time. Then, piercing guilt immediately follows; Merlin has done nothing to warrant Mordred's sudden wariness. Just because Merlin possesses an unusually high magical capacity doesn't mean the druid has any right to give a biased and cynical judgment upon him. Mordred recalls Merlin's sáwle glæm and another bucket of guilt drops onto him.

He tries to remove such unfavorable notions from his mind. Out of all people, the druid understands more than most the feeling of being on the receiving end of them.

"Looks like Merlin's a legitimate competitor for you," Gilli teases, oblivious to Mordred's inner turmoil.

The druid plasters on a smirk. "Worried for me, are you?"

Just like that, the mage is no longer oblivious. Gilli sees right through him. The mage frowns. "All right, what's wrong? You've been on edge ever since Merlin's processing."

A fond smile lifts the corners of Mordred's lips. If nothing else, the druid can always expect his friend to call him out. "Why aren't you?"

"Why aren't I what?"

"Why aren't you on edge after what we've just witnessed?" Mordred glances at the black shards still littering the ground.

Gilli's eyes widen. "Should I be? You told me there's nothing to worry about Merlin," he says in a harsh whisper.

"There isn't," Mordred amends. "Or at least, I hope so."

"You hope so?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually omniscient."

The mage rolls his eyes. "So should we be worried? I admit that what he did with those crystals is a bit scary. But — Just because Merlin has an astounding magical capability doesn't mean he's dangerous." An uncertain glint flashes in his eyes. "Does it?"

A sigh escapes Mordred's lips. It would be hypocritical to say anything else but, "Of course not."

"Yeah." Gilli nods assuredly. "Yeah, I think not. He's too clumsy and clueless to be an evil schemer, isn't he? I mean, he didn't even know about scinncræfte crystals!"

"I'm sure Merlin will be flattered by what you think of him."

A knight approaches their line before Gilli can think of a retort. He sets down scinncræfte crystals in front of the exam officials who lost theirs. Mordred notes, not for the first time, that even though the knight holds the crystals with bare fingers, the crystals remain unchanged in hue.

"Thank you, Sir Ris," Tina says demurely, tucking a strand of dark hair behind an ear. From her left, the other officials mutters the same, though with less finesse.

The knights nods in acknowledgement. "That young man — What test did he choose?"

"He went to the training grounds for the sorcerer's exam, sire," Tina answers with a small smile.

The knight nods again and leaves without another word. Tina's brown eyes zero in on his armor-clad bottom as he dashes away, a wicked grin curving her lips.

Mordred loudly clears his throat. Irritation flashes through the exam official's face and she lets out a sigh of displeasure. "All right. Come now and let's get this over with."

Mordred answers the same questions that Merlin was asked. He gets pricked with the quill and when the ink remains black, Tina points to the crystal. The druid picks it up without hesitation. In two breaths, a white radiance filters out from between the gaps of his fingers.

Tina gapes as do the exam officials sitting next to her.

"Another White Level!?" From the crowd behind Mordred, someone cries out.

"Unbelievable. What the hell?"

"Three White Levels in this year . . ."

"That's it! I'll just try my luck in another three years," another grumbles and the stomping that followed indicates that they did indeed desert their spot in the line.

Gilli looks on at their shocked expressions, amused. Mordred calmly places down the crystal, unbothered by the attention. "My lady?" he prompts.

Tina shakes her head, tearing herself out of her reverie. "Right." She rubs her temples. "Name?"

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Merlin pauses just inside the training grounds. His jaw slackens as he takes in the amount of people both in the audience stands and the wide grassless field. The seats are filled to the brim and many have already secured a spot in the platforms' pathways. Merlin estimates no less than two hundred people clamoring in the stands, mostly peasants but there are few notable highborns uncomfortably squeezing in. In the center of the stands, located directly across the entrance, lay the only area cleared of people. There, an ornate red-cushioned chair stands empty.

The Apprentice Exam truly is a prestigious event, and that fact sinks in to Merlin as he takes in the crowd. He wonders if the mage's exam also entertains a great number of onlookers.

The warlock's eyes widen. He was so addled by the sight of his living father that he had absentmindedly complied with the exam official's directions. If he hopes to impress Gaius, why is he in the training grounds where the sorcerer's exam will supposedly take place? He should be taking the mage's exam, wherever that will be held.

Merlin scratches his head. Drat, he should have been thinking more about this earlier. He briefly closes his eyes, thinking it through now.

Healing spells are not exactly his forte. While Merlin can mix a good potion here and there, he has also never consciously scried for anything or anyone before. On the other hand, he knows more about elemental magic (according to what Mordred has told him of it) and has more practice with it. How can he impress Gaius as a mage when his expertise lies elsewhere?

Surely, as long as he gets a talisman and be allowed entry into the castle, he will have the opportunity to talk to Gaius and prove that he deserves a little bit of the mage's time.

All right, he says to himself with a sharp and resolute nod. He'll take the sorcerer's exam; with his past experiences, he's more familiar with the magic being tested in this one.

The fact that he may be able to glimpse more of his not-father in this exam may have affected his decision a bit.

"Hey!"

Merlin's head snaps up as several sets of footsteps thunder towards him. A slim and short brunette with thick eyebrows and sharp nose leads the small group, her dirty brown dress rustling agitatedly with her movements. The baker's daughter, Merlin recognizes yet another face, although her name eludes him.

"Did you know what that light was all about?" She asks, face openly curious.

"Uh, light?"

"We saw white lights coming from the registration area," a boy with a bowl cut pipes up. "You were there a few minutes ago, right?"

"Oh." Merlin realizes what they are referring to.

Before the warlock can think of a reply, someone snorts and sneers, "Probably just some idiot doing accidental magic."

Heads dart to the owner of the voice. Merlin's brows rise and then dips into a small frown as he meets the cold green eyes of the girl in the pumpkin carriage who assaulted him days before. He recalls another person from the carriage calling her Clar. A sliver of annoyance slithers in his chest; he's not going to forget that revolting slimy green substance the girl had pelted him any time soon. Merlin wisely chose not to provoke her with a cheeky retort.

So she's a sorceress. The warlock hopes he won't be involved with any sort of trouble with her around. Snobby nobles usually bring with them an assortment of headaches.

Scowls direct themselves toward the girl of obvious noble background, signaling that the applicants around him share more or less the same sentiments.

She has certainly endeared herself to a lot of people, Merlin notes dryly.

The warlock is debating whether to make an effort to refute the the girl's remark when he hears a familiar high-pitched shout of "Merlin, Merlin, Merlin! Over here!"

The warlock whirls to the direction of the shout and finds Selly waving frantically from the audience stands. A smile makes its way to his face before he can stop it and he goes to approach him.

"Wait, you haven't answered the question," the baker's daughter insists, holding him back.

"Wha — Oh, she's right." Merlin points a thumb at the haughty noble girl, spontaneously choosing the option that needs little explanation. "Someone was just practicing some magic." With that, the warlock resumes his walk towards Selly, leaving the group unsatisfied.

Selly's grin is toothy as he leans heavily onto the wooden barrier separating the audience and the applicants. "I'm so glad that you're joining the sorcerer's exam! The mage's exam is boring anyway, or so I've heard."

Merlin chuckles. "I don't think Gilli will take kindly to that." His eyes wander the crowd and his brows pinch when he fails to find Tom. "Where's your father?"

"He has to close up the inn."

Merlin slowly lifts his head, and Levi's grinning visage greets him cheerfully. He's lounging comfortably in the row nearest the barrier, red locks mussed and cheeks matching the color of his hair. The warlock hesitantly returns the smile, recalling what Mordred told them about the man's occupation.

"Tom asked me to accompany Selly here in the meanwhile," Levi explains. "Even promised me a free drink for it!" A doubtful expression flashes by Merlin's face and Levi huffs. "Don't look at me like that. I'm good with children," he claims before burping loudly.

Selly and Merlin wrinkle their noses as the smell of mead wafts through the air.

Selly lowers his voice. "Da actually asked me to take him with me because he won't leave the tavern otherwise."

"Rude." Levi mumbles, hearing the words clearly, but seems to take little offense.

"What about your, uh, job?" Merlin ventures.

"It's my day off." The red-haired man waves a flippant hand.

"It's always your day off," Selly retorts with a snort.

"That's the beauty of running your own business, lad." Levi roughly ruffles Selly's short locks, making them stick out in every direction. Selly irritatingly slaps the hand away. "You can choose when to work."

The little boy rolls his eyes so hard that Merlin fears they may fall off.

"Me and Da will be cheering you on from here. Don't worry, Merlin. You've had your share of bad luck in the past days." Selly has the grace to look sheepish, recalling the ball incident. "I'm sure you're due for some good luck!"

Merlin smiles feebly, only slightly comforted by that. "I hope you're right."

Luck is something he's always out of. With that in mind, Merlin decides he actually needs to form some kind of concrete strategy instead of improvising on the fly. Lately, he's been an expert in thinking ahead. All right, perhaps not an expert but sneaking into Morgana's room to place a poultice temporarily robbing her of magic has certainly contributed to their recent victory against her.

He bids farewell to Selly and Levi not long after, too deep in thought to hold up a proper conversation. Without knowing what type of exams there are, how can he prepare a plan? The warlock looks around some more, hoping to see something that may give him a hint. For the first time, he notices a large number of applicants standing around the two long tables pushed in the corner left of the entrance.

Curious, he draws closer to the congregation. Delicious smells of sizzling meat and steamed buns tickle Merlin's nose. His jaw drops as his eyes feast on the drool-inducing foodstuff burdening the long tables. The sturdy wooden things offer plates of chopped lambs, diced pork, fried vegetables, smoked fish, and other viands peasants can only eat once or twice in their lifetime, if they're lucky. On the end of one table, two barrels of ale and three barrels of water are propped up, inviting all to quench to their thirst.

The food and ale is already half-gone, the water barely touched because why drink water you can find in a well when you can sample some good ale? The applicants of commoner descent eagerly gobble up all that they can. Nobles, like Clar, turn up their nose at the feast, as if it isn't worthy of their stomachs.

Merlin's own stomach gurgles at the sight, even though it hasn't been too long since his last meal. Deciding he can think of a plan and eat at the same time, he grabs a wooden plate. Forks and knives are nowhere to be found so Merlin uses what the other diners are using: their fingers. A young man with unusually gray hair politely moves a bit to the side to make space for Merlin.

Just as Merlin is reaching out for a bit of bread, the hairs at his nape prickle. His head snaps up to meet the scrutinizing stare of the baker's daughter, who’s on the other side of the table with a plate of her own. Merlin blinks back at her in askance. Then, he finally notices that a whole group of applicants has been none-too-subtly giving him weird looks.

Uh-oh. Merlin thinks he has been caught in the lie he had thoughtlessly muttered earlier. Of course. One question from another applicant present during Merlin's registration would have revealed the truth. Merlin offers a sheepish and apologetic smile for the white lie before turning his attention back to the dishes. He hopes that by ignoring the stares and whispers, no one would make a fuss about the crystals again.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" the gray-haired man comments with a wide chicken-filled smile after Merlin begins digging in. "Even if I don't get chosen, I reckon this fare here will be worth the three-day trip I undertook."

The warlock glances at the dishes as he swallows a bite of savory pork dish, silently agreeing with the sentiment. "It's generous of the k— queen to prepare some food for us."

"Yeah. They didn't have stuff like this last time."

"Last time?" Merlin perks up. If the other man was here the last time the exam was held, the warlock may be able to get some useful hints. "You watched the exam three years ago?"

"Watched?" The man scoffs. "I was a participant!"

"Oh." Merlin has incorrectly assumed a person can only apply once. The warlock halts his meal for a while, now more eager to question the man. "What was it like?

The young man peers at the remaining dishes, contemplating his choices. "Humiliating, that's for sure." He ruefully shakes his head. "That Court Sorcerer is absolutely bonkers."

Merlin feels a tad offended on behalf of his not-father. "Why?"

The gray-haired beckons Merlin to come closer with a seasoning-stained finger. The warlock complies with obvious hesitation. The other man then whispers, "Three years ago, a maze was set up here and all of us had to go through it and find the exit at the other end."

Merlin checks around, measuring the size of the grounds and deducing the length of the said maze from there. The labyrinth would have been huge but navigating through it would have taken only an hour at most.

The young man continued, as if reading Merlin's mind, "You think it would be that simple? Nah. The walls shifted with no reasonable pattern every damn minute. And we had to dispel the illusions inside and that took hours." He visibly fights down a shiver of horror. Merlin draws closer when the other man's voice grow another notch softer. "Some of the illusions replay the mortifying things you've done so yes, we needed to dispose of them and we needed to do it quickly. Goddess above, my best friend was in the audience and saw the whole thing. Now, she's always bringing up the fact that —" The gray-haired man abruptly cut himself off, realizing he is on the verge of oversharing. He clears his throat. "A-Anyway, it was utterly embarrassing but I can take comfort in the fact that it won't happen again. Lord Balinor doesn't repeat the same things from the last exam to prevent any unfair advantages."

"Really?"

For a second, Merlin thinks the word came out of his own mouth and ponders whether his voice always sound so squeaky. But the gray-haired man addresses someone just beside Merlin and replies with a solemn nod and a firm, "Really!"

Merlin turns and comes face to face with the hay-colored boy who toppled onto him earlier in the registration lines. The boy beams, his forgotten glasses lifting slightly upon his freckled nose. But even with the glasses, the boy's irises remain slightly to the left of the warlock's face. Merlin deduces that perhaps his glasses are no longer apt for his eyesight. Merlin recalls Gaius replacing the glass on his eyewear once, and the physician thoroughly explained that his degrading vision needs a different kind magnification over time. (Gaius had explained for hours so it's a lecture Merlin would hardly forget.)

"Hello!" The boy exclaims, wrenching Merlin out of his sidetracked musings. The boy clumsily waves at them. "I'm Robin! I was the one who bumped into you earlier!" He directs the last remark to Merlin. To the gray-haired man, he queries, "Who're you then?"

The gray-haired man doesn't seem to mind the boy's excitableness. "Theodore but call me Theo."

"I'm Merlin," the warlock interjects, a tad embarrassed that he has been conversing with the man without knowing his name.

"Ooh, we're both named after birds," Robin points out as if it's the best thing he's ever discovered. "Where are you from? There aren't a lot of merlins near these parts. A lot of robins though! My mum really liked pretty birds. And pretty flowers! She said had I been born a girl, she would have named me after a flower. But really, Robin could be a girl's name too. I quite like it!"

"Um, I was born in a small village outside of Camelot." Merlin is overwhelmed by the boy's enthusiasm and loquaciousness. At least Gwen paused long enough to breath; Robin seems to lack the need to do so in between words.

Beside him, Theo muffles a snicker.

"Are you from Essetir?" With wide green eyes, Robin goes on another tangent. "I heard there's a few merlins there. Small but vicious creatures, those merlins. But you're not small though." The boy reaches out and almost punches Merlin in the face when he attempts to demonstrate the difference in their heights. Indeed, Robin is a good foot shorter than Merlin.

"Yes, I'm from Essetir." A hint of exasperation drips in his words. He shoots Theo a pleading look.

"Ooh, are you Merlin of Essetir then? Hmm, I'm pretty sure there are a lot of Merlin of Essetir though. How do you differentiate —"

"I'm Merlin of Ealdor," the warlock says quickly.

"And I'm Theo of Drefir," Theo jumps in, taking pity on Merlin. "And as I was saying, we didn't have such a wonderful feast last time! Why don't you dig in, Robin?" Theo hints heavily, hoping that with something else occupying his mouth, the boy would calm down.

Robin chuckles. "No, thank you. I'm not actually a participant. I don't think I'm allowed to eat from here."

Theo blinks rapidly. Merlin frowns in confusion. "You're not participating?"

"Nope! I'm sneaking in for a while to see someone and I'll slip out and go to the stands once the exam starts." Robin dips his head, pupils drunkenly roaming around the dishes. "I wonder why they decided to prepare food and washing basins this year though. I mean, they have to remove the whole lot to make space for the tests. Seems like a lot of trouble."

"The feast is a boon before the Court Sorcerer tortures us," Theo says with a tint of bitterness.

"Washing basins?" Merlin latches on to that. The sauce is starting to make his fingers sticky.

"I almost tripped over them." Robin gestures at the general direction of the throne-like chair. The statement is surprisingly unsurprising to Merlin. The warlock is starting to think that Robin may be clumsier than him.

When Merlin turns to look, he sees five buckets the size of the king's bathtub lining the space nearest the empty chair. Three wooden pails are clumped together in the rightmost corner while the last two are huddled in the leftmost. Three are filled with colorful liquids while the others contain colorless ones — Merlin is almost certain they aren't water.

"I don't think they're washing basins," he comments, now wondering what exactly the buckets are for.

"There are cloths over there," Theo points out before smashing a cookie into his mouth. With his mouth full, he continues, "If you want to clean up. Dunno why they didn't just provide us some forks. Shouldn't have been too hard."

Merlin discovers the pile of said brown cloths just in reach. He claims one and thoroughly wipes his hands on it. So concentrated on the mundane task, he only notices the sudden silence of his surroundings when he finishes. He looks up, a bit alarmed. The gazes of the people, both in the training grounds and audience stands, are all focused at the entrance. Merlin himself whirls around to glimpse upon the source of the commotion.

The sight that greets him steals a beat from his heart and twists his stomach into unbearable knots.

His wide blue eyes take in the form of Prince Arthur Pendragon as the royal trudge his way into the grounds.

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Chapter Text

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He barely looks any different is the first thing Merlin notes. Perhaps his hair is a little shorter, a little darker. Perhaps he’s a bit leaner, a bit less sun-tanned. Wrinkles are far fewer on his face, the throne yet to burden his shoulders. He dons his usual collared deep red coat over a dark brown tunic, a small wooden cylindrical article strapped around his waist in place of a ceremonial sword. As he walks, it is obvious that he’s favoring his left leg, and Merlin fondly thinks that it is so like the king to overdo it during training and sprain something.

“Who is it? What happening?” Robin asks confusedly, affirming Merlin’s suspicions about the state of his eyesight.

“It’s the prince,” Theo whispers back.

Merlin sobers up at the words. The prince, not the king. Not the one who gave him Ygraine’s sigil, not the man he saved from vengeful magic-users and who saved him in return, not the prat who keeps giving him chores meant for two servants, not the king who personally looked for his missing manservant or knighted commoners.

The prince, upon noting the impromptu stillness his presence wrought, pauses. He says with an entirely deadpan expression, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

The townspeople laughs and snickers, breaking the almost unnerving tension. The words jar Merlin into another state of shock; Arthur is never so publicly casual with his subjects, not since he was crowned king. Merlin glances around but only a handful of people appears as befuddled as him.

Most of the crowd goes back to their own businesses, now less bothered by the royalty in plain sight. Theo even goes back to his meal after an amused snort. The warlock can do nothing but stare at the gray-haired man. Is this the norm then, in this world -- princes joking around with their subjects?

Prince Arthur’s gaze wanders the grounds and lands on the tables where most of the applicants are gathered -- where most of the magic-users are gathered. Merlin instinctively bristles, unknowingly holding his breath. He waits for shock and disgust to flash through those vibrant eyes, for anger to twist the prince’s features, for a sword to be brandished in his direction --

Arthur’s eyes meet the warlock’s, and the prince frowns. Merlin tenses further. Arthur recognizes him, Merlin thinks hysterically (and hopefully) for half a second. After a beat, however, the furrow of the prince’s brows smoothens and his gaze moves on to other applicants. Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgement of the clustered magic-users. He resumes limping without another word or look at them.

Merlin exhales, part in relief and part in disappointment. Of course. This man isn’t his magic-hating Arthur. This man is someone who grew up in a kingdom where the use of magic is commonplace. The warlock thinks he should have been more amazed to see Arthur acting so casual after seeing a group of sorcerers. But a pulse of dismay thrums beneath his veins instead. This man isn’t his best friend so Merlin shouldn’t really be hurt or surprised when those azure eyes had passed him over after a glance, when the slightest bit of recognition remained absent in the prince’s countenance.

The warlock sighs as he presses a hand over his chest, feeling the embossment of the sigil through his tunic. A pang of homesickness hits him stronger than ever. While Arthur’s easy acceptance is something he has been working on and dreaming of for years, he would prefer to see it happen with his best friend and not just someone who wears his face.

His eyes, without explicit permission, return to the prince. Merlin is just in time to see the prince pause again, surprise flickering upon his face. The warlock follows the direction of the prince’s stare and finds himself locking gazes with jade eyes.

Morgana Le Fay, who’s standing casually in an isolated corner, immediately focuses her attention elsewhere as soon as Merlin catches her. The warlock watches with blatant trepidation as Prince Arthur unhesitatingly approaches the Lady Morgana. The prince greets her with a small smile. Lady Morgana curtsies, bowing her head before offering an affable smile of her own.

The warlock’s hands unconsciously clench into fists as they exchange words inaudible to his ears. Wonder and terror war inside him at the sight of them being friendly with each other, something Merlin thought he would never see again. He waits for one to swiftly pull out a sword and the other to mutter a lethal spell with a sneer. The reasonable part of his brain knows this Arthur is in no danger at all; the prince is conversing with someone who obviously feels no animosity toward him. Yet his magic is ready to pull Prince Arthur out of peril at the slightest hint of it.

“Does their conversation really deserve that much scrutiny?”

Merlin flinches so hard he bumps into Robin. The green-eyed boy releases an ‘oomph’, almost tripping over himself. Only the warlock’s quick grab of his arm steadies him.

Mordred fights to keep off the amusement on his face and continues, “I doubt the prince is spilling the exam’s secrets to the Lady Morgana. Not that she needs any help in that area anyway.”

Theo pauses in eating long enough to give the new arrival with a cursory glance. Robin blinks guilelessly up at Mordred.

“Hi, I’m Robin!”

“Mordred,” the druid introduces with a polite tilt of his head. “You’re the one that tackled Merlin earlier.”

Robin sheepishly scratches his cheek. “‘Tackled’ is a strong word.”

Merlin struggles to even his breathing as Theo takes the initiative and introduces himself to the druid. Mordred, Morgana, Arthur -- all in close proximity with one another. This world is truly and vastly different if that can happen without someone actively dying.

Merlin tries to let go of his useless worries for possibly the tenth time since he met familiar faces. He has had enough things to think about. He knows next to nothing about these people and their circumstances, no matter how much they look like his friends and enemies.

“Is it true that you don’t know any aura-suppression spells?” Mordred’s question provides a much needed distraction.

“Not really,” Merlin admits. “Is -- Aura-suppression, I suppose I’m doing it right now?”

Mordred nods, expression revealing none of what he thinks of Merlin’s answer. “If the crystal didn’t disprove it, I would have thought you possess little to no magic.”

Mordred’s words make the warlock think. He always takes precautions to ensure his magic is restrained and controlled at all times because the threat of execution really urges a magic-user to be careful. Mayhaps, in the process, he’s unconsciously ‘suppressing his aura’, as they put it? It bears further thought. The warlock himself can sense magic when it’s strong and near enough, although he has never identified a magic-user upon first glance before. How many times has Merlin unknowingly revealed himself to other sorcerers with the ability to sense magic? Is that why Mordred -- the one in Merlin’s world -- immediately recognized him as Emrys even though they hadn’t met before?

Merlin straightens as another epiphany hits him. Why didn’t this Mordred identify him as Emrys then? The warlock side-eyes the druid, wanting to ask but knowing doing so might be too suspicious. Emrys is a prominent name amongst druids, and Merlin’s not too sure non-druids like him are supposed to know anything about the supposed title.

Fortunately for Merlin’s sometimes foot-in-mouth tendencies, Theo pulls all three of them into a another conversation, effectively changing the subject. Theo narrates the events the exam six years before, one the man himself also participated on. Mordred leans forward, doubly interested as a participant of the current exam. Robin is merely nodding his head off in excitement. The warlock tries and fails to give the story his full attention; from the corner of his eye, he watches two royal siblings talk.

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“Is that all of them?”

“Yes, sire.”

“How many did you disqualify?”

“Ten were caught with drýcræftéaca in their bloodstream, and three more with magic-enhancing charms and totems. I’ll keep the list of their names on record.”

“Hmm. That’s unfortunate . . . Let’s proceed then.”

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Another sudden hush from the crowds and the thundering footfalls of new arrivals halt their conversations.

A group of more than two dozen people march into the training grounds, colorful and intricately woven garbs indicating their highborn status. One of them is easily levitating two sealed crates with a raised hand. Heavily armored guards follow behind them. At the forefront of the assembly, the Court Sorcerer and a regal woman walk side by side with diplomatically blank expressions.

It takes Merlin less than a second to recognize the woman as Ygraine Pendragon.

Years ago, Morgause had conjured before him and Arthur an image of a woman who the sorceress claimed to be Arthur’s mother. Even to this day, Merlin is still unsure whether it was truly Ygraine’s spirit or merely an illusion Morgause created to manipulate Arthur. However, Merlin is now certain of one thing: the image had accurately resembled the real Ygraine Pendragon.

This Ygraine Pendragon bears far more wrinkles and holds herself far more assuredly. Laugh lines trace the contours of her cheeks, and blond locks with streaks of gray frame her pale slender face. Merlin sees Arthur in the effervescent colors of her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, and the shape of her nose. Age does little to tarnish her beauty. In contrast to King Uther’s rough countenance and sharp edges, Queen Ygraine emanate a soft and graceful exterior with the hint of steel beneath.

The warlock cannot fight off the bittersweet smile that curled his lips. Arthur would have loved to see his mother like this, alive and hale. Yes, Merlin thinks, gaze catching onto the man trudging beside the queen. It’s a lovely surprise to see a dead loved one alive and hale.

Prince Arthur excuses himself from his conversation with the Lady Morgana. He joins his mother in the lead, sidling up to her side. Even though the injury on his leg must be paining him, the prince still manages to keep up with the delegation. Ygraine shoots the prince a small soft and brief smile, which Prince Arthur returns. Something in Merlin’s chest clenches at the sight.

The applicants gathered around the tables quickly clean themselves up. They noisily place down plates, dust off crumbs of food from their clothes, and wipe their hands. Theo hastily chews and swallows the last of his meal, cheeks swelling comically in the process. Nobleborn applicants smooth out the nonexistent crinkles in their lavish clothes, backs straightening and chests puffing out.

“I think that’s my cue,” Robin mumbles. When Merlin turns around a few moments later, he finds Robin gone from his previous spot and nowhere to be found in the training grounds. For someone so graceless, the boy sure moves fast. The warlock wonders absentmindedly and momentarily whether Robin has met with the person he referred to earlier.

The entourage becomes Merlin’s focus once more as it heads towards the space beneath the platform of the empty ornate chair. The guards and nobles fan out, and settle to stand behind the queen.

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“Will you not tell me why Balinor and Uncle Tristan was in your room earlier?”

Ygraine’s steps do not falter but it is a close thing. She glances at her son, whose gaze remains placidly on the crowds despite his astute question. The queen should have known Arthur would have caught on.

“It's nothing you should be concerned with,” Ygraine answers honestly.

She would rather not worry Arthur with something so trivial, especially on this day. Arthur says nothing more in reply as their entourage halts.

Balinor mutters a short spell and then, nods at the queen. Ygraine straightens and shifts to face the large number of applicants and audience.

“My people,” she starts, voice reverberating loud and clear throughout the area. “Believers of the Old Religion and of the New. I, Ygraine Pendragon, welcome you all to the sixth Apprentice Exam!” People cheer and clap enthusiastically, whooping and hollering unrestrainedly. Ygraine allows herself a smile. When the noise dies down, she continues. “Today, we are honored by the presence of many sorcerers and sorceresses, all eager to learn the ways and beauty of the magic in Camelot’s court.” The queen gives the gathered applicants an appraising look. For a short moment, she attempts to look for the applicant Balinor has been worried about but none particularly stands out. “Unfortunately, my court can only take in a few of you.” Ygraine lifts a brow, eyes glinting with challenge. “Today, you shall have to show us your potential, show us you are worthy to be apprentices to the greatest magic-users of our time.”

Most of the people behind the queen preen subtly at the praise, pride shining quite clearly in their posture. Some applicants shift nervously while others adopt countenances hardened by determination.

Ygraine makes a small gesture at Arthur. “My son, Arthur Pendragon, will be my eyes in this exam.” Her son tilts his head in acknowledgement of being addressed. “I’m certain you are all very excited so I'll not delay any further.” The audience cheers once more in response.

Ygraine locks eyes with a handful of the participants, discretely trying to identify which ones will be chosen. A spark of recognition causes her to pause as she meets wide stormy-blue eyes. She frowns, trying to place where or when she has seen the dark-haired pale-skinned young man. Balinor clears his throat, bringing her back to her senses.

Ygraine tears her gaze away and bids with finality, “I’m hoping to see some of you around the palace after today. I’ll be leaving you in the capable hands of Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, Balinor of the Thrakon Isles.” The queen sees more than one face blanch slightly at the mention of Balinor. Well, it seems some of the applicants know exactly what they are getting into.

With that, she breaks off from the large delegation. Immediately, her brother joins her and guards surround them both. She walks to exit the training grounds with her escorts, off to give a similar speech on the mage’s exam.

Before she fully departs from the grounds, she shoots the familiar-looking applicant another assessing glance. A second glimpse does not provide her any more clues. She turns her gaze to the front, an unsettling feeling pricking the base of her spine.

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Queen Ygraine’s short speech has left Merlin reeling a bit. It’s a stark contrast to the first speech the warlock heard from King Uther. Ways and beauty of the magic in Camelot’s court . . . The beckoning words have alleviated his anxiety to some degree. A little bit of excitement even flares within him. If nothing else, the Queen’s speech has driven one undeniable fact into him; magic is not only allowed in Camelot but also celebrated. Merlin can do as much magic as he pleases.

In front of his not-father and this not-Arthur.

Merlin swallows the lump forming in his throat, his earlier confidence waning. The notion of performing in front of the two disconcerts him, though he cannot pinpoint exactly why.

Prince Arthur easily clambers up to the empty cushioned chair despite his injured leg. He settles on it comfortably, eyes passively wandering around the area. Unlike with his own Arthur, Merlin can deduce nothing from the prince’s facial tics and subtle gestures. This inability makes the warlock a little bit uncomfortable; he can usually tell the direction of Arthur’s thoughts.

Balinor, meanwhile, has taken the spot the queen vacated. “Applicants,” he greets monotonously. Without further introductions or preamble, he begins, “This year’s exam is comprise of three parts.”

Merlin hears Theo groan. “Brilliant. Three more ways to torment us.”

Balinor clasps his hands behind his back. “First is a test of luck.”

“Luck?” Mordred’s brows pinch in confusion.

Murmurs burst forth from both the people in the audience and from the training grounds. Merlin starts. He’s not sure he likes the sound of that.

“Then, of course, a test of magic,” Balinor continues, unperturbed, amidst the pandemonium. “And lastly, a test of character.” With a deep weighty tone and an aloof expression, he announces almost ominously,

“Let us begin.”

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Chapter Text

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Without giving anyone time to process, Balinor turns to one of the magic-users behind him. A tall middle-aged woman clad in a deep violet dress steps forward, her smile almost splitting her face in half. She roughly shakes long blond strands away from her face and thrusts both hands up. Her eyes turn liquid gold. Several applicants take steps back when a brief but strong gust of wind assaults them. The sorceress places her arms down, and attempts to curb her glee.

Balinor nods in approval. “Applicants with green fingers, please proceed to the left of the training grounds. Those without, stay on the right.”

Theo, Merlin and Mordred exchange puzzled looks. Green fingers? None of them . . . Merlin looks down and finds six of his fingers blotted with sickly green ink. He blinks, turning his hands around and trying to find where it came from. Theo and several others are in similar confusing conundrums. Mordred’s skin, meanwhile, remains clear and unstained.

“I ask you to hurry.” The Court Sorcerer drawls out, piercing through their bewilderment.

Mordred offers them a look indicating he’s as clueless as they are before shrugging. He walks to the space indicated by the Court Sorcerer. Theo, Merlin, and other green-blotted applicants hesitantly gather to the left side of the grounds.

Eventually, the applicants are neatly separated into two lots. Balinor confidently approaches Merlin’s group, hazel eyes skimming through their faces. Scuffling feet and bowed heads greet his presence.

“You.” The Court Sorcerer points at a short brown-haired boy. The boy visibly gulps, and shares worried looks with the brown-skinned girl beside him.

Balinor gestures at three more people, seemingly at random. Heads comically bob to the directions he points to. “You, you, you and . . .” His eyes stray to Merlin. The warlock bristles and hurriedly offers a small smile. He fears it may have come out as grimace. The Court Sorcerer’s gaze swiftly switches to the blonde man behind Merlin. “You. Join the other group.”

The five mentioned applicants shuffle out and away, dithering but complying all the same. Merlin feels the tension rising, all but a few knowing the purpose of Balinor’s actions. Theo’s shoulders are set in a straight and tensed line. Clar is even sporting an uncertain expression as she watches her group gain more people. Mordred, ever the expert in blank faces, merely looks on with a cool facade. Beside the druid, Morgana . . . Morgana has yet again averted her gaze from Merlin as he catches her. The warlock’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

Balinor unites with the other full-fledged magic-users, drawing Merlin’s attention. The Court Sorcerer silently counts the applicants in each gathering. Curious, Merlin does the same and finds out that each batch now holds twenty-six people.

The two crates floating in the air are gently placed down and opened with a flick of a finger. Bronze goblets wrapped with red and blue metal band hover out of the crates with soft clanking sounds. They whistle through the air as they head toward the applicants, blue bands going to Merlin’s lot while the red ones wobble within the reach of Mordred’s group.

“Get one goblet,” Balinor commands, face expectant.

The applicants blink and share confounding glances. Then, each one plucks a goblet from the air. Merlin studies his, running the pads of his fingers around the cool smooth metal. No magic emanates from it and all in all, it seems to be an ordinary chalice used by noblemen during feasts.

While the warlock is distracted, three more of the court’s magic-users cast simultaneous and combined spells, their voices mixing and echoing almost harmoniously.

A dome-shaped shield glides into existence, opaque and milky white in color. It spans the whole of the training grounds, spawning from the barriers between the stands and the grassless field. The shield hides the audience — even Prince Arthur  — from the applicants’ sights. Merlin feels strangely relieved; now, Merlin doesn’t have to keep seeing Prince Arthur’s reactions to any magical thing he does. The sudden decrease of noise, however, unnerves him; the shield has also muffled the sounds of those outside it, making their words low and unintelligible.

A moment later, two other shields form; these ones are transparent in nature, only shimmering a light golden gleam. One surrounds Balinor and the rest of the court’s magic-users like a large bubble. The other ascends from the middle of the grounds, dividing the area into two. It leaves the two groups of applicants physically separate. With cautious steps and glances, they give the newly formed barriers a wide berth.

Balinor loudly claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention once more. “Now that the preparations are complete, we shall begin the first test.” For the first time since the Court Sorcerer entered the grounds, something other than nonchalance paints his face. A sliver of mischief flits by the corners of his lips, and amber eyes dance with something akin to elation. “It’s quite simple. These — “ Balinor motions with flourish at the filled buckets on opposites sides of the grounds. Merlin holds his breath. Poison? Sleeping tonics? Venom? Skin-melting — “ — are varying doses of hair dying potions. We’ve made them odorless, tasteless, and colorless. Well, colorless for some. A cupful can change the hue of a whole head of hair. The higher the dosage, the quicker the effect.”

Merlin blinks. The revelation breaks the constricting tension among the participants like a popped bubble. Relieved exhalations puff out in the air. It seems, like Merlin, they were all expecting the worst.

“For those on the right.” Balinor tilts his head at them. Merlin notices, for the first time, that almost all the applicants on that group are of noble descent. “You are given three different doses. The blue one is the mildest, taking effect several minutes after ingestion. The yellow takes a handful of minutes to be seen. The red has the highest dosage among the three, taking only a few seconds.”

The Court Sorcerer then turns to the second group, expression shifting ever so slightly into something a bit more blank. “For those on the left, you are given two doses. The one with a carving of a ‘1’ has the same dose as the right group’s blue. The second, labeled with a ‘2’, is the same as their yellow’s.”

Merlin squints and could barely make out the said numbers engraved at the lip of the pails.

“These particular potions are brewed specially.” The Court Sorcerer clasps his hands behind his back again, glancing between the applicants with a challenging gleam in his eyes. “If you drink a cupful, you can neutralize its effects by drinking another cup with the same or a higher dosage before the effects fully manifest.

The goal is, of course, to ensure every strand of your hair retains its original coloring. Each of you will be filling your goblets with the liquid of your choice.” Again, he gestures at the buckets. “An applicant from the opposing group will have to drink it. I've ensured that each group has the same number of members so by the end of this test, you must be holding a cup that initially belonged to the other group.”

Merlin glances at his own chalice, at the five buckets, then at the people at other side of the barrier. A niggling thought plants itself at the forefront of his mind, something that furrows his brows.

“You have half-an-hour to decide what to fill your respective goblets with.”

Someone behind him summons an hourglass the size of Merlin’s head. With a wave of Balinor’s finger, the hourglass lifts itself up to float over all their heads. The light-colored sands at the bottom shifts restlessly at the movement.

“After that, you will switch goblets with someone from the opposing group.” Balinor’s gaze roams the field once more, a faux contemplative look marring his face. “Hmm.” His eyes settle on the people on the right — Mordred’s group. “I'm giving your group the right to choose who to exchange drinks with after half-an-hour.” He lifts his head once more to address all applicants. “Your cup must be filled before the sand runs out. Otherwise, you will be disqualified. You cannot sabotage another’s cup once its filled. Doing so will also lead to disqualification. You can drink two cups, one of which must be the swapped goblet. Two cups, no more.” He holds up two fingers for emphasis. “If you drink more, not only will you be disqualified but I also cannot guarantee your safety after doing such an utterly idiotic thing.”

Balinor makes a sharp wave, and the hourglass flips upside-down. The grains begin flowing seamlessly from the top chamber to the now empty bottom. He says nothing more, not even a remark to indicate the end of his speech. He again merely looks expectantly at them.

Relative silence reigns the whole area for quite a number of seconds. Only the soft murmurings from outside the milky shield can be heard. Merlin gulps, fingers tightening around the sapphire-banded goblet.

“Wait,” the baker’s daughter, who’s in Merlin’s group, calls out in the quiet. “We only have two doses!”

Realization comes slowly for some of the applicants, their faces brightening and then going slack with incredulity.

“Indeed,” is the Court Sorcerer’s curt and unhelpful answer.

“B-But how are we going to pass this test, then?” another applicant, one with bright red locks, cries out. “If they give us the highest dose, we’ll have nothing to counteract it with!”

The Court Sorcerer cocks a patronizing brow and remarks, “It would seem so.”

Merlin’s suspicions have been proven to be very much correct; his batch is clearly at the greatest of disadvantage. Gasps and protests fill the air, most of them precipitated by the warlock’s group.

A high-pitched cackle reverberates above the din. A gigantic smirk climbs the thin lips of Clar as all eyes turn to her. “Clearly, you lot have to beg before your betters to pass this test.” She delicately gesticulates at the nobles surrounding her.

The nobleman beside her startles at her statement. After a moment of thought, he decides Clar’s words do have a certain amount of merit. He jeers, “Yes, I should think that is the purpose of this test.”

Three more people of nobility chuckle derisively, murmuring amongst themselves. Caged anger splinters the visage of the peasant born, although the diffident ones merely look down at their boots. Indignation flares in Merlin’s breasts, and he ventures a glance at the shielded sorcerers and sorceress. Impassive faces greet him, and no one is more expressionless than the Court Sorcerer. They seem utterly unconcerned by the chaos they wrought.

“Cava, Cava.” a boy from the other side, one whose fingers are still stained green, calls out. A brown-skinned girl turns in response, an anxious frown etched on her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you the mildest one.”

The girl blinks, and then beams. “Oh, Goddess, thank you! That would be brilliant, Fi.”

The smile on the boy’s face is earnest as he replies, “What, you didn’t think I’d abandon you like that, did you?”

The girl shrugs. “We are sort of enemies for now, you know.”

The interaction triggers something within the disadvantaged applicants. A handful of them begins knocking on the shield, trying to get the attention of the the other four that were transferred out of the group.

“Hey, mate, help a poor girl out?”

“I can give you guys a bit of coin after the exam!”

“Come now, are we not on the same side?”

“Are you really going to side with those snobs?”

The four stare wide-eyed at them, countenance clearly hesitant. They exchange glances, silently asking each other what they should do.

Another few decide to try their luck with some of the nobles that look friendly. They are met with more or less the same dithering responses. Clar and those of the same mind as her merely snorts and gloats boisterously.

“So this is the test of luck, is it?” Bitterness drips into every word of the baker’s daughter, her arms crossed tightly and chalice dangling on slim fingers. “Unlucky are those commoners who dream of dining like kings.” Her glare is sharply on the shielded magic-users of court.

Merlin tears his gaze from the desperately pleading applicants and turns to the baker’s daughter. “‘Dining like kings’?”

The woman startles as if she didn’t realize she could have been heard. She composes herself and holds up one lime-smeared hand. “All whose hands are like this are ones who helped themselves with the food.” She gestures at the two long tables filled with now mostly empty plates.

Merlin glances at said tables and finds them wholly on their side of the shield, as if to mock them. He looks down on his own hands, the fingers which touched the food coloring a splotchy green. The baker’s daughter is right; all those who have partaken in the feast have been grouped together and placed at the side with less doses. He recalls that none of the highborns even got close to the feast. It isn’t surprising; nobles are used to a better fare, and therefore unlikely to touch even a single morsel.

Knowing that, Merlin can see that this test is blatantly designed to favor those of noble birth. The warlock’s eyes dart to the Court Sorcerer. Is this the attitude of his not-father towards the peasant born then? He swallows down the lump of anger and disappointment building in his throat. He feels strangely let down.

“That may be so,” Theo interjects into their conversation. Both Merlin and the baker’s daughter turns to face him. Theo cups his chin, a contemplative look crossing his face. “But if there’s one thing I learned from these tests is that they’re not that simple. Besides, Lord Balinor doesn’t care about anyone’s birthright.” To the baker’s daughter, he blithely says, “I’m Theo, by the way.”

“Oh. Elise,” she responds with quick quirk of her lips. Distantly, Merlin is relieved that he can finally put a name to her. She turns to the warlock expectantly.

“Merlin,” he introduces shortly. Then, to Theo, he asks, “B — Lord Balinor doesn’t? Discriminate against class, I mean?”

Theo shakes his head. “As far as I know. Else, he could have just made it so that only nobles can join the Apprentice Exam, no?”

Comprehension alight the Elise’s face. “You’re right.” Hope begins to paint her expression and she frowns in thought. Merlin feels similarly optimistic after hearing those words.

“There must be some trick to it.” Theo taps his stubbled chin. He glances at the two buckets on their side. “Maybe if we filled half the cup with each of the dose, it’ll negate the highest dose of the other group?”

Merlin is shaking his head even before Theo finishes speaking. “If we combine half of each dose, I think they’ll just neutralize each other.” Gaius has drilled into Merlin the importance of doses in potions, and the warlock is certain mixing them as such will not produce a stronger dose.

“Yeah, you’re probably right ”

“Maybe we can brew an antidote?” Elise suggests next.

Theo lets out an amicable laugh. “As you can see by our presence here, none of us are mages.”

Elise sighs. “And I doubt we have the ingredients for that anyway.” She glances at the opaque shield. “I suppose they blocked the audience so that they couldn’t offer help.”

All three of them assume a pensive silence. Two cups, no more . . . Switch goblets with the opposing group . . . Another cup will neutralize . . . Now that Merlin is thinking about it, the way the words were woven are strangely reminiscent of Anhora’s riddles. When Arthur had killed a unicorn and had to make amends to prevent Camelot from becoming a wasteland, both of them had been trapped in a beach in Gedref as part of a test. Anhora, keeper of the unicorns, had presented them a riddle involving cups and poisons.

Can it be that the instruction itself is a riddle to be solved? Merlin concentrates fervently, mind working over the words, the potential clues they are given.

“The buckets . . .” Merlin’s head snaps up in realization, unadulterated excitement igniting in his chest. “B - Lord Balinor didn’t say we have to fill our goblets with only the buckets assigned to our side.”

Elise and Theo blink rapidly.

“You’re saying we can get from those three over there?” Theo points a thumb at the colorful buckets implicitly belonging to the other group.

“Yes, the Court Sorcerer did just say we can fill the goblets with the liquid of our choice.” Elise nods slowly but the frown on her face denotes she isn’t entirely convinced. “But aren’t you forgetting there’s currently something preventing us from doing exactly that?” She gestures at the crowd of applicants currently banging on the shield separating their groups.

Merlin grins, having already thought of a solution to that. “He also didn’t say we can’t destroy it.”

At that, both Elise and Theo offer him nonplussed looks.

“You want . . . to try and destroy a shield maintained by Lord Dalion,” Theo states haltingly, making sure he’s hearing it right.

Merlin looks over. A man with slicked blonde hair and a thick goatee has both his hands raised, directed towards the middling barrier. The warlock falters slightly; now examining him closer, Merlin senses great magic emitting from his spell.

“Why not?” The baker’s daughter shrugs carelessly after a thoughtful beat. A curious gleam flashes in her brown eyes as she glances at Merlin. “We don’t have much of a choice. It can’t hurt to try.”

“All right,” Theo concedes reluctantly. “But I reckon we need more than the three of us.” He raises the volume of his voice and yells, “Oi, what if we fill our cups with one of their buckets?” He motions widely at the right side’s pails.

All heads whip to Theo, who seems unbothered by the extreme attention.

Someone snorts. “The shield — “

“Do you really think twenty-something magic-users can’t create at least a hole in it?” Theo crosses his arms. “Do you lot really think the purpose of this magical test is to learn how to bribe or beg?”

Epiphanies struck each applicant like lightning, and each side shared wide-eyed silence. Gazes shift to the shielded sorcerers and sorceress. Merlin is a tiny bit impressed that none of their faces or gestures offers a single hint.

“I don’t know any offensive spells,” one confesses, embarrassment tinging his face pink.

Following him, a few more applicants mumble their own similar admissions.

“I know a spell for fireballs,” Elise offers. Her eyes glow gold as she effortlessly produces a flaming ball atop her palm. “I can teach you?”

Theo shakes his head, face pinched. “We don’t have time to teach each other spells.” He nods at the floating hourglass whose sand seems to be going a bit too fast for their liking. “Who here already knows offensive enchantments?” The gray-haired man lifts an arm up, indicating those who have similar capabilities to do the same.

Less than half of their group raises their hands. Merlin fails to join them, too deep in thought. Shields are usually specifically made to defend against offensive spells, and with a shield as powerful as this . . . he doubts their plan would work. He looks around, trying to think of other types of spells to break the barrier. Surprisingly, as Camelot’s secret protector for years, he never had the need to tear down something akin to this before.

Elise, with a raised hand of her own, shoots Merlin a befuddled look when the warlock fails to join in.

Theo bites the inside of his cheek. “All right. It will have to do.”

They all aim their spells at one spot in the shield. Merlin and the rest of their group anxiously watch them simultaneously recite incantations after incantations. A handful of those at the other side looks on curiously while most adorn worried facades. Clar crosses her arms, cocking a skeptical brow.

Each of their spells — palm-sized flaming balls of fire and strong whirls of gusts — fizzles out dramatically as soon as they slam into the shield. Even after about a minute of this, the barrier bears no visible damage.

Clar sniggers, loud and mocking. “You lot really think you can even put a scratch on that?”

The words break the resolve of half of the casters, and they instantly gather their arms to themselves, mortified. Some, like Theo, soldier on determinedly, valiantly ignoring the snobby nobles’ snickerings.

Then, Morgana Le Fay gracefully stalks forward, one arm lifted and palm opened wide. A ball of crackling electricity materializes from her hand, her irises shining like the morning sun. All pause their actions, entranced by the beauty and lethality of the sight. With a sharp gesture, Morgana directed the spell toward the same spot Merlin’s group has been aiming at. The electric sphere sustains itself for several seconds, and the shield wobbles and distorts funnily at the assault. A flicker of admiration crosses Lord Dalion’s face. However, the spell dissipates soon and the barrier stabilizes soon after.

Morgana adopts a pondering look before chanting another enchantment; this time, strikes of lightning erupt from her fingertips to continuously attack the shield.

“What are you doing?” one noble from their group says in a high-pitched screech.

Morgana gives him a side glance. With a small playful smile, she replies, “Why are they the only ones allowed to have fun? I’d like to try destroying the shield too.”

“You’re mad!” Clar exclaims.

Morgana seems almost amused at the insult. She continues maintaining the spell. Merlin gawks, not expecting anyone from the other side, especially Morgana, to be helping them. Mordred sidles beside the sorceress and contributed a strong and short burst of wind of his own, proving the warlock wrong once more. Another one steps beside them, expression as mischievous as Morgana’s when he blows out an air of green fire.

Confidence returns to those who had been discouraged. They begin casting their own spells, joining the others once more. With them, sixteen of the applicants now barrage the shield with a motley of enchantments.

The shield wavers vividly but Merlin can see the magic holding firm. It acts similarly to a hanged cloth billowing in the wind but too tightly pinned to the hanging wire to ever be swept away. Furthermore, Lord Dalion doesn’t seem to be having trouble sustaining the shield amidst the onslaught.

Brute force won’t do. Merlin approaches the shield, far away from the place everyone else is focusing on. He flattens a palm on the undulating barrier, extending and enhancing his senses with a pulse of magic. He studies it closer, looking for clues and weaknesses.

Oh. Unlike with the castle shield, Merlin can glimpse the crisscrossing golden threads of this one. It's not as fine-grained as the one around the castle, not as smoothly made. Merlin sees and feels a few knots lining the intersections.

Knowing it can’t hurt to try, Merlin gingerly unties one of them with a minute twitch of his finger. It unravels with ease, to the warlock’s surprise. Is it truly that easy to crack a powerful shield such as this? The warlock can’t fight down the small victorious smile climbing his face. He unties another knot. Then, another and another.

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Dalion’s eyes widen and he jerks, straightening his arms. Everyone in court turn to stare at him.

“Don’t tell me those spells are too much for you?” Jayden asks with amusement, unmindful of the volume of her voice. The shield around them ensures no sound is heard from the outside. “Lady Morgana giving you trouble?”

“One of them is —” Dalion grunts, curls his hands into fists, and pulls his arms to himself. “Scite. One of them knows how to unravel a shield!”

This time, Jayden and all the others wear bewildered faces. “And they’re doing it successfully? To one of your shields?”

“Yes,” Dalion grits out.

Balinor says nothing, already watching the one who’s slowly but surely disassembling the shield all on his own. And doing it quite effortlessly. To say he’s fascinated would be an understatement.

“How? Who is it?”

“I think it's that boy over there.”

“Brown jacket, blue tunic?”

“Only one?”

Exclamations of disbelief pepper their little bubble.

“Did a full-fledge sorcerer apply?”

“No,” Balinor speaks for the first time. With the boy performing spells, glimpses of his innate magic shines for all to see. However, seeing what the boy did to the scinncræfte crystals, Balinor doubts he’s getting the full portrait. “His magic‘s too raw, too unpolished. I doubt he has apprenticed under anyone before. If he did, then his previous mentor is clearly incompetent.”

Jayden frowns. “Are you saying an amateur is currently destroying Dalion’s shield?”

Dalion loudly clears his throat. “Could one of you just help me? He’s getting through!”

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Morgana halts her attempts, eyes reverting back to sparkling jade. She lowers her arm, gaze settling on the lone man doing magic at a different corner of the shield. Mordred shoots her a questioning glance before following her gaze. He ends his own spell with a start, mouth parting. One by one, they all turn to look at the source of the shock.

Through a golden shimmering haze, Merlin sees and feels the barrier underneath his fingertips receding bit by bit. Slowly, the holes converge and become big enough for his hand to fit. He pushes forward, untangling more threads until his whole arm has gone through. Then —

A great invisible force slams into him and propels him back. He finds himself flat on the ground, the air stolen from his lungs. The shield pulsates once, twice. The hole that was created patches over, and all watch as the barrier gets visibly thicker and stronger. The Court Sorcerer lets his arm fall back down to his side, gold fading from his eyes.

“What the hell?”

“What was that?”

“I doubt there’s any chance we can destroy the shield now,” one says mournfully.

“Merlin!” Theo and the others run to him as Merlin gathers his feet under him.

“That’s the second time today,” the warlock groans out, rubbing his back.

“How did you do that?” the dark-skinned girl — Cava? — demands, eyes wide with a mix of wonder and bafflement.

Merlin dusts off his hands. “We weren’t making progress using brute force so I thought there was another way. There were, uh, knots? In the shield? I just started untangling them.” The warlock sighs, glancing the now reinforced shield. He fears the knots in this one are far fewer and far more resilient. He ventures a glance at the Court Sorcerer, and Balinor cooly stares back in response.

“Knots?” Theo’s voice grows a pitch higher. “You saw the knots in Lord Dalion’s shield?”

“Well, I used an enhancing spell.” Merlin points to his eyes for clarification.

That seems to leave them more confounded, murmuring disbelieving remarks. Merlin is similarly mystified at their surprise; don’t they have sense-enhancing enchantments in this realm?

Theo stares at him like seeing him clearly for the first time. “Who are you?”

Unfortunately, after that debacle of the shield almost tearing, Clar decides she has been idling long enough. She marches towards the buckets and replenish her goblet with red-colored liquid.

“Look,” she addresses the people in her own group, raising her cup and grabbing everyone’s attention. “If we fill our goblets right now, they can’t sabotage it, and, on the very slim chance they do manage to destroy the shield, there won’t be any of this dose left!”

It takes a while for Clar’s words to sink in but when it did, several applicants scurry to the third pail, brandishing their crimson-banded goblets. Even three of the five originally on Merlin’s group fill their respective chalices. Soon, the bucket with the highest dose contains barely enough for eight cups.

“Great.” The baker’s daughter throws her hands up after watching the whole thing. “Not only did we waste a lot of time with that attempt —” She sharply gesticulates at the floating hourglass. More than half of its contents have emptied out at the bottom. “ — we are now out of options.”

“We should’ve just pleaded with them,” one grumbles.

Theo scratches his head irritably. “And I told you this test wouldn’t make sense if that was the proper solution.” He appraises the barrier. “Though, given how the Court Sorcerer himself strengthened the shield, I don’t think destroying it is the right way either. They can’t be expecting us to do advanced magic.” He levels Merlin with a calculating look.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts out with a guilty wince, seeing as he’s the one who suggested breaking the shield.

Theo shrugs. “It was a pretty good idea at the time.” He runs a hand through his hair. “All right, there must be something here on our side that will help us. Let’s look for it.”

Short on time, no one in their group thought to question Theo’s authority or order. They scramble away to comply, scrutinizing every crevice and part of the soil. Even as they busy themselves, Merlin can still feel wary eyes at his back. Fortunately, being short on also means no one has the time to further interrogate Merlin and probe deeper.

Right, no more sense-enhancing enchantments or intervening with any lord’s spells. Merlin rubs his neck, feeling a tad annoyed. The attention pricks him uncomfortably; one wrong move and someone watching may just figure out he doesn’t belong. Why is it so hard to remain inconspicuous in this world? Merlin does it so easily in his, defeating plenty of magical creatures and magic-users without garnering suspicion or any kind of attention. Well, he did have Arthur take the credit for half of them so perhaps that’s why he’s having a difficult time now.

Suddenly, Merlin recalls that Prince Arthur has actually watched the whole ordeal. His head snaps up but the opaque shield hinders his view of the prince. Right. Regardless of his earlier feelings on the matter, Merlin feels an overflowing desire to see Prince Arthur’s reaction right now. Is the prince a tiny bit impressed by the magic he performed? Maybe even a little bit amazed? Merlin would oftentimes imagine Arthur’s reception to the warlock when he finally reveal his magic — after the king impossibly gets over the evilness of sorcery, the betrayal of his closest friend, and all the lies, that is.

“What are you doing, dazing about?” Slender fingers locks Merlin’s wrist in an iron grip, disrupting his rather depressing line of thought. Merlin splutters as the baker’s daughter drags him none-too-gently. “Just because you nearly destroyed that shield doesn’t mean you get to slack off. Help me search here.” She brings him to the two long tables of food remains, the area that decided their fate.

Right, this is no time to be distracted. He determinedly lifts up dirty dishes and looking below them, studying every spec of dust. He needs to pass this test or he won’t be getting into the castle. Elise bends down to check under the tables while three more people begin rummaging with them.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m going to get eliminated less than an hour into the exam,” a boy with a sharp chin whines as he waddles through the leftovers.

“I wished I could have eaten more of this,” another replies, poking at a piece of juicy pork. After a moment of thought, he pops it into his mouth.

Merlin moves on to the kegs of ale. He opens up a barrel and find that it is still half full of dark violet liquid. Can something be hiding underneath? He draws a deep breath, roll up the sleeves in one arm, and plunges his hand into the still cold brew.

“Do you think they’ll eliminate him even if he fails this test?”

“Lord Balinor hadn’t made any exceptions before.”

“No applicant has ever done something like that to Lord Dalion’s shield before.”

Merlin pulls his arm back and flicks away the droplets of ale. He sighs in disappointment, finding nothing. He opens another barrel, and a great amount of water greets him. The water is clear enough to see the bottom. Merlin sighs again. He can see clearly that there is also absolutely nothing in it but pure plain tasteless —

The solution, when it comes, hits Merlin like an earthquake. He glances at the two colorless liquids on their side, then, at the three barrels of water before him. He goes over the wording of Balinor’s instructions again.

“If you drink a cupful, you can neutralize its effects . . . Liquid of your choice . . . You can drink two cups . . .” Merlin mumbles, becoming more certain by the second.

He lifts his head up, eyes darting to the hourglass. They have barely a few minutes left. He needs to move fast.

First, he has to block the other side’s view of them. He ponders on it for a short while, searching for potential spells he can use. He picks the first viable spell that pops into his mind.

“Ic her aciege ænne windræs! Færblæd wawe!”

Immediately, a large whirlwind spirals into existence beside the shield, its top almost touching the dome ceiling of the milky shield. It traces a back-and-forth path in the lining of the barrier, kicking off chunks of soil from the ground. Applicants hurriedly back away from the sharp winds, covering their eyes and mouth.

Merlin guiltily performs another air spell, ensuring the dusts head toward the shield and not anywhere else. After a few seconds, the constant whirlwind swirls enough dirt in the air to hide them from the other side’s sight.

The applicants goggle at the display. Theo turns wide blue eyes to Merlin. “All right, are you even an applicant? Are you part of the test?”

“What? No.” Merlin hastily beckons the others to gather. “Hurry! I know what we have to do.”

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“Who on earth is that boy!?”

“He said his name is Merlin,” Balinor replies, not taking his eyes off the gathered applicants.

He hears papers rustling as his companions search for the name among the documents.

Jayden hums approvingly. “White Level. No previous mentor.”

“Knows only about fifty spells? And one of them is a powerful air enchantment?” Mavin looks extremely confused and baffled.

“What kind of beginner’s grimoire teaches that?”

Balinor ignores their mutterings, lost in his own thoughts. The boy, Merlin, is clearly someone worthy of a White Level status, and more. How is it that he has heard nothing of this Merlin before now? Surely someone with his capability would have a reputation equal to Lady Morgana’s?

The Court Sorcerer watches as the circle of applicants loosens after an emphatic discussion. They all dash to and fro with their respective goblets to execute a plan, giving the strong whirlwind a wide berth.

Despite all of the unanswered questions, a smirk quirks his lips.

It seems they’ve figured it out.

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“Well,” is all Mordred can say as he stares at the intimidating whirlwind dashing back and forth with great speed. Frankly, the druid is a little bit thankful for the shield now. With the tornado filling the air with dust and making quite a gut-wrenching whooshing sound, they are oblivious as to what’s happening on the other side.

His very first impression of Merlin as an ordinary uncoordinated magicless man is truly far off the mark.

“Impressive.” For some reason Mordred cannot fathom, delight colors both Lady Morgana’s tone and expression in the face of the ruckus Merlin all too easily summoned.

All the other applicants on their side look slightly frightened or, at the very least, disconcerted.

“Cava! Cava!” one of the people with green-stained fingers, calls out, banging desperately at the shield.

“They’re fine,” Mordred attempts to reassure, setting a hand on the other’s shoulder.

The boy roughly shakes him away, anger contorting his features. “How would you know? They have someone dangerous with them there right now!”

Which is true but Mordred doesn’t think there’s any malice to Merlin’s actions right now. Before the druid can offer more assurances, someone beat him to it.

“I doubt he has anything to gain by hurting them,” Lady Morgana’s calm and practical tone pierces through their conversation. “This — ” Here, she gestures at the whirlwind. “ — is for their own benefit. Clearly, they’re planning something they don’t want us to know.”

The boy called Fi bites his lower lip in worry, fists still on the shield. He ceases his panic-stricken shouts but does not look comforted in any way. Lady Morgana’s argument is reasonable but Mordred knows the heart rarely listens to reason.

Clar snorts in disbelief, indicating she has been eavesdropping. Morgana lifts an elegant brow. “Lady Clarisse, how are you still underestimating them despite all this?”

A flicker of doubt enters Clar’s green eyes before she puffs out her chest. “They’re just peasants.”

A realization lights up Morgana’s face. “Oh. That they are.” Her gleaming eyes slide to the Court Sorcerer. “How clever.” She fights down a chuckle. “A test of luck indeed.” She cares not to elaborate, making Mordred incredibly curious.

Mordred observes her as she walks to one of the pails, and bends down to finally fill her chalice. She notices the druid’s attention, and offers an amused smile. “We better get our goblets filled. Time is about to run out.”

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“Go, Merlin! Go, Mordred! Go, go, go!” Selly’s cheers without restraint, his chants being drowned out by hundreds of other voices. Kelly chirps continuously, jumping up and down on Selly’s lap.

Tom, having arrived with Kelly just as the exam was beginning, attempts to calm them both down. “You’ll lose your voice, Selly. Lower it a little bit.”

Levi pays them little mind, more focused on the happenings inside the shielded dome. This year’s a little bit more exciting. His leafy eyes glide to the dark-haired young man directing the others to act while also having enough focus to maintain the dynamic tornado. Levi leans back on his seat, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. Who would have thought someone so unassuming and almost unremarkable could do something of this caliber? Levi certainly didn’t.

“How clever.”

Levi’s eyes snap open and turn to the brunette sitting upright beside him. Has he always been there? Levi recalls a rather fetching voluptuous woman in that spot, one he has been planning to recite his amazing recruiting spiel to. Tch, the boy must have squeezed in while Levi was distracted.

The brunette turns to him, mouth stretching into a wide excited grin. “Merlin’s so clever and so amazing, isn’t he?”

Levi tilts his head. “You know him?” From what Levi has gathered, Merlin is new in Camelot and has brought along no companions.

The brunette pushes his glasses up, which made his emerald eyes childishly bigger. “We met before the exam started! Wait, you know him too? How’d you meet him?” He says all in one breath, leaning forward.

“We met at the tavern just this morning,” Levi answers, seeing no harm in being honest. Ah, just hearing the word makes him yearn for a good long drink.

“The tavern? So early in the morning?” The brunette blinks slowly. “That’s a very weird place to meet.”

Levi cocks a brow. “I’m glad you think so.” He gives the brunette a deliberate once-over. Hmm, much too young to recruit. Also, the brunette looks like the type to get into trouble and not even know it. Levi is not about to invite someone like that into his respectable establishment.

“Can I ask you a favor?” The brunette blurts out, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and directing his pupils down. “I don’t see very well even with my glasses. And I’m really confused with all them running around. Is there any chance you can describe what’s happening? If it’s not too much trouble!”

Levi shrugs. “Sure.” Doing so might also help him organize his thoughts about this whole matter. “Right now, the people on the left side of the grounds are . . .”

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Just before the last grain of sand in the hourglass trickles down, Merlin disperses his spells with a sharp wave of one arm.

Half a second later, the Court Sorcerer and Lord Dalion crumble the middling shield. The dust settles in less than a minute, and both sides finally have a clear view of each other.

“Applicants, raise your goblets,” Balinor commands.

All of them comply, lifting their cups above their heads. The court’s magic-users checks and finds each goblet already filled. One of the nobles in the right group peers into the other side’s buckets. The first pail, once possessing a great amount of the weakest dose, now barely contains a single drop. The second bucket remains unchanged. Clar and others of the same ilk notices the same thing; smugness emanates from them in waves. Most of the applicants in the left group, meanwhile, shift nervously. A chosen few put on a steadfast front.

Balinor nods approvingly, seeing no cup empty. “Very good.” He gestures at the right group, reminding them of their freedom to choose who to swap drinks with.

Fi hurries to Cava, inquiring about her health. The brown-skinned girl answers his questions dutifully while rolling her eyes. Fi switches their goblets, giving Cava a sapphire-colored drink and receiving a colorless one. The girl gives him a fond smile in return. She casually leans in to Fi and mumble something only he can hear.

Mordred and Morgana find themselves heading in the same direction — or rather, the same person. They halt just in time to avoid bumping into each other. They gaze pointedly at one another, lifting their chins and almost glaring.

“Um.” Merlin looks between them, half-afraid they’ll suddenly hex each other in front of him.

Morgana glances at the contents of Mordred’s cup, and the druid does the same to hers. Both hold blue liquid. After a beat, Morgana smoothly steps away. She offers her own goblet to the Elise, who’s standing just to Merlin’s left. Mordred holds out his own to the warlock.

Both Merlin and Elise tug their respective givers closer.

“Don’t drink anything else,” Merlin says lowly, accepting Mordred’s goblet and replacing it with his own.

The druid blinks rapidly in confusion, wrapping his fingers around the blue-banded chalice.

“B - Lord Balinor didn’t say you must drink two cups, only that you can. Don’t drink anything else,” the warlock repeats. He tries to make his expression as sincere as possible. “Trust me, just this once. And — ” Merlin carefully shakes the goblet in his grip, and favors the druid with a grateful grin. “ — thank you. ” The warlock pulls away just quick enough not to be suspicious.

“After swapping your goblets, you must go back to your assigned places,” the Court Sorcerer spurs them when he observes them taking too long.

The druid shoots Merlin an inquiring look but decides not to voice out his questions. After a few minutes, the applicants are divided into two once more. The right group holds blue-banded goblets while left grips red-banded ones.

Balinor twists his wrist, eyes on the hourglass. A third of the sand streams up to the top chamber and stays in place.

“Drink. Your hair must remain the same color until the time ends.” Balinor releases the spell on the hourglass and the sand dribbles down seamlessly once more.

Theo smiles humorlessly, allowing a hint of nervousness to slip into his features. “Well, here’s to hoping this works.” In a move similar to a toast, he tips his goblet at those in the same predicament as him. Then, without hesitation, he gulps down its contents.

Merlin swallows audibly. Here goes nothing, he thinks as he does the same.

The rest follows, ingesting every drop of their swapped goblet. The court checks again if every applicant has emptied their cups.

After finishing the drink, Clar hurries to their second pail and gulps down a cup of the yellow potion. She knows the other group could have only given them the mildest dose, and the second highest dose should neutralize its effects. Most nobles emulate her actions, drinking a cupful of the same dose. In fact, out of the twenty-six, only eight remain rooted on the spot — Mordred, Morgana, Fi, one other peasant, one nobleman and three noblewomen.

As Clar looks up, however, she notes that not a single applicant from the opposing group has made a move to drink another cup. She frowns, straightening from her crouch and dropping the chalice to the ground now that she no longer has use for it.

“What are they up to?” the noblewoman next to Clar mutter with a small sneer.

“Wait, shouldn’t their hair be changing color by now?”

Clar blinks rapidly. That’s right; the highest dose only takes a few seconds to work.

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” Elise sighs out, twirling her still brown hair with one finger.

“Still like an old man’s?” Theo asks of Merlin somberly, pointing at his own hair.

A laugh escapes the warlock’s lips, his chest loosening with relief. “Yes, still like an old man’s.”

“And yours is still black.” Theo’s grin is large, bright and no little bit satisfied as his head swivel to the opposing group. “Now, we wait.”

And wait they do. Fortunately, they don’t have to wait long. The results of their plan manifest less than a minute later.

Clar, with her silky blonde locks, shows the first signs. The roots of her hair begins exhibiting a darker hue. The color quickly spreads, seeping insidiously until every strand turns a bright and violent purple. She yelps, tugging at her hair in disbelief.

The same process happens to eighteen of the applicants, all of them belonging to the right group. Cries of incredulity fill the air as their hair change into different shades of violet. Morgana’s grin is wide and almost unlady-like as she watches everyone around her panic. Mordred’s smile is a little bit more restrained. Their hair and the hair of six others in their group are the only ones that remain unchanged.

“Yes!” A woman behind Merlin punches the air.

Theo claps Merlin on the back. “Brilliant!” Merlin cannot stamp down the big grin climbing his face. He can’t quite believe it worked.

“How!?” They all clamor for an explanation.

A noblewoman huffs, patting down her still ginger hair. “Isn't it obvious? If you had just taken the time to think, you wouldn’t have been fooled.”

“Who switched goblets with her?” Elise asks around with a frown.

“I did. She gave me the highest dose and I didn’t tell her anything. I think she just figured it out on her own,” a young man whispers harshly.

“They gave us water,” the noblewoman drawls out. All give a surprise start at her words. “The exact instructions were: we can fill our goblets with any liquid of our choice. Making us drink water ensures that if we drink any dose of the potion, our hair will change color since there’s nothing to neutralize.”

“B - But where did the contents of that first bucket go?” The nobles search for any wet spot on the left side of the grounds to indicate where the other group spilled it.

This time, Morgana decides to elaborate, eyes glinting with amusement. “They drank it themselves, of course.”

Understanding dawns on Mordred’s features. “Whatever dose we give them will cancel out the effects of the potion they drank earlier.”

Now, Merlin feels less proud of himself. Is it truly that easy to guess the solution? It took them almost half-an-hour to solve it!

The court watches as the last grain of sand once again fall to the bottom of the hourglass. Clar and many others fume silently, their faces nearly matching the color of their hair. Some adorn despondent expressions, ruffling their purple-hued locks.

“I thought this was the test of luck,” one grumbles before pelting out a deep sigh.

“It is indeed the test of your luck,” the Court Sorcerer interjects, causing all heads to snap to him. “And what you do with it.” His hazel eyes darts to Clar. “Will you become complacent when you know you have the advantage? Are you willing to lend a hand to those without?” His gaze glides to Merlin. “Will you give up when it seems like the odds are against you? Are you adept enough to find a way?” He places his hands behind him, one eyebrow raised. “We at court don’t care about your birthright. We believe it should not define you,” he says, gaze sliding from one applicant to another. “Apprentices worthy of us cannot be complacent nor overconfident. Apprentices worthy of us must be stubborn and resourceful. The purpose of this test is to see which one of you fit these criteria.”

Theo gapes. “And here I thought they were just measuring our wit.”

Admiration blossoms deep in Merlin’s breasts as he stares at his not-father. Pride lights up his entire being, a hint of tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He remembers how he felt when his father agreed to help Camelot with its dragon problem, and the exact same feeling inhabits him at that moment. He wonders whether his own father had similar ideals as this counterpart.

The shield around the court’s magic-users dissipates as the Court Sorcerer claps his hands once. “I suppose that concludes our first test.”

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Chapter Text

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“Everything he does is suspicious!” Bedivere declares to Galahad, having to lean closer to the other casually dressed knight to be heard over the cheers of the crowd.

“Really?” Galahad blinks. “He’s doing magic. How is that suspicious?“

“Didn’t you see that whirlwind?” Bedivere exclaims. “And the way he almost destroyed Lord Dalion’s shield? Do you think normal magic-users can do that?”

Galahad frowns, still confused. “They can’t?”

Bedivere lets out a frustrated noise. He forgets sometimes that Galahad grew up in a little village with at most two novice magic-users. Bedivere, born and bred in Camelot, tries his best to explain the intricacies of the spells that were just performed. Galahad listens avidly, the furrow of his brows softening slightly with each word.

Ris, dressed as simply as the other two, tunes them out. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

All throughout the first test and even before that, the three of them have been keeping a keen eye on that Merlin as instructed. They have watched him interact with other applicants, react with shock at the prince’s entrance, and become enraptured by the queen’s speech. Up until that point, Ris can see nothing but an ordinary and sheltered commoner. What happened with the crystals, however, couldn’t have been a fluke so Ris merely waited and observed.

Sure enough, the boy began whipping out elaborate spells during the first test, showing his astounding aptitude for magic. The audience themselves have been silenced for a half-a-second before letting out a roar of delight that shakes the entire grounds. It is no doubt that the Apprentice Exam is the most entertaining event of the year for nobles and commoners alike.

Even after all that, Ris cannot understand Lord Balinor and Lord Tristan’s apprehensions. Isn’t it good that such a talented magic-user is hoping to be one of Camelot’s apprentices? The boy has revealed nothing malicious through his actions, and Ris doubts the boy possesses great acting skills. Ris is beginning to think the lords’ suspicions are without basis.

The senior knight’s gaze flicks to the figure of the Court Sorcerer. To those who don’t know him well, it would seem like he’s observing the applicants with a nonchalant eye. But Ris knows Lord Balinor long enough to recognize the flickers of fascination crossing his face as that Merlin perform magic.

A blossom of warmth, along with an aching pang, swiftly goes through Ris.

The incident more than three years ago has left its mark on the castle and its residents but none are more affected than Lord Balinor and Prince Arthur. The two haven’t been the same since, and it pains everyone to see them so.

Lord Balinor’s attitude regarding the boy now, however, gives Ris a tiny glimpse of hope. It pleases the senior knight to see the glimmer of interest in the Court Sorcerer’s eyes once again.

Ris’ gaze goes back to the boy. Should he be chosen as an apprentice, Ris can’t help but think he will bring about some intriguing changes around the castle.

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Morosely, eighteen purple-haired applicants begin heading towards the still shielded exit. A handful of them puts on a dignified bravado, head lifted as they march through the grounds.

Balinor tilts his head as he says the words that shock them all. “Are you all withdrawing your applications then?”

Silence reign for the longest moment as all attempt to process the implications of the Court Sorcerer’s statement. Passed and failed applicants alike turn wide surprised eyes at the gathered sorcerers and sorceress.

“Aren’t . . . Aren’t we disqualified?” a noblewoman has the courage to ask.

The sorceress beside Balinor shrugs. “If you want to be, we won’t be stopping you.”

Balinor hums, faux contemplative. “I don’t recall mentioning disqualification if you didn’t meet the goal of the first test.”

Many think back to the Court Sorcerer’s instruction and find his remark to be true. Merlin doesn’t believe for one second that his not-father is clueless to the erroneous assumption they all made. The amused glint in Balinor’s eyes blatantly gives him away. The warlock supposes he would be pretty amused himself if he isn’t one of the applicants threatened with elimination just an hour into the exam.

Many of those who passed the test release indignant sounds, their efforts rendered null in the face of the revelation. Even Mordred and Morgana looks mildly surprised. Theo merely shakes his head, rolling his eyes but smiling slightly. Clearly, he expects such trickery from the Court Sorcerer. Merlin wishes he can say the same.

“But you are welcome to leave if you so desire,” Balinor adds. He glances at Lord Dalion. The said lord draws a circle in the air with his index finger, not bothering to hide how entertained he is by the whole debacle. They all watch in bemusement as a door-shaped hole appears on the opaque dome shield. It’s located right where the ground’s exit is. From it, Merlin glimpses upon the gray bricks of the castle and the hint of morning light. Cacophonous sounds also begin filtering in, the audience shouting simultaneously in obvious enjoyment.

The eighteen failed applicants exchange meaningful looks. Then, almost as one, they hurriedly back away from the exit. Not a single one of them hesitate to walk back to their previous places. Clar, with her long violet locks, yet again adorns a smug look. Members of each opposing group glare at one another, countenances far from friendly.

Lord Dalion quirks an amused brow and proceeds to patch up the hole. Again, the noise outside the shield becomes subdued, and they settle in relative silence.

Merlin sighs, a tad dismayed. He has thought, with the number of applicants decreasing, that there would less competition. After a moment, he shakes himself out of his self-pity. He just have to work hard to stand out among the rest and get chosen. Seeing as he passed the first test, surely he has a slight advantage over those who didn’t?

Merlin’s not too sure anymore. This test is far from what he expected it to be. He wishes belatedly that it had been a real tournament instead, one where they just have to fight each other and win. Merlin now slightly understands Arthur’s predilection for fighting tournaments and lancing matches; the simplicity of them must be a balm to the complications of the court.

The Court Sorcerer’s waves his hand, the gesture grabbing everyone’s attention. Suddenly, the hourglass above them disappears only to be replaced by a much larger one. Merlin reckons the new hourglass is as tall as him.

“Now that everyone is on the same page,” Balinor drawls out, oblivious or uncaring to the obvious tension between applicants. “Let’s proceed to the next test.”

Several of the applicants adopt diffident countenance, uncertainty coloring their expressions. The events of the first test have humbled most of them.

“Wait,” Clar unhesitatingly calls attention to herself, showing that not all failed applicants have the same subdued reaction. She points at the unusual color of her hair. “You must give us the antidote for this.”

“Must I?” To say that Balinor looks unimpressed would be the understatement of the hour.

Behind him, several others of court wear the same expression. Clar shrinks a bit at their combined stares. Merlin and a few others cover their mouths to hide a smile.

“It’ll wear off in a few hours,” Balinor answers after making Clar squirm for a good while. “As will the green stains. Surely you can wait until then.”

Clar nods, short and curt, red tinting her cheeks.

“Are there any more questions?” Balinor’s face does not exactly look encouraging. It's no surprise no one speaks up. “No? Very well then. For the test of magic, you are tasked —” The applicants brace themselves against another arduous or perhaps tricky endeavor. “ — to make soup.”

Once again, befuddlement and incredulity crest through them like a wave in the sea. Merlin’s mouth parts; how exactly can that assess their magic? He himself can cook up a simple broth without using magic! Murmurs surge up in volume, each applicant asking similar questions.

“Goddess, not another weird task,” Merlin hears Theo mutter with an exasperated groan.

Fortunately, they don’t have to wait long for an explanation.

The Court Sorcerer continues, “In this, you may work together, seeing as you will pass or fail as one.”

“As one?” The man beside Merlin shoots a particularly petulant glare at the nobles. “Does that mean we have to work with them?” He’s not the only one wearing a disgusted look.

“Not that we would be pleased to work with you too,” a violet-haired young woman scoffs, crossing her arms.

“Unlike the first test, failure in this one will be rewarded with elimination.” The Court Sorcerer gives each talking applicant a quelling look, silencing them immediately. “We never had an exam where all had been disqualified. I urge you not to be the first batch to be so.”

Merlin swallows thickly. It seems the second test is much more serious than the first, even though it sounds just as ridiculous.

Balimor resumes laying out the instructions. ”The soup must be plenty enough to feed —” He plasters on a pondering look. “— about three hundred people.”

“T-Three hundred!” Elise appears a little faint. Merlin feels the same.

“The soup must, of course, be edible and suitable enough to serve to royalty.”

“Royalty?” Merlin’s eyes widen. A soup of such quality must be sprinkled with a plethora of meat. To have enough meat to feed a hundred will take at least seven healthy deers. To have enough to feed three hundred . . .

Balinor continues blasely, as if he hasn’t just asked the impossible out of them, “You may use anything that’s here on and in the grounds. I need not remind you that stepping a foot outside will mean forfeiting your applications for this year’s exam. You may not do any kind of harm to any sentient being during this test.” The Court Sorcerer places special emphasis on the last remark. “And lastly, as this is a test of magic, I do hope you take this opportunity to flaunt your skills.” He sends them a challenging look. “We’re looking for worthy apprentices after all.”

With a careless wave of his hand, the giant hourglass flips over, starting the timer. “You have three hours to prepare.”

Again, neither Balinor’s tone, words, or actions indicate that he is done speaking. After several seconds of him looking quite expectantly back at them, they are forced to conclude that he has nothing more to add.

Cava exchanges unsure looks with Fi. Fi clears his throat. Hesitantly, for he’s afraid of the answer, he asks, “When - When will the ingredients arrive then? And the pots and pans?”

Balinor cocks a condescending brow. “You may use anything that’s here on and in the grounds,” he repeats slowly.

Fi makes a strangled sound. The applicants look around. Their findings yield five buckets, a plethora of goblets, two barrels of water, two long tables, dirty plates with barely any leftovers, and fifty-two stunned applicants.

The sand on the hourglass mercilessly trickles down. Panic starts to take many of them in its tight and suffocating grip.

“Where are the meat?”

“What about the seasonings?

“Where will we cook? We don’t even have pots or ladles!”

Desperate pleas fill the area, each applicants clamoring to be heard and answered. Balinor and the court’s magic-users, however, offer nothing but silence and blank faces. Merlin, used to being put under stressful life-and-death situations, manages to calm himself down after a few seconds. Another trick, he deduces as he thinks carefully. Just like the first test, they just need to figure out what on earth his not-father wants them to do.

Merlin looks around again; this time, he does so slowly, considering everything they have on the grounds. The warlock sees that he’s not the only the one doing so. Half of the applicants have ceased panicking, and have begun running a critical eye over every object in sight. The other half, however, continues despairing over the task.

The warlock’s gaze locks on the goblets abandoned on the ground. He blinks, hit by an idea. Well, that’s one problem solved, about ten more to go. Although, he knows little of metalwork to create a —

“Everyone, shut up!” Theo shouts, voice booming unnaturally and gold swirling in his blue eyes.

The air becomes bereft of any sound after the gray-haired man’s outburst. Merlin startles, unconsciously taking a step back from Theo. He has to tamp down the burst of magic that desires, unbiddenly, to come to his defense.

“Now that I have your attention,” Theo drawls out with a tight and humorless smile. “I’d rather start on the task right away, if you don’t mind.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Clar asks, tone as dry as the desert.

Theo raises a brow. “There’s something you and I both have that I think would help greatly: magic.”

Clar turns up her nose, severely offended at whatever insult she found in the man’s statement. “Go on then! Conjure us some soup.” Her upper lip curls in mockery.

Theo rolls his eyes. “Are you really incapable of listening? The task is to make the soup.”

Clar must really be getting under Theo’s skin, Merlin thinks. Theo has mostly acted even-tempered during the nerve-wracking first test. Now, however, annoyance emanates from him in great waves.

“You —” Clar steps towards Theo with a growl, arms rising and the start of a spell at the tip of her tongue. Theo looks prepared to defend or retaliate, flecks of gold lining his irises.

People around them back away, clearly not wanting to be involved. Some applicants, Merlin himself included, attempt to reach for them to stop the inevitable fight.

“Enough, both of you.” Morgana, using a great invisible force, pushes the two away from each other. Clar’s and Theo’s boots loudly scrape against the soil at Morgana’s wordless spell, and both struggle to retain their balance. “Remember, no harming anyone during this test.”

Morgana used to have that tone when scolding Arthur on his condescending behavior, Merlin recalls. A twinge of nostalgia mixed with remorse flares in him.

Theo, like Arthur sometimes is after such a scolding, appears appropriately chastised at the reminder. Clar merely lifts her chin unapologetically. After that, several moments of silence ensues, no one quite knowing their next course of action.

Unable to stand the somewhat awkward silence and hoping he can move things along, Merlin blurts out, “We can make a large pot out of the goblets.” All eyes slide to him. The attention pricks him uncomfortably and he resists the urge to fidget. “They’re metal. I - I think if we flatten them and solder all of them together, we can make a pot big enough to cook the soup needed. I mean, there’s fifty-two of them.”

A purple-haired nobleman glances at him with naked surprise. “You can count that high?”

Merlin feels a tad offended, and shows it with a frown. “Of course I can.” As the warlock sees more than one commoner look away in shame, he belatedly remembers that not a lot peasant-born can do so.

“That’s a brilliant idea. Merlin, was it?” Morgana praises with a wide and open smile.

The warlock nods and offers a small smile of his own before looking away. He has never thought that he will again be a recipient of such an earnest smile from Morgana.

He fails to see Morgana’s smile dimming ever so slightly. She looks at the other applicants. “Does anyone here know how to make a metal pot?”

“I know my way around metals,” Cava pipes up cheerfully, glad to finally be useful. “I'll need help flattening all the goblets, of course.”

Assuming she’s referring to him as he’s the one to suggest it, Merlin mutters, “Forswíðian clympre” and makes a forceful downward motion with one palm. Every goblet in sight crumples into flat lumps on the soil. Everyone flinches as sounds of crunching metal loudly reverberate throughout the grounds.

“A - A little warning next time would be appreciated,” Elise stutters out, staring warily at the distorted chalices. The cups have become so flat that the red and blue bands have merged seamlessly with their bronze colors.

“Oh. Sorry.” Merlin is a little surprised himself. He has just done magic in front of a lot of people without thinking, without hesitating . . . He has only been in this Camelot for a few days and he has already adopted their way of thinking! Dread trickles into him; he can’t go back to his Camelot with such a demeanor. He resolves to be more conscious of his use of magic from now on.

“Let some of us show-off once in a while, Merlin.” Mordred claps a hand on his back, an amused grin dancing on his lips. The druid takes this opportunity to do exactly that; his blue eyes give way to gold as he wordlessly performs a spell without moving his arms. The flattened metals take to hovering in the air, each piece simultaneously roving. They gather and drop themselves in a large pile in front of Cava, becoming motionless in less three breaths.

The applicants stare gobsmacked at Mordred. A familiar sliver of fear claws at Merlin for a moment before he manages to crush it with reason.

“To manage so many objects at the same time . . .” one murmurs dazedly.

Cava clears her throat. “All right then.” Her brown eyes glow as sky blue flames lick her right palm. “Anyone here good with fire?” About ten applicants, a motley of nobles and peasants, approach to assist her. Fi and Elise join them.

Clar huffs and then struts away from all of them. Very few pays her mind.

Seeing as he can only produce a small flame or one large enough to consume a tiny house and nothing in between, Merlin opts not to intervene. Curiosity grips him, however, and he watches them work. Cava demonstrates the process; she picks up two metals and lays them on the ground, making sure one overlaps the other by an inch or two. Then, she heats the overlapping portions with fires from her hand. After a few seconds under the heat, the metals melt and coalesce. She turns the welded metal over and does the same process on its back, ensuring that the two pieces flawlessly become one. She irons out the uneven lumps with another spell, smoothing out the dents and embossments with dark fingers.

“Though I think I'll do that last step myself,” Cava informs them with a chuckle. “No offense meant but the spell’s difficult to teach and to learn.” None protests too loudly to this after witnessing the enchantment for themselves. They proceed with the task, picking up the metals and emulating Cava’s exact instructions.

Amazement fills Merlin; he's never done such a precise and delicate spell. The warlock is a bit envious of Cava’s finesse and control over her own magic.

A split second later, the warlock finds himself being dragged away from the spectacle by the arm. Theo forces him to join the loose huddle of the rest of the applicants as they begin discussing their next steps.

“Now, the next problem is kindling,” Mordred says thoughtfully.

“Shouldn’t we be more worried about the ingredients?” a young peasant woman suggests. “We have nothing to cook!”

The boy with the bowl cut suddenly lit up. “Oh! We can use the tables for kindling.” He points at the two long tables used to hold their earlier feast. Many nod at the suggestion, casting cursory glances at the aforementioned tables. They find a lone figure kneeling beside the tables draw their stares instead.

“What on earth is that girl doing?” Theo asks, words dripping with irritation.

Merlin himself would like to know. Clar has settled on the ground, sitting on her knees and dirtying her dark green dress. Her fingers in one hand are buried an inch into the soil while her other hand holds a wobbling ball of water in the air. The warlock watches as she ceremoniously drops the glob of water onto the soil underneath her palm. The movement of her lips and the glow of her eyes indicate that she is in the throes of a particularly intense spell. After a few seconds of observing her, Merlin’s eyes widen. He recognizes what she’s doing.

Someone in their circle scoffs. “Ignore her. Clearly, she doesn’t want to lower herself and work with us. Wait, where are you going?”

The question is directed to Merlin, who has broken away from their congregation. The warlock marches towards Clar, unable to fight down the excitement coursing through his veins.

A noblewoman, the same noblewoman who seems to have figured out the trick of the first test, hums thoughtfully. “On the contrary, I think Lady Clarisse is doing something very crucial.” With that, she follows Merlin, similarly planning to approach the kneeling girl.

“This should be interesting,” Morgana says, a mischievous smirk curling her lips as she joins them.

Mordred, curious himself, decides taking a closer look wouldn’t hurt. Theo sighs in resignation, going along with them. Not knowing what else to do, the other applicants shrug and follow them.

Merlin bends down beside Clar, making sure not to crowd her. Clar shoots him and the others an irked glare nonetheless, even as her mouth keeps moving to mutter the enchantment. The warlock observes the ground underneath her with anticipation, looking for a hint of green. Behind him, the others wait, expressions varying from doubtful to inquisitive.

After a few minutes, confusion swirls through Merlin. He knows that the spell shouldn’t be taking so long. At the very least, the results should have been visible by now. Did something go wrong? Merlin lays his left palm flat on the ground, feeling the soft moist earth under his fingertips. He closes his eyes, concentrating and waddling through the threads of magic rooted in the soil.

Merlin senses Clar’s enchantment sluggishly weaving a path underneath. Small rounded black seeds nestle comfortably underneath the soil, drinking up the water Clar has offered to them. Green buds struggle to break free from their little black shells, the unravelling painfully slow. Clar keeps murmuring, repeating the spell and patiently coaxing their growth.

A wan smile quirks Merlin’s lips. The first and last time he had tried this specific enchantment was a week after he burned the body of the girl he loved. He had stolen away strawberry seeds from the palace kitchens. He had planted them in a secluded spot in the forest far away from the citadel, and performed the spell he had studied day and night. The seeds had grown into the most gorgeous strawberry bushes, and bore the most delicious strawberries the warlock had ever tasted. As the saccharine tang coated his tongue, Merlin had remembered Freya’s sweet and beautiful smile when he accidentally produced a single rose instead of the strawberries she wished for.

“That’s not a strawberry,” she had said, accepting the rose with the smallest of laughs. He burned the bushes that very same night and couldn’t bear to recreate the spell since.

Merlin pulls himself back to the the present. He’s not the one casting the spell now. And Clar seems to be doing the spell differently. Merlin’s strawberry bushes grew fully and blossomed flowers in just a few minutes. The black pepper seeds Clar planted are barely beginning to sprout out of their pods after the same amount of time.

Different seeds flourish at different intervals, Merlin recalls reading. Although, Merlin doesn’t think the difference should have been drastic. The black pepper seeds should have at least breached the ground by now. The warlock gingerly tangles his own magic with Clar’s, trying find out what’s going awry.

The noble girl’s eyes narrow as she gives Merlin a venomous glare. Not that the warlock notices, with his own eyes closed and his attention elsewhere.

Oh. Merlin sees the problem. Clar pours her magic on the soil by pulses instead doing it in a continuous stream. The plants grow quicker than the normal rate for a second then halts growing at all for three. It’s definitely more time-consuming than when Merlin did it. Perhaps Clar doesn’t know that there’s a more efficient method?

Merlin decides to demonstrate. They have less than three hours to complete the task and hurrying the completion of this spell would help them immensely. Without further thought, he discharges a flood of his own magic towards the seeds, suffusing them and the earth surrounding them with golden threads.

Clar’s enchantment consumes it like a starving animal upon finding fresh meat; Merlin continues feeding it for several seconds, encouraging its gluttony. Clar herself releases a great and shaky gasp, unable to utter a single word. She does not need to; her spell needs no more further support from her.

Healthy green sprouts pop from under the soil, astounding the participants oblivious to the exact nature of the spell. The sprouts spawn spade-shaped leaves, their growth accelerating by the second. In less than ten heartbeats, the sprouts have matured into proper plants that reach beyond their knees and sprawl as thickly as wild bushes. By this time, the plants cease growing; instead, tiny lavender flowers burst forth from their stems. The flowers blossom then transform into clumps of green peppercorns. In another two beats, the peppercorns ripen, colors flicking from green to blood red and finally settling on a wrinkly black.

The applicants behind them let out various sounds of awe; half a dozen black pepper plants have come to life before their very eyes, and now bear more than a hundred peppercorns.

Theo whistles, undoubtedly impressed. “Didn’t know you had it in you, snobby lady.”

“It wasn’t me!” Clar snarls, making everyone around her take a step back.

She glares at Merlin, emerald eyes dark with unbridled contempt. The warlock can only stare back, shock at her sudden resentment.

“You!” Without warning, Clar lays her dirty palms on Merlin's chest and roughly pushes him. The warlock barely manages to stay on his knees. “You just have to show off every bloody time, don’t you? You just can’t help it!”

“I - I was just trying to help,” Merlin stutters out, hands up in a placating manner even as his tone holds a sour hint. “The spell - it was taking too long and I thought —”

“It was supposed to take long, you bloody dolt!” Clar howls. She points at the plants. “Do you really think it's normal for something like these to grow in mere seconds? It takes a quarter of an hour at best!”

“I -” Merlin has no answer. He has never really thought about the proper duration for his spells.

“And how are you still conscious and talking?” Clar’s face slowly morphs from annoyed to unguardedly blank. A flash of an epiphany flitters by her eyes, and her gaze on Merlin contains no little bit of incredulity. “With the amount of magic you poured in there . . . You don’t even look a little bit tired. What the hell are you?”

The question should not have caught Merlin off guard but it does. It seems every time he does magic, the more he proves his ignorance of this realm. He can’t quite believe that magic, the thing that’s actually legal in this world, is the one earning him dubious looks right now.

The warlock opens his mouth. Then, he realizes he doesn’t know how to reply so he closes it.

Merlin is absolutely grateful when someone decides to intervene. “Now, now, my Lady.” Mordred grips Merlin’s arm and hauls him up, forcing him on his feet and away from the fuming girl. “No need for such rudeness. Your spell did earn us an important spice, and for that we should be thankful.” Mordred’s smile is calming and disarming as he relinquishes his grasp on Merlin. “We shouldn’t argue over semantics.”

Clar looks ready to vehemently argue nonetheless. She gets to her feet, her dress fluttering at the abrupt movement.

“Princess Clarisse.” Morgana’s tone is brisk and almost threatening. Clar flinches and then scowls, deeply displeased by the title Morgana has called her. “We have only a few hours left to complete the task. We best proceed to producing and harvesting more spices. Now what seeds do we have left here?” Overly saccharine is the only way to describe Morgana’s smile as she glances at the bowls and plates at the tables.

The applicants mutter to themselves, stunned by Morgana’s revelation. Princess? They all know that Clar is a noble of some sort but none suspected that she is of royalty.

“Do not call me that,” Clar replies icily. The princess shoots one last glare at Merlin before turning to the tables. “I found black pepper seeds, and a whole ginger root. That’s it.” This time, her glare is for everyone when she says, “Maybe if certain people haven’t finished it all, we would have more.”

Theo looks up, asking the Goddess for patience. “Nothing we can do about it now.” The gray-haired man picks up a wooden plate stained with brown sauce and leftover bits. With a whispered spell and a hand hovering it, the stains disappear from the plate, leaving only an almost shining clean wood.

“Well, then.” Theo holds out the plate to the cluster of applicants and gestures at the ripe peppercorns with his head. “Who’ll help me ground those?”

A handful of the applicants, all eager to showcase their own talents after that ordeal, clamor to help. The peasants clean up all the dishes with muttered enchantments. One even splits a plate and shapes it into two pestles without touching the wood. The nobles, oblivious to such menial spells, focuses on harvesting the pepper plants instead. One by one, clumps of black peppercorns detach themselves from their respective stems, and slowly float towards the now empty plates. The rest of the applicants opt to stay back, the area too crowded for them to even try to help.

Merlin steps toward the hubbub; he can use an enchantment similar to earlier to instantly crush the black peppers. However, a hand grabs the back of his coat and manhandles him away.

He yelps and turns his head to see who’s dragging him. Theo (again) determinedly carts him in front of Clar. Apparently, Mordred, Morgana and the others desire entertainment more than they desire to pass the test because they decide to watch the unfolding drama instead of doing something more productive.

Merlin’s gaze darts from Theo to the revealed royal, confused and a tad nervous.

“How much magic did you need?” Theo holds out the lone ginger root to Clar, glancing between Merlin and her. “For that spell?”

Clar snatches the ginger root. “I can do it by myself,” she spits out, looking at Merlin as if he’s about to steal that opportunity from her.

Merlin replies with an expression saying ‘by all means’; he has no plans to interfere with anyone’s spells any further. In fact, starting now, he plans not to do any magic unless it is asked of him. With that, he can ensure that he does no more enchantments that they deem unusual. It’s a good strategy and Merlin can only scold himself for not thinking of it earlier.

“Be that as it may,” Theo drawls out, crossing his arms and cocking a skeptical brow. “Merlin made the spell quicker. Right now, time is something we can’t waste.” He turns to the warlock. “How much magic did you expel for the plants to grow at that rate?”

“I didn’t really measure it,” Merlin admits sheepishly. “I just . . . gave the spell what it wanted?”

Theo and Clar stares at him.

“Are you an idiot?” Clar asks with a surprised blink, the question absolutely genuine.

“You could have killed yourself,” Theo says slowly as if talking to a child. “You do realize that?”

Merlin blinks. The warlock doubts that; he does the same sort of spells all the time. Merlin wisely chooses not to divulge that. “Well . . . I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He plasters on a bright smile, hoping to convey a ‘I’m just a simple and innocent peasant farm boy who knows nothing’.

Clar lifts a disbelieving brow. But it must have worked on Theo because the man merely sighs in resignation. “All right, we’ll figure it out. Just . . . sit down somewhere. You might not feel the effects of what you’ve done now but you’ll surely feel it later.” Theo beckons at the idle applicants. “You lot! Come here and make yourselves useful.”

Eleven of the applicants grumble but comply eventually. They draw closer to Theo and Clar to join in their discussion. Mordred, Morgana and the rest seem to be involved in a separate vehement conversation, and therefore, unable to accede to Theo’s request. The gray-haired man sends them an inquiring look but eventually concludes that they know what they’re doing.

Merlin shrugs. He’ll help out the others with the peppers instead. Before he could do so, however, someone grabs him again from behind. Merlin is getting real tired of being dragged around.

“Come, Merlin.” Morgana, her petite figure hiding the strength of her grip, brings the warlock into the inner circle of the remaining applicants. “Help us figure out the rest of our problems.”   

“The meat?” Merlin asks.

“That and the other spices,” a flaxen-haired peasant replies with a grim nod. “We may have black peppers and gingers but the soup would barely be edible with just that.”

“Truly?” An oblivious noblewoman asks in surprise. All common-born glances at her, expressions varying degrees of disbelief and patronizing. The noblewoman harrumphs, her purple hair ruffling at the gesture. “Forgive me for not knowing such a blatantly peasant thing.” Eyes roll in response to that.

“We could use the ale,” the boy with the bowl cut suggests brightly. “To add more flavor. I think there’s still more than a barrel left.”

“Good idea,” the flaxen-haired man acknowledges. “But I still don’t think it’ll be enough. Plus, we need more water. I don’t think the two barrels would cut it.”

A nobleman cups his chin and says thoughtfully, “Maybe we can transform a few of the applicants into pigs and slaughter them for the meat.” Everyone takes a large step away from him. The nobleman stares at them guilelessly. “What? It’s still in the parameters of the test. As soon as they become pigs, they’ll no longer be sentient.”

Mordred pats the man’s back, and he does it none-too-gently by the way the man staggers forward. “Let’s leave cold-blooded murder as a last resort, shall we?”

The nobleman finally cracks a grin. “I jest, of course.” The maniacal glint of his smile convinces no one.

“Of course.” Morgana clears his throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness. “The water’s easy. But the meat —”

“Pardon me but how exactly is getting more water easy?” A noblewoman interrupts brusquely.

“We make it rain,” Morgana answers simply as if it is obvious. “Merlin here will create a hole up above —” Here, she points and glances up. They lift their gazes at the dome ceiling of the milky white barrier. “And we’ll catch the rain with the pot.”

Morgana then gestures at Cava and her assistants. Merlin is surprised to find the base of the pot, which can now comfortably accommodate five lying men, already finished. In fact, Cava and the others are midway in the process of curving the main body.

“As expected of the great Lady Morgana,” Mordred says, lips quirking. “Even the weather plans to bend to her will.”

Morgana notes the teasing tone, and offers a smirk of her own. “The weather must do no less to please me.”

Merlin glances between the two of them, and promptly looks down to prevent himself from spiraling into useless thoughts once more.

“What if Lord Balinor strengthens the shield again if we attempt to dismantle it?” someone points out.

Morgana’s brows furrow as she considers this. “I doubt that Lord Balinor will interfere again.” Jade eyes dart to the magic-users of court standing in the same corner of the grounds. “In any case, I suppose we just have to try and see.”

Merlin follows Morgana’s gaze, eyes flitting by the Court Sorcerer and the other magic-users behind him, all of them yet again adorning frighteningly impassive faces.

Then, Merlin does a double take, struck by the potential solution to all their conundrums.

He gapes, mind working over his epiphany. Can it be? After a few seconds, a laugh bubbles out from his mouth and he can’t keep it in. He holds onto his aching stomach, unable to believe that Balinor has managed to hide the answer in plain sight.

“Merlin?” Mordred and a few others shoot him wary glances. “Maybe Theo’s right. You should sit down for a bit.”

Merlin waves their concerns away and turns around. He staggers towards the group of magic-users everyone has largely neglected. Several applicants watch with bemusement as the warlock halts a few feet in front of the Court Sorcerer. Balinor tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement.

With the shield from the first test gone, nothing but propriety is stopping the applicants from approaching them. So with an insolent grin reserved for prattish kings, Merlin says, “You did say we can use anything that’s on the grounds, right, my lord?”

A hush settles over the grounds, each applicant mortified at how a mere peasant could speak so brazenly to a high member of Camelot’s court. A few nearby applicants straighten, preparing to pull out the foolish boy to spare him from further embarrassment.

Balinor looks at Merlin blankly for a few moments. But Merlin sees the smallest of smiles tugging the Court Sorcerer’s lips, and knows his suspicions are correct.

“I believe I did,” Balinor replies finally.

“Then.” The warlock’s grin grows wider. He gestures expansively at the experienced and knowledgeable sorcerers and sorceress of court. “That means we can make use of you lot.”

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Chapter Text

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Prince Arthur Pendragon taps an index finger on the wooden armrest of his chair, bright blue eyes calmly roving the training grounds. He has watched the applicants scramble to solve the riddle of the first test, and now watch them work together to fulfill the second. With a small amused smile, Arthur thinks Balinor has truly reaffirmed his reputation as a taskmaster in this year’s Apprentice Exam.

The smile lasts for only a few seconds. In these last few days, that’s all he can manage. With the anniversary looming, not even the Apprentice Exam can distract him for too long. His hand shifts, fingers skimming the stitching of the leather arm guard on his left forearm. He sighs, once again violently cutting off that trail of thought before he reaches the end.

Arthur’s gaze settles on Balinor. At the very least, the prince is glad that their Court Sorcerer is enjoying himself this year. The prince feels a tad envious; he misses the days when excitement courses through him just at the thought of Camelot’s prestigious event. He can barely stomach the exam last time, seeing as a few weeks prior to it —

The prince exhales through his mouth. At least, this year, an intriguing applicant seems to have found their way in. His eyes return to the applicant he has been eyeing the most — the young raven-haired man, one who appears to be a few years younger than Arthur himself.

Before the exam began, the prince had heard whispers of someone shattering a scinncræfte crystal during the registration. He had deemed it an exaggeration, a tale that had been twisted as it passed from mouth to mouth. However, having seen the young man fearlessly use up so much magic and not even show hints of magical exhaustion, the prince rethinks that assumption.

The man is an enigma, a mesh of paradoxes. He’s older than the average applicant yet too young to be flawlessly performing the advance spells he has been throwing out. Graceless would aptly describe him but he obviously possesses enough finesse to ensure no maiming occurs during his flamboyant spells.

What baffles Arthur the most, however, is the absolute clueless expression perpetually plastered on the man’s face. Clearly, as demonstrated by the first exam and the beginnings of the second, the man bears an astoundingly quick wit and clever mind. While arrogance is not something Arthur admires, the prince sees no reason for the man to act so modest. Or is it an act? At this point, the prince is beginning to have doubts.

“I didn’t really measure it. I just . . . gave the spell what it wanted,” were the words the man carelessly let out. How can someone with such skills be utterly ignorant of the basics of magical theory? For Goddess’ sake, the young sorcerer had almost dismantled a shield created by Lord Dalion himself! It’s simply unbelievable.

The prince’s gaze flicks to the woman who adds more to the mystery: the Lady Morgana stands beside the young man with a beatific smile. Arthur has noted her eyes drifting far too often towards the young man during their brief conversation earlier. The two applicants know each other, that the prince is sure. Or mayhaps, more appropriately put, Morgana knows him. The young man seems to avoid any kind of unnecessary interaction with the prince’s almost cousin. In stark contrast, Morgana looks almost desperate to catch the other’s attention. To anyone else, Morgana may just appear amicable to a fellow applicant. To Arthur, however, the subtle nuances in every uptick of her mouth, every twitch of her eyes, and every subtle movement of her body loudly broadcasts her undoubted interest. The young man has caught Morgana’s eye even before he started displaying his power. The question is: how and why?

Before the exam began, the prince had told Morgana, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in being our court’s apprentice.” His tone had held a hint of inquiry.

Morgana’s whole countenance had softened at that moment. Arthur did not miss the way her gaze drifted toward the cluster of applicants near the feast. She had replied, “I suppose my interests have shifted in the past few years, Your Highness.”

Their conversation had been cut short, leaving Arthur vastly unsatisfied. Now, after watching them together, the prince may just have his answer.

The prince cocks a brow, gaze returning to the man who has garnered much attention. Basing on his appearance, Arthur observes nothing extraordinary. Hair as black as ebony, complexion much too pale to belong to a working peasant, frame lean instead of skinny, ears that stick out prominently, eyes the same shade of stormy blue as —

Arthur forcefully ceases his observations, the leather gloves adorning his hands creaking as his fingers curled into tight fists. This isn’t the day to be lost in useless wanderings.

He leans back on his seat, and drags himself firmly to the present. After making that bold and impudent remark, the paradoxical applicant should provide distraction and entertainment — the two things Arthur sorely needs.

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“And what makes you think we’d be willing to help you?” a big-bulked dark-haired lord asks, tone as scathing as a vat of hot oil. Clearly, he doesn’t appreciate Merlin’s impertinent words.

The warlock concludes that perhaps he should have approached them with more tact and less sass. He has been too excited, too delighted to have figured out the test’s loophole to be aware of his actions. Well, too late for that.

In an attempt to remedy his less than stellar start, Merlin lowers his eyes and head. He contemplates the lord’s question for a few moments before answering.

“You said it yourself. If we fail this second test, we’ll all be eliminated.” He shrugs, glancing around. “All this effort you put into testing us will all be in vain if not one applicant passes. You have as much to lose in this exam as we do.” Then, he remembers that he’s supposed to be reverent, and tacks on belatedly, “My lords and ladies.”

But he can’t quite smother the cheeky grin on his face.

The lord, who still seems offended despite Merlin’s attempts to placate, opens his mouth once more. The Court Sorcerer holds up a hand, halting any more withering remarks the lord plans to deliver. The lord harrumphs but obeys the unspoken order.

Balinor’s gaze and expression is chillingly cool as he meets Merlin’s eyes. The warlock’s gleeful demeanor falters in the face of it. He begins to doubt his assumption; could he be wrong and has just made a complete fool of himself?

“What would you have us do then?” The Court Sorcerer drones out, the amusement Merlin has glimpsed earlier completely absent from his countenance.

“I — Well.” Merlin’s becomes abruptly aware of the multiple of eyes on him, those of the shocked applicants and those of the hidden audience. His nape prickles at the attention he has carelessly drawn to himself. He rubs the back of his neck, silently scolding himself for yet again failing to keep a low profile. “I-I-I figured, since you were the ones to plan the exam, you would know where we can get the spices? And the meat? We - We just need a bit of help getting the ingredients . . . ?”

Balinor says nothing, merely continued staring at the warlock with an unreadable face. Merlin can feel the tension rising, the applicants behind him waiting with bated breath.

The warlock recalls instances of his mother catching him doing something out of the ordinary, and Merlin had to await her verdict on whether she approved or not. The same uncomfortable sensation grips him now. Of course, with his mother, he never has to worry about being skinned alive merely by the force of her glare.

Just as Merlin opens his mouth to retract every idiotic thing that he has said in the past few minutes, the woman in a violet dress steps forward with a grin.

She chuckles. “Stop teasing the boy, Lord Balinor.” She turns to Merlin, blue eyes crinkling with mirth. “Honestly, we thought none of you would have the courage to ask us. We’d be happy to help!” Then, from her dress’ pocket, she fishes out a bunch of saffron bulbs. With a wink, she and three more others break away from the group.

Clar, Theo, and those applicants who deign to help them watch with wide unbelieving eyes as the four prominent magic-users head in their direction.

Balinor rolls his eyes, his severe expression fading. He glances at the hourglass above. His hazel eyes glitter with unbridled approval when he says, “It took you only half-an-hour to figure us out . . . Impressive.”

Merlin can’t help but beam at his not-father’s words, a ball of warmth consuming his chest.

The dark-haired lord snorts. “Could have been more respectful about it.” That, Merlin easily ignores.

“And the meat?” Morgana, who has sidled up beside Merlin, follows up with a delighted smile.

Balinor smirks and looks down meaningfully. Morgana and Merlin gape as they follow his gaze.

“Underground?” The warlock tries to look for any hint of anything unusual and finds nothing but plain old dirt.

“There’s a storage room underneath,” Lord Dalion supplies helpfully. “Unfortunately, the entrance to it is outside, just beside the training grounds.” He doesn’t sound at all sympathetic. In fact, he sounds nothing short of amused.

The applicants murmur amongst themselves, troubled.

“If we can’t step outside the training grounds, how are we going to get inside then?” Mordred inquires with a thoughtful frown.

“Quite easily,” The Court Sorcerer answers, smirk still in place.

He hops swiftly to the side and smoothly falls through solid ground, the sand rippling like it’s made of water. A strangled gasp escapes Merlin’s lips, his feet stumbling forward and arms uselessly reaching out.

Morgana’s eyes widen in surprise. Even Mordred is gaping, face a portrait of shock. Applicants of all groups pause in their tasks and motions, staring stunned at the spot where the ground has swallowed up Camelot’s Court Sorcerer.

“Wait, stop!” Cava exclaims, pointing at the distracted sorceress who’s fires are currently burning a giant hole into their large pot.

The said magic-user staggers into action, immediately putting out her flames and attempting to fix the damage. She pales, hand hovering over the melted metal. Cava hurries towards her to help. Two magic-users of court surprisingly move ahead to take a closer look at the impairment. The debacle frightens the other applicants into focusing on their respective works lest they become the source of delay. Those without yet a task continue speculating the Court Sorcerer’s abrupt dispersal.

The warlock notices none of these. Merlin knows, at the back of his mind, that there’s no reason to worry. The magic-users of court wear varying degrees of amusement and giddiness on their faces, denoting that this is another part of Balinor’s schemes. Yet, the warlock can’t help but drop to his knees and pat the dirt where his not-father has disappeared into, chest tight.

Hard-packed soil meets his fingertips, no trace of a hidden hole or a trapdoor. An enchantment, then, not that Merlin has any doubts about that. He did see the ground undulate unnaturally before Balinor disappeared.

Mordred, having gotten over his initial bewilderment, hastily joins Merlin in his investigation.

“A liquifying spell,” Mordred mutters, azure eyes speckled with gold as his hand runs over the undisturbed area.

Merlin blinks. “A what?”

The druid gives Merlin a sidelong glance as he elaborates, “It’s a spell that temporarily turns a solid object into a substance akin to water.” He hums, brows knitted into a contemplative frown. “I’m guessing the Court Sorcerer used it to get to the underground storage, and wants us to do the same.”

“Very good.”

Both Mordred and Merlin lift their heads to find one of the dark-haired lords looming over them. Merlin gulps; it’s the lord who didn’t appreciate the warlock’s none-too-respectful speech.

Thankfully, his blue-eyed gaze is fully on Mordred this time. “Mavin Bathurst, my boy,” he introduces shortly, bending down until his knees hit the ground.

He doesn’t seem overly concerned that the expensive material of his trousers are being padded with dust. The lord places his rough and wrinkled hands atop his folded knees. Up close, Merlin notices that this lord seems almost a decade older than Balinor.

“And that analyzation spell you did is very subtle and thorough. I'm impressed. Not many would care to learn such an enchantment at your age,” the lord continues with a small grandfatherly smile.

Mordred’s cheeks are tinged with a hint of pink even as his expression remain amazingly blank. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Dalion scoffs at Lord Mavin’s words as he crouches down. “Yes, yes, yes, we’ve all heard it before, Bathurst.” His gravelly voice lowers to mimic the older man’s tone. “‘Youth today, only wanting to learn things that can cause explosions or make the earth quake.’” Sarcasm drips from his every word.

Lord Mavin casts him a baleful glare. Lord Dalion merely beams, rubbing his goatee.

“Dalion of Yany Village,” Lord Dalion says with a slight incline of his head.

Merlin startles at the introduction. Of Yany Village? That doesn’t sound like a noble title or surname.

Someone behind the warlock clears their throat, breaking him out of his musings. He turns his head and takes in the several applicants crowding around them.

“So we merely need to perform a liquifying spell on the ground,” Morgana remarks, joining their inner circle. “How far down is it?”

Lord Dalion answers, “About two feet of soil and two inches of wood.

Morgana nods thoughtfully. Without warning, she kneels down and mutters a short enchantment. The applicants all shout in surprise yet again when, a few seconds later, Morgana herself gracefully slides through the ground and disappears from sight.

Merlin’s lips part both in shock and amazement. Mordred wastes no time emulating Morgana. The druid utters the same spell, and Merlin watches as he slips through the rippling soil without fuss.

“Well, it seems at least two of you know the spell,” Lord Mavin says dryly. Then, his blue eyes settle on Merlin, expectant. Lord Dalion does the same.

“I - I don’t know the spell.” The warlock doesn’t know why they expect him to know.

“Very well. We’ll be teaching you,” Lord Dalion informs him cheerfully. “Now, lad, just place your hand on the ground.” He demonstrates the action.

Merlin follows the instruction gingerly, looking at the lords with hesitation. More often than not, Merlin’s first attempt at new spells would result in something unpleasantly unexpected. He hopes luck favors him this one time and prevents him from embarrassing himself.

“Envision the ground as a circle of water,” Lord Mavin continues, watching Merlin with a hawk-like gaze. “Or something less than solid, something less likely to obstruct you. Something you can pass through.”

The warlock does just that, eyes steadily on the soil beneath him. Tiny grains of sand dig into the pads of his fingers, solid and unyielding. He imagines each of them coalescing, merging, melting beneath his palm. Concentrating fervently, his eyes spark gold in answer to the image he creates. He can almost feel the soil changing their structure, their main essence, bending to his will. Quicksand, runs through his head. Then, he shakes the texture out of his mind. Not quicksand but a pond. A small and smooth pond, clear of debris and deep enough to flow through the storage room below them.

“Now, the spell is —”

Merlin never gets to hear the end of Lord Dalion’s sentence. His feet loses their balance as the ground beneath him softens and wavers. Wide gold-tinged eyes snap up to meet the shocked stares of Lords Dalion and Mavin.

Drat it, is Merlin’s last thought before he falls.

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“Well.” Dalion licks his lips, blinking at the spot where the applicant, Merlin, has abruptly disappeared without uttering a word.

He supposes they should have expected something like this; that Merlin has proven himself to be full of surprises, and accidentally performing a liquifying spell should be the least of them. Dalion shakes himself out of his trance. No matter — he is Balinor’s problem now.

He lifts his gaze to the remaining applicants. “Who’s next?”

“Are - Aren’t you gonna make sure if he made it all right?” one asks, fear present in her voice.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?” another remarks, voice shrill with hysteria. “He didn’t even get to say the spell.”

Bathurst waves their concerns away, his initial shock ebbing away. “Stop wasting your time speculating.” He beckons them. “Unless you want to fail the test, I suggest you try and learn the spell yourselves. I’m certain the three of them would need your help.”

The applicants swap unsure glances. After a few moments, they reckon that there’s really nothing else to be done. They tread closer and listen attentively to Lord Dalion and Lord Mavin’s instructions.

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For a few terrifying seconds, all Merlin sees is darkness and all he feels is the unsettling texture of fluid sand. Then, just as the warlock is beginning to think he’s going to be stuck in the endless abyss for all eternity, his body encounters refreshing air.

His landing on a thick pile of hay pulls a pained groan from his throat. Merlin blinks at the wooden ceiling, attempting to gather his wits. That was the correct enchantment, wasn’t it? The warlock is glad he managed to do it successfully the first time, and didn’t get stuck halfway through the ground.

A familiar face pops into his vision, startling him out of his musings.

“Glad you could join us, Merlin,” Mordred says, a tiny smile gracing his face. He holds out a hand.

Merlin takes the proffered arm, grasping it as he hauls himself up to his feet.

“I suggest you vacate that space.” Balinor’s gaze flits above. “I believe it’s going to start raining bodies soon.”

With that ominous warning, Merlin and Mordred strolls away from the area filled with beds of hay. The warlock takes the time to look around the so-called storage room. It’s quite big, perhaps as wide as the training grounds themselves, although Merlin can almost reach the top of it if he stretches out his arm. Lit torches pepper every crevice, lighting up the room brightly and showing impressive arrays of paraphernalia. Long spears, a motley of crossbows, differing sizes of shields, mattocks of worn-out conditions, hammers, swords, daggers, throwing knives, staves with dull-colored gems, and other assortment of weapons line the wooden walls. In one corner, the warlock spies a set of stairs leading upwards to what might be proper entrance.

But what catches Merlin’s attention — and the attention of all the others in the room — are the chickens filling the space in the middle of the room, numbering approximately a hundred. The warlock stares bewilderingly at them as they cluck and strut about, uncaring of the four humans in their midst. The noise is almost deafening, their crows overlapping cacophonously.

Merlin’s eyes wander again and he finds the Court Sorcerer (hale and blank-faced as always) standing next to Morgana. Something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“I suppose this would be enough for our soup,” Morgana remarks, eyes glistening with amusement. “Though you could have warned us about the smell, my lord.”

The smell truly is horrible but Merlin has honestly experienced worse, what with a prat for a master.

The Court Sorcerer lifts one shoulder in what might have been a shrug. “Do you have plans on how to get them out?”

Morgana hums, jade eyes flicking to the chickens and then upwards. “It'll take more than the three of us if we want to do it quickly.”

Just then, a noblewoman materializes from the ceiling. “Ow,” she moans, gingerly sitting up. Her nose wrinkles. “What is that smell?”

Another body joins the fray, landing just a few inches away from the noblewoman. The noblewoman, realizing the danger, hurriedly dashes away from the area. She sees the four of them in a corner and approaches.

“Oh, you are alive after all,” she remarks with a surprised blink as her eyes settle on Merlin.

The warlock stares back at her warily. “Er - Is there a reason why I shouldn’t be?”

A peasant-born appears next. Upon realizing his free fall, immediately performs a levitation spell to slow his descent. He gracefully reaches the floor on his feet. Unfortunately, another applicant falls through the ceiling in the same exact spot he’s standing in, rendering his efforts void. They both lay sprawling on the ground half-a-second later, groaning in pain.

“You just disappeared without uttering the spell,” the noblewoman replies. “We thought you might have accidentally buried yourself alive.”

Merlin swallows nervously at the notion. “Well, thank the gods that didn’t happen.”

The warlock must have said something strange because, now, all present in the room shoot him incredulous looks. He goes over the statement in his head and finds nothing that would earn him such stares.

The noblewoman is the first to clue him to it. “You’re a believer of the New Religion?” She sounds as if she would die on the spot if he said yes.

Merlin blinks rapidly, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere. “I - uh - no?” He thinks it should have been obvious that he’s of the Old Religion, seeing as he’s been using magic.

“As thrilling as this conversation is,” Balinor drawls out, no trace of sarcasm in his tone but all know it to be present in his words. “I remind you again that you have less than two hours left.”

As if to punctuate his statement, six applicants unceremoniously and consecutively enter the room. Various sounds expressing their painful entrance echo loudly in the enclosed space.

“Is that all of us?” Morgana asks, making sure to project her voice and to grab everyone’s attention.

“Yes,” one applicant grouses, rubbing the shoulder they landed on.

“All right, let’s start then.” Morgana smiles brightly, excitement blatant on her mein.

They all naturally gather around to discuss. To transport the animals up to the surface, they first need to perform the liquifying enchantment on the ceiling. With the requirement to actually touch the wood above to do so, they plan to create a raised platform to reach up.

“You’re thinking we could use those?” Merlin points at the metallic scratch-filled shields arranged neatly in one corner.

Morgana nods in approval. “Exactly.”

Again, the warlock forces his gaze away from the offered smile.

“And then we can use levitation spells to fling the chickens up,” a noble suggests blaisely.

With a loose plan in mind, they begin enacting it. Merlin, along with three others,lugs the shields over to the hay-covered area — the only place certain to be cleared of people above. Well, at least they hope it's still cleared of people or else they would be gaining more companions. Mordred and the rest work on gathering the chickens in as tight a group as possible for easier transport.

The Court Sorcerer observes them work from an isolated corner of the room, not offering any input or lifting a finger to help them. Which is fair, Merlin supposes. It's not like Bainor’s the one being tested.

“Wait, why don’t we just kill them here before throwing their bodies up?” a flaxen-haired peasant pipes up with a frown. “It’ll be easier to transport them afterwards.”

The noblewoman beside him gags. “Do you really want to add an additional stench while we’re here? I’d rather dispose of them in open air instead of suffocating here with the smell of their corpses.”

The flaxen-haired applicant thinks on that and grimaces. “Fair enough.”

So, their work continues. Merlin and his companions finish the platform in only a couple of minutes, even without the use of magic.

The warlock tentatively steps onto four layers of curved metal. The structure wobbles, producing an unholy screech. After a second, it stabilizes, and Merlin lets out a breath. Two of the others join him on the platform.

They nod to each other before lifting their arms up and laying their palms flat on the wood above. The two applicants beside Merlin intones, “Formeltaþ.”

Oh, so that’s the spell, the warlock thinks to himself. He recalls Lords Dalion and Mavin’s instructions before uttering it himself.

The grainy wood undulates like brown waves in a lake as their magic intertwined and combined. With three people doing the spell, the range of it has widened considerably; the circle of rippling surface is approximately an eighth of the training grounds, certainly big enough for six people to simultaneously go through. Fortunately, they gain no further companions.

“Hold it steady,” Merlin hears Morgana command. “All right. Lift them now.”

From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees chickens floating in the air like ominous prophecies. The chickens seem nonplussed at their current positions, cocking their heads left and right.

Mordred twists his wrists and the floating animals shoots up into the liquified ceiling like arrows from a crossbow. Merlin and his companions flinch as clucks and claws approach them. Thankfully, the druid has enough control not to let any of the chickens hit them.

“Save some for us,” one of the applicants grumbles as she struggles to lift five chickens at a time out of the room.

Mordred, easily levitating at least thirty, smirks unapologetically. “Sorry about that.”

Morgana is the only one looking amused at Mordred’s actions as she lazily lifts one animal at a time herself.

With the druid’s prowess, they manage to get the chickens out — all one hundred and thirty of them, Balinor informs them — in just a couple of minutes. All that’s left are plucked feathers and their droppings.

“Impressive display of magic, boy,” the Court Sorcerer says to Mordred, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

The druid tries hard to stifle his pleased grin but Merlin sees it anyway. The warlock allows his own lips to curl into a smile; in the face of the Court Sorcerer’s approval, Mordred’s cool and detached facade seems to fade rather easily.

“Let’s rejoin the others, shall we?” Balinor gestures at the still ongoing liquifying spell.

A noblewoman is the first to move, performing a levitation spell on her body and floating towards the wavy wood. Merlin is both astounded and weirded out at the sight. He has never seen levitation spells used to fly before. Make others fly off cliffs and into walls, yes, but he has never seen it used as a means to levitate oneself.

“You lot better not bury me alive,” she warns them before flying up.

Mordred follows, along with three more applicants. The druid gives Merlin a small smile before soaring upwards. The rest all glides up not long after, leaving Morgana, Merlin, Balinor and the two helping Merlin with the spell.

“Um.” The girl next to the warlock turn to him. “I can’t do a levitation spell while maintaining this one,” she confesses, nodding at the liquifying spell.

“Me too,” the man on Merlin’s left admits next.

“Let me then,” Morgana offers, already coming forward. “I'm sure between Merin and I, we can keep up the spell.” She bestows the warlock another malicious-free smile. Merlin finds himself still unable to return it.

“Thank you.” The two applicants sigh in relief as they dismantle their own spells. They step down with heavy exhausted feet, surrendering the space to Morgana.

Merlin manages to maintain the watery surface even as the two pull back their support, albeit the circle is significantly smaller now. Not that the warlock pays much attention to that. Instead, his eyes are solely on the approaching lady.

His stomach twists as Morgana climbs up beside him. She puts her hands flat on the ceiling and mutters the enchantment. Green eyes flare a fiery gold. Her magic reaches out to the threads of his, and seamlessly lace them together.

At the back of his throat, Merlin tastes the burn of acid, and flaming emerald fires fills his vision.

— it’s the same horrible tang stuck in his tongue as Morgana fights him in the crypts, her magic keeping the skeleton army alive, supporting them in slaying Camelot’s citizens —

— it’s the same haze he sees and feels as Morgana roughly heals the mortal wound on his chest, as she whispers sinister words and rams a snake at the back of his neck —

— the acidic taste drips on his tongue for a brief second as he places a hexing poultice underneath Morgana’s bed, a dark curse to temporarily bind her magic and prevent her from hurting his friends —

— it is the color of envy and the shade of the vilest of poisons, and he has long since associated it with trouble, danger, protect Arthur, save Camelot —

Merlin stumbles back, tearing his own spell away from Morgana’s. Magic courses violently under his skin, urging him to defend, attack, attack, attack. He almost gives in to it, to follow the instincts that has saved him and Arthur from several skirmishes.

However, his blue eyes lock with wide puzzled jade ones. The hint of vulnerability Merlin glimpses in them instantly douses the boiling heat in his veins, leaving him cold and horrified. With a flurry of clothes, the warlock finds himself face to face with the Court Sorcerer half a second later. The man has come to stand between him and Morgana, hiding the sorceress from his sight.

“Merlin.” It’s the first time this Balinor has called him by his name. Merlin just wishes the name isn’t accompanied by a cautious and somber tone. The Court Sorcerer has one hand lifted towards the warlock, gold flitting by his hazel irises. “Are you calm?”

Chapter Text

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When Merlin emerges to the surface with the Court Sorcerer, an onslaught of tumultuous activities greets him.

Surprisingly — or perhaps not surprisingly, given what Merlin has asked for earlier — the magic-users of court have joined the other applicants in their efforts in making the soup. The lords and ladies have seamlessly integrated themselves into the chaos of the groups. 

The warlock glimpses one of them demonstrating an enchantment that easily patches the minuscule gaps in Cava’s enormous pot. On first glance, the hodgepodge of a pot looks nearly finished. The applicants are now merely circling the bronze-blue-red metal and checking for any faults. Morgana and Cava seem to be involved in a deep discussion, their eyes running over said pot.

Sensing eyes on her, Morgana shifts and locks eyes with the warlock himself. Merlin looks away quickly, smothering the swell of guilt in his chest. 

The next thing Merlin registers are the chickens. Well, he supposes it’s quite hard to miss them, seeing as they run amok in almost every corner. Applicants are attempting to shepherd them in one place with varying degrees of success. Lord Dalion and Lord Mavin are conversing with Mordred and the rest of Merlin’s companions underground, although the surroundings are too noisy for Merlin to make out a word. However, when Lord Mavin gestures sharply and the three chickens by his feet collapse, Merlin gets a hint as to the topic of their discussion. The animals, motionless and clearly dead, all showcase broken and twisted necks. The warlock observes more than one applicant blanching at the sight.

From Clar and Theo’s group, Merlin spies additional foliage lining their corner. Fully grown ginger and saffron plants sprout in the area, in addition to the peppercorns. A handful of applicants are harvesting them, some through the use of magic while others opt to use their bare hands. Clar and Theo themselves seem to be under the guidance of the sorceress in a violet dress as they attempt to expand the planted spices.

“I'm going to need my hand back,” the Court Sorcerer tells the warlock dryly, snapping him out of his observations.

With a start, Merlin realizes he's still holding onto Balinor’s arm. He releases his grip immediately, cheeks heating. “Sorry.”

The Court Sorcerer gives Merlin a considering glance. Then, he says with a beckoning hand, “Come with me.” He strides away without looking back, completely expecting Merlin to follow.

Wanting to meet said expectations, the warlock complies only with slight hesitation. Balinor leads him to an isolated corner of the grounds, and Merlin yet again has to swallow the sour taste of hurt at the back of his throat. It's reasonable to be wary anyway after that less than harmless display.

As they reach a fairly far off corner, Balinor sharply swivels to face the warlock.

“The second test demands no harm come to any applicant,” Balinor starts, clasping his hands behind his back. “Down there, you certainly had intentions to do harm. I cannot let you continue participating unless I know you’re fully in control of your magic.”

Merlin winces at the implied accusation, rubbing the back of his neck. His stomach turns and twists as he thinks through his reply.

“I am. In full control, that is,” he says carefully, knowing each word would be measured. He can’t afford to be disqualified; he needs to get into that castle, talk to Gaius, and go home. “I was just caught off-guard. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Even if, say, I ask you to work with the Lady Morgana in dismantling the shield?” Balinor inquires in a too casual manner.

Merlin can’t fight back a flinch at the mere notion.

The Court Sorcerer nods upon seeing the warlock’s reaction, expecting such. “Elaborate on the real reason, Merlin, and I might consider letting you continue on to the third test.” His hazel eyes narrow. “You said you thought the Lady Morgana was someone else.”

Merlin takes a deep breath, fighting down the sweeping panic that the words invoked. “Her magic looks — uh, feels similar to someone I know. Someone I’m not really on friendly terms with.” That’s an understatement, the warlock adds quietly. “My - My magic reacted, I tried to defend myself without thinking, and . . .” he trails off, making a gesture that encompasses the whole debacle.

Balinor stares at him, processing his excuse. “And if you work with Lady Morgana, it’ll happen again?”

“Probably,” the warlock admits, eyes lowering. “Better not to risk it.” He’s ashamed at his inability to curb his innate response with regards to Morgana. But in his defense, he never had to before. Morgana had always attacked first, without warning or mercy.

Except this Morgana had not an ounce of malice towards me, Merlin says to himself.

“Can this happen with anyone else?” Balinor prompts, dragging the warlock out of his self-pity.

“No, I —” Merlin stops himself because there may be one other person. He purses his lips, pondering. Well, he has been honest so far, and as much as he wants to be chosen, he has no desire to hurt anyone in this realm with his carelessness. “Um, my magic might react poorly with Mordred too.” The warlock attempts to point discreetly at the druid, who’s currently speedily unfeathering the dead chickens through simultaneous air magic.

The Court Sorcerer gives the said druid a scrutinizing look. “Another one with a magical signature similar to an enemy of yours?”

That’s an apt way to describe it. “Yes,” Merlin answers with a sigh, knowing each word that comes out of his mouth is making him more and more suspicious in Balinor’s eyes.

“I see.” Balinor shows none of the suspicion in his countenance, of course, but Merlin can feel it, nonetheless. It’s clear that the Court Sorcerer wants to ask a thousand more questions but visibly refrains. He straightens and shoots Merlin a firm look, one a neighbor would give to a rascal child who has been known to cause trouble. “If anything akin to the incident earlier occurs once more, you’ll be disqualified from this exam and perhaps banned from future ones. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, boy.” Balinor’s tone turns dry. “I hope you won’t make me regret it.”

If Merlin nods more vigorously, his head might just fall of his shoulders. “Of course. Er - thank you. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” He rambles some more promises, hoping he sounds as sincere as he feels.

The Court Sorcerer gives him one last long look before marching away. Relief blossoms in Merlin’s chest, and he lets out a breath. 

After basking in the fact of surviving another confrontational moment, the warlock wanders around. While he may have claimed to have exhausted his magic (a claim that Balinor, Merlin is now realizing, believed not one bit. Is Merlin really that terrible of a liar?), the warlock is sure he can find some non-magical way to help further.

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When the Lady Morgana asks, Lord Dalion willingly dissipates the top part of the opaque shield, revealing bright blue skies. 

Morgana thanks the lord with a smile before lifting her pale hands. With fingers spread wide and golden eyes on the sky, Morgana summons dark rolling and rumbling clouds. The sky darkens ominously and thunder growls. The air crackles with static, and the heavy smell of dew tickles their noses.

Merlin, sitting down on the ground, freezes in pestling the saffron bulbs, a prickle of alarm raising all the hairs on his body. Morgana’s magic saturates the atmosphere, and his own can’t help but react to it. He beats down the energy rising in his veins, forcing it to recede. The action is as painful as folding one’s whole body to fit in a bag half of one’s size. He exhales and lets out his frustrations on the saffron; unlike peppercorns, it takes quite a lot of effort to transform the filaments into fine powder. He would be less tense if he didn’t feel the Court Sorcerer’s stare pricking his back.

Many applicants look up from their tasks to watch as concentrated rain pours down from the heavens in great quantities. The drops land on the completed pot with noisy clinks and plunks, filling it with water at an amazingly quick pace. 

Applicants hurriedly surround the bottom of the pot with dry wood; some came from the two long tables that held the feast, some from the five buckets that contained the hair-dying potions. With a flick of a finger or a wide gesture of the hand, the wood catches fire and heats up the metal. A couple applicants perform a spell to keep the rain away from the fires, and another to keep the flames hotter than a normal campfire.

“Not too hot!” Cava warns, checking the temperature of the fires that they produced with her bare hands. All right, Merlin reckons she’s probably using some sort of spell but it’s still a frightening sight. “Or it might melt the metal.” Cava sighs in relief when she finds no flame too hot.

After a few more minutes, water fills almost half of their pot. A flaxen-haired applicant beckons Mordred and a couple of others, pointing at the container’s opening where rain continued to cascade. Mordred merely flicks his right wrist upward while the other applicants lift both arms.

Slices of meat, plenty enough to nearly block their vision of each other, soar through the air and plop through the half-filled pot. Merlin can’t help but stare in amazement at the feathers and three-fingered feet strewn across the grounds, the only remnants of the chickens they kidnapped from below. Had they done it the normal (non-magical) way, Merlin estimates that they would have taken at least three hours just to pluck out the feathers. As it is, it took eighteen sorcerers and sorceresses just a little more than half-an-hour to kill, unfeather, gut, and cut up all one hundred and thirty chickens.

All the meats have been dropped into the pot and submerged in the rapidly heating liquid. When water fills three-fourths of the pot, some several minutes later, Morgana abruptly ends her spell with an almost audible sigh. The dark clouds dissipate almost instantly, and the sky colors a bright blue once more.

Elise, with a determined mein, mutters a short enchantment. A wobbly shield pops into existence, and thoroughly covers the pot’s opening. Not even air could escape the magical covering, trapping the heat inside so as to ensure that their meat is cooked properly. The sorceress grins triumphantly at the success of the spell she just learned a few minutes prior.

“Shouldn’t you be working on that?”

A poke on the arm drags Merlin’s eyes away from the main event. When the warlock turns to face the doer of the said poke, he finds a wan-looking Theo sitting right next to him. Red tints the whites of his eyes, and his skin is two shades paler than when Merlin last saw him. In addition, his hair seems to have lost what little color it had.

“Are you all right?” the warlock asks in concern, placing the wooden mortar down on the ground.

“On the verge of magical exhaustion, thanks for asking,” Theo drawls out. If he had been less exhausted, there would have been a bite to it. He pilfers the saffron-laden container from under Merlin’s hands. “Gave too much to the plants. Lady Jayden ordered me to stop doing magic for the next couple of hours because of it.”

‘Magical exhaustion’, Merlin mouths as Theo viciously grinds the spice, although his movements are a tad too sluggish to ever truly be described as vicious. So that’s the proper term for it. The warlock himself never experienced it too severely so he can only imagine how horrible Theo must be feeling.

A certain spell leaps in Merlin’s mind. “I know — er, I’ve read something that might help.” He wiggles his fingers, silently asking for permission.

Theo halts in torturing the already crushed saffron. He blinks up at Merlin, and then, his gaze darts to the side. A few feet away, three applicants hastily look down to the ingredient they’re preparing. Merlin sighs and drops his hand. Wary eyes have followed him ever since the debacle underground; in fact, Theo is the first person to willingly approach him after his talk with the Court Sorcerer.

“I thought you can’t do any more magic,” Theo replies, tone curious instead of accusing.

Gossip sure travels fast. Merlin shrugs carelessly, figuring that he has little hope of really maintaining the lie. “I can still do a little bit.”

Theo contemplates for a while. Merlin waits with bated breath. Then, the gray-haired man says simply, “All right. What do you need me to do?”

The warlock beams, warmth unfurling in his chest. “I just need to —” Merlin reaches out and clasps a hand around Theo’s shoulder, his index finger settling on the skin on the other man’s neck. “Oferċyrre drýcræft.” With intention, the warlock pushes a tiny pulse of his own magic out through his fingertips.

Theo draws in a sharp inhale, the color returning to his cheeks. He loses the slump on his shoulders, back straightening abruptly and dislodging Merlin’s hold.

“Wha?” Theo looks at his hands and his arms, feeling a surge of foreign magic transforming into something familiar, something like his own. He snaps his fingers, and a small flame hovers over his palm. His wide-eyed stare swivels to Merlin, who has been watching him cautiously. “You . . . a magic-transference spell!?” His voice is almost shrill, dripping with incredulity.

“Yes,” Merlin replies slowly, beginning to suspect that this spell is yet another spell that he shouldn’t have done. But Theo had appeared so drained, and the man had been nothing but friendly to the warlock thus far. “Although I just gave you a little bit of magic so I don’t recommend doing exhaustive spells any time soon.”

“Just a little bit of . . .” Theo chokes out and then, gapes for several seconds. The warlock shifts, growing uncomfortable. He considers moving away, helping out with the other groups and giving Theo a wide berth.

A laugh startles Merlin out of his considerations. Theo puts a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle his chortles. The gray-haired man looks at the warlock with glittering eyes denoting amazement and disbelief. “You are impossible, Merlin. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Despite himself, Merlin feels his lips twitching into a smile. “Once or twice.”

Theo shakes his head, seemingly unable to curb his incredulous smile. “Well, I’m grateful for the help. I never believed them, you know, when they said you decimated two scinncræfte crystals during registration.”

Those crystals again? Merlin nearly groans in exasperation. Instead of doing so, he opts to scrape off the pulverized saffron from the mortar, and dumps them onto a wooden bowl already brimming with the spice. He grabs another batch of dried saffron strands and begins grinding them.

“I suppose it’s mad to deny it now,” Theo continues blithely, grasping a handful of saffron himself. He holds it over the bowl. With glowing eyes and a whispered spell, the strands in his hand break apart into tiny red particles and join their similarly powdered comrades in the bowl. “And to think, all this time, I thought I already saw the brightest of them all. Wish I could’ve seen what you did during registration. Must’ve been spectacular.”

Merlin pauses, looking up at Theo. “Who was it?”

“Hmm?” Theo hums distractedly, crumbling a few more crimson filaments with a spell.

“The one who invoked the brightest from the crystals that you saw?” Merlin, other than himself, has only seen the crystals turn white with Morgana. Curiosity grips him at the notion that another could achieve the same or brighter shade. Mayhaps he knows of them in his world? The warlock looks back and thinks on potential candidates: Edwin, Nimueh, Cornelius Sigan, Morgause . . . On second thought, maybe knowing won’t be such a good idea.

Before Merlin can take back his question, Theo begins answering. “I think it was Lord Balinor’s first —” He tilts his head in thought. “ — and, so far, last apprentice.”

Immediately, the warlock’s attention fully focuses on Theo and his words. “Oh?” Merlin leans closer. “What happened? How did they pass the tests? How did they get chosen by the Court Sorcerer?”

“She was incredible, I remember,“ Theo says, a nostalgic smile flitting by his lips. “And also a little frightening, to be honest. I was telling you a bit about it before, wasn’t I? The Apprentice Exam six years ago?”

Merlin vaguely recalls their conversation touching upon such a subject but the details elude him. Drat it, he should have listened closely. He might have gotten a clue as to how to get chosen, and acted accordingly. Not that he’s expecting to be chosen by the Court Sorcerer himself. Nor hoping to be. Not at all.

Merlin really is a terrible liar, even to himself.

“What happened then?” Merlin asks. “What was the test?”

Unfortunately, before Theo could start narrating, another applicant barges in their conversation.

“Um, are you nearly done with that batch of saffron?” an applicant with a bowl cut inquires timidly. “Only, we think the chicken’s almost done cooking and we’ll be placing the other ingredients in.”

“Oh.” Merlin stares at the remaining saffron threads that need to be grounded. 

The plate is still half-full. Well, he has just performed magic earlier on Theo so he reckons another tiny and simple spell couldn’t hurt. After this whole Apprentice Exam, he vows to avoid using magic for something so trivial again with so many people around. He can’t let himself get used to doing magic so casually and openly like this.

He presses a palm over the filaments and mutters the same spell Theo has been using. Instantly, the threads dissolve into something resembling crimson dust. Merlin smiles happily as it produced the desired result, seeing as it’s the first time he tried it. The warlock claps away the residue from his palm, and hands over the bowl and the plate full of saffron powder to the other applicant.

The boy accepts them and scurries away.

Theo stares at the warlock. “Why didn’t you just do that from the start?”

Merlin tilts his head. “I didn’t know the spell before.”

Theo blinks rapidly. “You learned it from watching me? Just now?” 

Something in the gray-haired man’s tone tells Merlin that answering ‘yes’ would be detrimental to the warlock’s already precarious reputation among applicants and to Theo’s overall mental health.

“. . . No?” Merlin tries, not knowing what else to say.

“Huh,” is all Theo can reply with.

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Elise demolishes her shield almost an hour later. Applicants carrying bowls of grounded ginger, saffron, and peppercorns perform levitation spells on themselves to reach the pot’s opening. They simultaneously deposit the ingredients at hand onto the nearly boiling waters, careful not to fall in themselves. Another applicant, meanwhile, lifts the the lone barrel of ale in the air and spills it bit by bit into the pot.

“All right, I think that’s enough,” a flaxen-haired applicant commands the other. The barrel gently settles down on the ground, its remaining contents barely filling five cups. “And now, to stir.”

Fi straightens, as the said task is given to him. He levitates himself after all the others have their feet on the soil. He takes a deep breath and holds up both arms.

“Hwyrfepól.”

The mixture in the pot, slowly but surely, twirls and forms a whirlpool. Chicken legs and wings, already a rich and darker color than flesh, float from below, disturbed by the enchantment. Fi frowns and repeats the spell to quicken the spin of the thickening broth.

Merlin inhales the delectable scent wafting from the pot. He sees more than one applicant sighed in delight from the smell. He feels his chest loosening with something akin to reprieve; they only have less than an hour left to compete the second task but they’re nearly done. Unless something very tragic happens, Merlin reckons they’ll all be passing the test.

Deciding not to dwell on dark thoughts lest they tempt bad luck, Merlin casts his gaze around to observe. Most of the applicants have slumped down to the ground, even the uptight nobles like Clar. Exhaustion lines their grimy faces but a hint of satisfaction shines through their visage. A handful of applicants are still tensed and restless, unable to sit down and relax as their eyes never waver from the cooking soup. The magic-users of court have struck up discussions with the applicants, postures and expressions candid. It’s a stark contrast to their nonchalant behavior earlier. A few of them, like Balinor, stiffly stand isolated from the rest, contenting themselves on merely watching from afar.

Mordred and Morgana have joined the circle of applicants around the enormous pot, their own spells contributing greatly to the maintenance of the cooking flames.

Merlin considers lending hand but knows he can’t, not with the alternate versions of his enemies in the mix. The warlock sighs, about to tear his gaze away when a glint of light color catches his eye.

Blue eyes dart to the source. Merlin squints. He rubs his eyes, leans forward a bit, and squints again. In one corner of the grounds, their placement from behind the pot almost hiding them from Merlin’s view, are two wooden crates. They were the crates that once held the goblets used during the first test. But there’s something odd about them. Merlin feels like he’s seeing them through water, the facade wavering and wobbling. A slight ache shoots up at the back of his head for each second he stares directly at them.

It’s also strange that none of the applicants have scavenged the crates for kindling. Magical fires can certainly go on without firewood, albeit it’s the magic-user’s own energy that will fuel it. It takes a lot less effort to sustain the fires if they have more materials to burn.

Merlin gets to his feet and dusts of the sand from his trousers. 

Theo halts his conversation with another applicant and turns to look at the warlock. “Where’re you going then?”

“To get some more kindling,” he says briefly as he walks towards the crates. If he’s being completely honest, his main desire is to investigate the bizarreness surrounding the wooden boxes.

As he gets closer, the oddness does not abate. The crates appear even blurrier, like anxious ghosts or flickering mirages. A brilliant headache spikes up inside his skull, and Merlin has to look away for a moment to relieve it.

As he stops in front of them, he notices that their lids are back on, hiding its contents. Do they hold something else, aside from the goblets?

“What are you doing?”

Merlin jumps and whirls around. Theo stands behind him, a quizzical frown on his face.

“There’s something weird about these crates,” the warlock says, his own brows furrowed.

Theo glances down. Then, he looks back up at Merlin. “What crates?’’

Merlin blinks back at him. “The . . . crates.” The warlock gestures down, having no words to describe them further.

The gray-haired man follows the direction of his hand, head tilting down. Theo’s eyes narrow, blue irises searching but never focusing on the boxes themselves. The bafflement stays on his face as he stares back at the warlock.

“Merlin, there’s nothing there,” Theo says slowly.

Merlin, beginning to doubt his own sanity, looks again. But, even in their blurry glory, the warlock sees the crates lying in front of them.

“They’re right there,” he insists. He bends down over one of the boxes and reaches out, trying to prove that they exist beyond sight.

His fingers barely skim the rough surface of the wood when a high-pitched otherworldly scream pierces the air. The familiar sound chills the warlock’s whole being, and he breaks out in cold sweat. Merlin’s palms fly to his ears to cover them, and Theo does the same with a severe grimace. The warlock tumbles to the ground after a full-body flinch.

The blood-curdling cry dies out shortly thereafter. Shakily, Theo places his hands down and croaks out, “What the bloody hell was that?”

Merlin, equally tremulous, gingerly backs away from the boxes. His head whips around, and he’s utterly flabbergasted to find not one other applicant seems to have heard the ear-splitting shriek. In fact, none of them are even vaguely looking in their direction even after the hysterical display.

“I should have known you’ll be the center of trouble again.”

Merlin immediately gets to his feet as he hears the Court Sorcerer’s familiar speech. He spins to face his not-father and says the words of the innocent: “I didn’t do anything.”

Balinor lifts a brow. “Perhaps not you.” He waves a hand, amber eyes flaring gold. “Ovrel has clearly mucked up the stealth spell.”

Merlin glances back at the crates, and goggles when he finds no trace of them. But wait . . . They’re there, a part of Merlin asserts. His eyes just can’t seem to fasten on them long enough to actually detect them. The warlock tears his gaze away, rubbing his throbbing temples and thoroughly bewildered.

“A stealth spell!” Theo exclaims, the light of realization gleaming on his face. “No wonder I couldn’t see them.”

Merlin can easily deduce that a stealth spell is meant to veil the boxes from sight. He also has a very strong hunch as to why the crates need hiding.

“Yes,” Balinor drawls out. He beckons them away, an air of authority emitting from his countenance. “I must ask you to step away from this area,” he says, offering no reason or explanation.

“O-Of course, my lord,” Theo answers without hesitation or question. He begins walking away and then halts. He reaches out, encircles a hand around Merlin’s upper arm, and hauls them both away. Theo recalls Merlin’s demeanor the last time he talked to a member of the court, and the gray-haired would rather not have a repeat of that small heart-stopping event. The warlock lets Theo drag him away, lost in his own musings.

“You all right?” Theo asks with a hint of concern when Merlin has gone quiet for too long.

The warlock swallows loudly. He opens his mouth. Then, thinking better of it, he snaps it shut. Shaking his head, Merlin replies shortly, “It’s nothing.”

Theo appears unconvinced, judging by his raised brows, but thankfully does not pry. Merlin reckons there’s no use in telling him anyway.

There’s no use in telling Theo that the warlock may just have figured out what the third test will be. It’s not like there’s any way any of them could prepare for it.

Merlin has heard that screech only once in his life, and yet the distinctive terror it invoked is hard to forget. He forces his eyes forward, stopping himself from looking back at the crates and at Balinor.

The third test will probably be the hardest of them all, and Merlin is not too sure if he would be willing to subject himself to it.

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As the last grain of sand falls from the hourglass, applicants nervously present twenty-four steaming bowls of soup to the magic-users of court. The broth’s consistency is more watery than thick, the copper color having a reddish tint because of the saffron. Small bits of chicken meat float to the surface but they made sure each bowl contain at least a piece of chicken wing or breast.

Balinor graciously accepts a wooden bowl from a grinning Morgana. As if just waiting for his cue, the other full-fledged magic-users does the same. A couple of them even offer encouraging smiles at the apprehensive applicants as they obtain their bowls.

Merlin is a tad amazed at it all, honestly. Just a few hours ago, all they had was several goblets and a couple of leftovers. Now, a part of the training grounds is a small spice garden, and a pot filled with mouthwatering chicken broth stands temptingly in the center.

The warlock glances at the aforementioned pot, whose contents are barely lessened by the bowls they gave to their potential mentors. He hopes they won’t be throwing any leftovers away. On the other hand, even with more than fifty people, they can’t possibly finish the food meant for three hundred.

Merlin redirects his gaze back to the clustered magic-users. Time slows down for the applicants as the Court Sorcerer, with both hands, lifts the bowl to his lips. Behind him, other sorcerers and sorceress mimic the action.

“Hmm,” Balinor hums. They fail to identify whether it’s a sound of approval or disappointment.

“Did we pass, my lord?” Fi bravely voices out the question everyone is clamoring to ask. 

“It’s not only up to me.” When the applicants’ gazes shift to the others of court in tandem, the Court Sorcerer adds, “Nor only up to them.”

With a smirk, Lord Dalion abruptly dismantles the remains of the milky white shield. The loss of the barrier reveals the excited faces of hundreds of people in the audience.

Servants burst forth from the ground’s unhindered entrance, lugging hundreds of empty wooden bowls in their arms. Applicants jump out of the way as the said bowls soar into the air as soon as they’re in sight. Lady Jayden, with an entertained smile and golden eyes, swings her arms in an arc. The dishes fly higher and higher until they reach the enormous pot’s opening. Then, each of them dips itself into the hot soup, and glides away filled with the applicants’ hard work.

Merlin watches with wide stupefied eyes as the brimming bowls carefully hover themselves towards the audience. The people themselves enthusiastically pluck bowls of soup from the air, and their joy soaks the atmosphere. Merlin even sees Tom clutching two bowls, and handing one to a bouncing Selly.

Oh. Merlin feels a bubble of warmth unravelling in his chest as he observes various people sipping and enjoying the soup — the soup that took all their combined efforts and energy to make. I see. He glimpses more than a few applicants’ eyes misting over as they witness the proceedings. I suppose not a drop would be wasted then.

The warlock looks to the Court Sorcerer, who’s summarily finishing up his own portion with solemn grace. Balinor raises a brow when they lock eyes, and Merlin offers a wan smile.

“Here, Merlin.”

The warlock startles when a bowl thrusts itself into his line of sight. Mordred, amusement glittering in his azure eyes, slightly shake the bowl in his grip.

“T-Thanks,” Merlin takes the proffered soup with a brief quirk of his lips.

The druid nods. He drinks from his own share of the broth himself, head turning to the now visible audience.

Merlin follows his stare, watching as the soup gets distributed among applicants and members of the crowd in the stands. They both watch as the audience titters and converses with one another, eating their portions happily. The warlock sips from his bowl. The rich tang of the broth immediately fills his tongue, and he sighs. Not bad, not bad at all.

“Well?” Balinor’s voice reverberates loud and clear around the whole area, overpowering even the noisiest of chats. He addresses the audience members as he asks, “Have the applicants this year passed the second test?”

A beat of silence.

Then, the people in the stands roar out in unanimous agreement.

“Yes!”

“Aye!”

“Yeah!”

They raise their bowls, cheering and hollering even as soup slosh around their hands because of their carelessness.

Several applicants themselves let out whoops of glee. Others attempt to maintain their cool demeanor but the giant grin on their faces ruin their nonchalant image. Clar smirks as if she predicted the results all along. Then, Theo quips something to her, and the royal girl scowls mightily at him.

Merlin tries to summon a brighter smile himself. Knowing what’s coming next, however, hinders whatever delight he might have felt at passing the second test.

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“Here you go.” Levi turns to his left, about to hand a bowl to the brunette beside him.

Which is why it surprises him when a voluptuous dark-haired woman accepts the soup instead.

“Thank you, love,” the woman says brightly and begins her meal without another word.

Levi blinks rapidly in growing confusion. He looks around, searching for a hint of the dirty-white tunic the green-eyed boy has been dressed in but finds nothing of the sort. The brunette, loquacious as he is, has rambled almost constantly since the first test. Levi is astounded to find him gone so suddenly without any warning. He didn’t even see the boy move from his seat, didn’t hear the rustle of clothing or felt any shifting movements.

Uneasiness paws at him, more at his failure to notice such an obvious change than anything else. He frowns, contemplating on that for a moment. After that moment, he shrugs it off. He’s most likely overthinking.

He faces his new seat mate and gives her an assessing glance. “Say, are you looking for work?” Levi asks as he starts on his own soup, already preparing the spiel in his mind.

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Chapter Text

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When Prince Arthur delicately sips from the steaming bowl of soup, a rich flavorful taste bursts upon his tongue. The warmth of the broth settles in his stomach comfortably, making him relax a tad.

Not bad at all, he thinks to himself, stifling a smile. While he has admittedly eaten more scrumptious fare, he can't deny that the soup's quality is one suited for royalty. The saffron and ginger combined seamlessly and subtly, the hint of ale emphasizing the chicken's juicy taste, and the meat itself is cooked evenly and properly despite the crudeness of the tools used. Without a doubt, the applicants have truly passed the second test.

Suddenly, his neck prickles sharply, bringing him out of his musings. His gaze instantly swivels to the owner the gaze currently piercing him. Astute blue eyes meet the paradoxical applicant's stormy blue ones.

The dark-haired young man blinks at him. Arthur stares back, face set into the most neutral of expressions. This is usually the time when the other party remember themselves and look away. Contrary to expectations, however, the applicant merely cocks a brow, amusement dancing in his lanky features. The prince hides his astonishment behind a completely blank facade - astonishment both at the completely unexpected action and the ungraspable familiarity that jolts through him. A moment later, the applicant's eyes widen comically, the light of a belated epiphany dawning on him. The young man tears his gaze away from the prince, the corners of his lips turning downwards.

Interesting.

Being a prince, Arthur is used to being stared at, being pointed to, being whispered about. It's part of the job of anyone lucky enough to be born into a royal household. But it's the first time someone who he has never properly met acted so forwardly to him. It seems the applicant's insolence extends even to princes.

Arthur leans forward and observes the young man further for a while, hoping to receive clues for the questions buzzing in his mind. The young man doesn't even shift his head in the prince's general direction, electing to fervently concentrate on whatever discussions the other applicants are having.

Arthur returns to his own soup, curiosity unsatisfied. No matter, he thinks to himself.

He has a strong feeling that he'll be seeing that certain applicant around the castle; he'll have enough time to find his answers then.

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Aren't you glad it isn't rat? the warlock attempts to convey with a meaningful glance as he sees Arthur drinking his share of the soup. Merlin has expected Arthur to scoff or to shoot him a disgusted look. When the blonde merely continues staring at him with indifference, the warlock's heart plummets right into his boots.

Right. Prince Arthur.

He immediately looks away, blowing out a shaky breath. For a short oblivious moment, the warlock has forgotten about Queen Ygraine, about alternate universes, about friends who are strangers, and enemies who are not. For a moment, Merlin has only wanted to share a quick banter with his best friend after and before another tiring ordeal, like they always do. Prince Arthur's reaction (or lack thereof) sharply reminded him that he has no friends here.

"I think that went well," Elise declares blithely as she walks up to Merlin, Mordred, and Theo, providing a much needed diversion.

"That it did," Theo accedes with a firm nod. He lifts his wooden bowl, and Elise enthusiastically bangs it with her own in a makeshift toast.

"There's only one test left," Mordred says, a hint of relief coloring his tone.

The relief would be short-lived, Merlin thinks grimly. He decides not to voice it out, not wanting to tarnish the brief reprieve they have.

"Well, let's hope it'll be more straightforward than the last two," Theo says dryly.

"I don't know. The second test was sort of fun," the baker's daughter replies with a shrug. She plucks a chicken leg from her bowl and takes a giant bite. With her mouth still full, she adds, "I even got to learn a spell from Lord Dalion himself!"

"And I from Lord Mavin," A sliver of quiet pride slips in Mordred's otherwise placid tone.

"I suppose the second test was educational," the gray-haired man admits reluctantly, recalling Lady Jayden's teachings regarding plant-growing enchantments.

"It's a pity the Court Sorcerer himself didn't volunteer his teachings."

Merlin tenses, grip tightening around his own wooden bowl. Everyone, except the warlock, turns to Lady Morgana as she approaches their tiny group.

"It is," Mordred responds, disappointment blatant in the purse of his lips. "I suppose only those who are truly worthy could have the opportunity to learn under him."

Morgana's face is taken up by a knowing smile. "That's true enough, I think."

Merlin belatedly realizes that Morgana is a seer, able to see visions of the future; does she already know the results of the exam? Does the warlock dare ask her? Does it matter now that they're more than halfway through?

Before he can decide, Theo starts up another subject, effectively ending the line of conversation. "Lady Morgana. The name's Theo of Drefir." The gray-haired man tilts his head down in a small bow. "I've heard a great many things about you, my lady," he says, delight and curiosity obvious in his features.

The genial smile upon Morgana's lips becomes imperceptibly strained. Merlin doubts the change is obvious to anyone who knows her less."Most of the tales are exaggerated, I'm afraid."

"The one about the Lamia," Elise pipes up, excitement pitching her voice higher. "Was that one true, my lady?"

"I did predict the creature's movements and helped in defeating it," Morgana answers politely. "But it was my sister who laid down the fatal blow."

Morgause, lances through Merlin's mind like an unexpected headache. So she's here too. Is it too optimistic to hope that they never cross paths?

"And the one with Princess Elaine and the scheming Sidhe?" Theo asks next.

"It was completely obvious that something was afoot. I'm sure you all would have noticed too had you been there," Morgana replies again with a tight smile. "I merely relayed my concerns to King Godwyn."

Morgana's expression grows increasingly shuttered with every word. Something deep within Merlin twinges, a ghost of a long-suppressed instinct. Without thinking it through, he blurts out, "Theo, weren't you telling me about the Court Sorcerer's apprentice before?"

Theo blinks rapidly, off-kiltered by the sudden change of topic. Elise, in the middle of inquiring about another story, snaps her mouth close in surprise.

Mordred visibly perks up, azura eyes shifting to the gray-haired man. "You knew Lady Lily?"

Lily? Merlin tries to recall if he has met someone with that name in his world. The name fails to arouse a memory, which the warlock considers a good thing. At the very least, it seems like Balinor's first apprentice isn't a former enemy.

"I - not really," Theo answers, still discombobulated by the non-sequitur. "I met her briefly in the exam six years ago. I didn't really get the chance to talk to her."

"What was she like?" Merlin encourages with a wide-eyed look. From the corner of his eye, the warlock spies something akin to relief flits by Morgana's face. "Surely Lord Balinor won't just pick any normal sorceress."

"Well, she was certainly extraordinary during the exam. Never thought anyone could swim and perform spells that fast."

Merlin boggles, attention completely stolen by that one statement. Swim? What exactly was the exam back then? Before he could give voice to incredulous questions, Theo continues.

"I do wonder where she got to after the apprenticeship." A confused frown climbs the gray-haired man's face as his eyes dart around.

Mordred glances around himself. "She's not in Camelot's court?"

Theo shakes his head. Then, he pauses, contemplative. "Unless she drastically changed her appearance . . . No, I haven't seen her anywhere so far."

"That's a shame," Elise remarks, lips pursing in a thin disapproving line. "If I get chosen, I'll definitely work here after my apprenticeship."

Mordred and Theo nod in solid agreement. Merlin ponders upon such a circumstance; getting chosen, learning magic under an experienced mentor, securing a job as a sorcerer in Camelot's court, being able to defend and protect Camelot openly without worrying about the executioner's axe . . . He rids himself of the ridiculous notion.

"Perhaps she merely found something else that suited her better," Morgana suggests lightly, seemingly more relaxed now. "I never had the chance to meet Lady Lily myself but a woman of her talents surely isn't lacking in opportunities."

"Lily of Veelin?" A derisive snort grabs their attention. Each one of them turns to a sneering Clar, who apparently deems it appropriate to eavesdrop on their conversation and share her unasked opinion. "Rumor has it that she didn't even get to finish her apprenticeship. That's what you get for choosing a peasant as an apprentice."

Something dark crosses Mordred's features, and his tone contains a hint of ice when he responds, "Careful, Princess Clarisse. I don't think the Court Sorcerer would take kindly to whatever you're implying."

Clar blinks rapidly, only just realizing the ramifications of her prejudiced declaration.

"It's best not to put worth on baseless rumors, Princess Clarisse," Morgana follows up with a saccharine smile.

Instead of ducking down amidst the subtle chastisement, Clar lifts her chin and crosses her arms. She hisses viciously, "I told you not to call me that."

"And we want you to stop calling us 'peasants' in a condescending manner," Theo drawls out. "Alas, we can't always get what we want."

Clar's nostrils flare. Her hands drop to her sides, gold flecking her green irises. In response, Theo abandons his bowl of soup in favor of lifting his arms in both defense and offense.

Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred step forward almost simultaneously, placing themselves firmly between the two. Elise wisely traipses away with her soup, not wanting to be involved in a potentially violent happenstance.

One would think that since they have worked together, their antagonism towards one another would have abated just a smidge. On the other hand, it's really difficult to tolerate Clar's type of prattishness.

"Are you mad?" Suddenly, a nobleman applicant grasps Clar's wrist before she could utter anything, pulling her back. "Are you really going against three White Levels?" he asks in disbelief, completely misunderstanding the target of her ire.

"What?" Clar roughly snatches her hand back, a confused scowl on her face. "Three White Levels?" Her bewildered-laden gaze shifts to the magic-users standing in front of her.

Morgana offers her an affable grin while Mordred tilts his head to the side, blue eyes cool. Merlin himself glances at the druid in surprise; he didn't know that Mordred is a White Level too, although he should have suspected. Magic strong enough to . . . The warlock cuts that line of thought abruptly. Another world, different Mordred, he reminds himself aggressively.

"Didn't you know?" Elise pipes up with a smirk before finishing the remains of her soup.

Clar huffs but there's something vigilant in her stance now. "Not worth my time, anyway." She shoots one last venomous glare at Theo before striding off with the nobleman.

"That girl really likes picking fights," Theo remarks with a sigh. He casts a forlorn glance at his spilled soup.

"And you like goading her into one," Merlin points out, lifting a disapproving brow. He hands his own bowl of soup to the other man.

Theo shrugs as he accepts, the corners of his lips curving up. "Not my fault she's easy to rile up."

Morgana tuts but she can't quite stifle the amused smile on her face. Elise has no such compunction, smiling widely. Mordred merely shakes his head.

A shrill noise steals their attention before any further conversation could proceed. Five heads whip to the source of the sound in alarm.

Lord Mavin, almost an hour after the conclusion of the second test, calmly approaches the empty bronze pot. He puts a palm flat on the metal surface, and whispers an enchantment. The structure carefully crumples into itself like it's made of paper, causing a toned-down screech.

The pot gingerly bends and bows to form a dense ball. When the metal is but a smooth rounded sphere, Lord Mavin makes a sharp gesture. The bronze sphere sleekly rolls to an empty corner of the grounds, applicants jumping out of the way to prevent their toes from being run over. Lady Jayden flimsily waves a hand, and the remains of the cooking fire sweeps themselves aside, joining the metal ball in its isolated niche. The center of the grounds is left clean and unblemished with debris.

Twin cracks resound in the air, and the warlock turns to the cause with trepidation. The crates have been pried open; they're the same boxes that Merlin has prodded earlier, and ones he can now directly look at without gaining a headache. He supposes the stealth spell is no longer needed, and the implications of that sends a chill down his spine.

A sorcerer and sorceress of court, ones whose names Merlin has yet to learn, lean down on a box each, hands reaching for the items inside. As they straightened from their crouch, they each brandish clay jars twice the size of the warlock's head, sealed with wooden corks.

The corks come out with foreboding pops. The applicants have gone deafeningly silent and eerily still, observing the proceedings with wary eyes. None dares to speak or even look away. The audience, sensing the bubbling tension in the air, grows quiet themselves.

With purposeful movements, the sorceress tilts the jar. Liquid as black as a raven's feathers oozes from the lip, and dribbles in a continuous syrupy stream onto the ground. The sorceress begins treading slowly, spilling the substance in a designated pattern. Several feet away, the sorcerer does the same with his own jar of unknown liquid.

"What is that?" someone whispers with an inkling of dread. No one else dares to speak to answer them.

After a few more minutes, the two magic-users finish their ministrations. A gigantic inky black ring consumes the majority of the grounds as the sorcerer and sorceress step back, jars empty in their hands. Tiny detailed runes surround its arcs, neatly drawn and intricately placed.

"The third test," Balinor starts steadily and without emotion, shattering the fragile quiet like glass. "The test of character." With a flick of his wrist, the large hourglass of the second test disappears, only to be replaced by one the size of Merlin's palm. "The black ooze is a potion made from the diluted essence of mandrake roots."

Gasps of disbelief and fright vibrate the air in the area. Merlin sighs heavily as his suspicions are confirmed.

"Wait, isn't that dangerous?" Clar protests, sounding both angry and hysterical.

Balinor answers without missing a beat, "As I said, it's diluted. It'll have no lasting effects on any of you." While the statement may imply that it isn't in any way dangerous, Merlin notices that Balinor fails to explicitly say so. The Court Sorcerer continues over the increasing noise. "As several of you may know, mandrake roots have the ability to read your fears, and show you vivid visions of them. The circle here, once it's activated with an illusion spell, will allow us -" Here, he gestures to his fellow members in the court and to the audience stands. " - to see those visions for ourselves." Then, he adds with a hint of reassurance, "However, as it is diluted, it is not capable of accessing your deepest and worst fears."

At that, some of the tension drains from the applicants' bearings.

"The illusion cannot physically harm you and will be dispelled on touch." Another ripple of relief crests over the grounds. "It will also dissipate once you decide to step out of the circle." He points to the small hourglass. "We want you to stay inside the circle and avoid physical contact with the illusions until the time ends."

Merlin squints at the hourglass. Only a couple of minutes . . . Surely not enough time to make an utter fool of himself . . .

Then, the Court Sorcerer casually releases the words that provoke a wave of confused murmurings. "Of course, that is what we want but not necessarily what is required to pass the test." His assessing gaze glides from one baffled applicant to another, making them fidget. "This is a test of character, not of courage. We don't expect any reckless acts of bravery. We don't expect you to be fearless or to confront the illusions without a flinch."

"Then, Lord Balinor." Morgana arches a brow, steadfast amidst the abrupt attention she garnered. "What exactly do you expect from us?"

Balinor clasps his hands behind his back, a hint of challenge in his expression as he replies, "We expect to see you." He cocks his head and follows it up with a, "That said, the criteria for passing this test is, I'm afraid, quite arbitrary."

Morgana nods in understanding, satisfied. Merlin figures that Balinor's response would be something akin to that; the test's purpose is obviously to glimpse upon the applicants' true selves. The two of them seem to be included in the very few who comprehended the Court Sorcerer's answer.

The applicants exchange uncertain and anxious glances, lost but unwilling to ask the Court Sorcerer for further clarification. They begin mumbling to one another, voicing out their concerns.

"Do you really think this is safe?"

"I don't know but the Court Sorcerer said it's fine so . . ."

"Do you know what it'll show you?"

"Oh dear, I really wish it won't show anything embarrassing . . ."

Theo murmurs, "Oh, it'll definitely show something embarrassing."

"What does it mean, anyway, that it's arbitrary?"

"I think it means if they don't like what they see, you're going to fail."

"Better last until the time ends just in case . . ."

Even the audience members cannot help but discuss and express their worries on the matter. Balinor allows them several moments for their speculations before speaking once more.

"Your names will be called out one by one. We'll activate the circle and you'll be asked to step in."

The Court Sorcerer's shoulders straighten in a determined line. A hint of something grim flashes by his features but it's gone before Merlin can properly identify it. Balinor then lifts a hand towards the marred ground and encants. The runes warp into liquid gold in response, pulsing like a heartbeat. A familiar shriek once again reverberates the air but unlike before, it's severely muted and distant. Merlin grimaces nonetheless, the screech causing his skin to prickle.

"However." The Court Sorcerer begins treading closer to the circle. "Know that I will not ask you to do that which I will not do myself."

With that, he steps inside the circle as if he's merely entering a normal room. The ring suddenly ceases glowing, the runes returning to its blackened state as the flow of magic converges inwards.

Horrified silence ensues. Merlin unknowingly holds his breath.

A giant furless and bony rat suddenly appears inside with Balinor. The applicants nearby yelp and spring farther away from the circle. Some of the audience members, particularly children, scream unabashedly. Perhaps more terrifyingly, Merlin hears someone coo amidst the noise, and another say, "It's adorable!" He opts not to look for the voices' owners.

The rat - the wildren, Merlin recognizes - sniffs the air, large protruding teeth hovering dangerously close to Balinor's head. It's so realistic in its movements and noises that Merlin questions whether it is truly only an illusion. The Court Sorcerer stares impassively at it, not moving an inch. The warlock simultaneously admires and fears Balinor's unshakeable aplomb.

The wildren disappears just as abruptly as it had come to existence. Near the black outlines of the circle, directly opposite the Court Sorcerer, sprawls a woman instead. The woman, looking as young as Merlin himself, wears expensive-looking robes the color of pale sapphire and darned with intricate symbols at the edges. Her long dark hair fans out around a pale angular face, and her hands are splayed carelessly by her sides. Dark cerulean eyes gaze up at blue skies, glassy and unseeing. She lies on the ground, chest still and whole body unmoving.

A spark of recognition niggles the back of the warlock's mind as he observes the woman's features. He has met her in his world, he is sure, and yet he couldn't pinpoint where and when. Not one of his memorable enemies then, if ever . . . Perhaps one of the townspeople he passes by every day on his way to his chores?

His attempts at remembering is the reason why it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that he's staring at a corpse. The epiphany feels akin to a bucket of icy water being chucked over him.

His attention veers to the Court Sorcerer. If Merlin thought Balinor was emotionless before, he was wrong. The Court Sorcerer's face right now resembles the sentinel statues guarding the castles of Camelot. Before, Merlin might have detected a hint of something in the arch of his brows or curve of his lips. Now, all those traces are gone, replaced by pure utter blankness. Merlin doesn't know what to make of it.

The ability to read your fears, and show you vivid visions of them, reverberates in the warlock's mind.

A choked gasp reaches Merlin's ears, and he turns to the source without thinking. Theo's blue eyes are wide and aghast as they take in the scene. "Is that why . . . ? But . . ."

The warlock glances around; most of the applicants, even Morgana and Mordred, appear befuddled regarding the meaning of the scene, indicating their lack of knowledge regarding the woman's identity. Half of the audience looks similarly puzzled while the other half has summarily looked away from the sight, expressions pinched.

Later, Merlin would understand that this behavior meant they were giving the Court Sorcerer a semblance of privacy in the midst of a precarious moment.

The magic-users of court have gone and adopted their previously eerie nonchalant mien. Merlin is about to ask Theo, the only applicant to obviously recognize her, who she is and what her significance is to the Court Sorcerer.

Then, his gaze strays and latches onto something else, stealing the words from his mouth.

Prince Arthur's face mimics that of the Court Sorcerer's, features smooth and cool. His knuckles, however, are white where his fingers grip the armrests of his chair.

Merlin may not know much about Balinor, both versions of him, but the warlock knows a lot about Arthur. King Arthur, anyway. But it seems that fact is enough for him to read the barely caged sorrow raging in Prince Arthur's cold eyes.

Merlin stares, stunned that the first emotion he perceived from the prince is one so strong and adverse. It occurs to him then that what they may be seeing isn't just an illusionary nightmare coming to life but rather a grief-stricken memory from the Court Sorcerer. And maybe for Prince Arthur too.

Before the warlock could observe the mirage further and gather more clues, it disappears, replaced by another just as disturbing.

A tall hooded figure stands in the middle of the circle, cloaked in the blackest garb Merlin has ever seen. Staring at the material is akin to staring into an endless abyss that threatens to swallow the warlock whole. Even with the sun directly shining on the figure, the shadows under the hood refuse to abate, leaving a sinister faceless facade. A chill runs down the warlock's back as he continues gazing at it.

Elise and Mordred hisses at the sight, backing away several steps. Morgana follows them, face guarded. Theo blanches, seemingly frozen on the spot. Several people, applicant or not, convey varying degrees of terror, recoiling and turning away.

The hooded figure begins walking towards the Court Sorcerer, one leather-gloved hand outstretched. The movement evokes a ripple of yells and flinches from everyone. The warlock cannot help but balk himself. Malevolence emanates from the figure, their aura on par with the malicious Morgana of his world.

"As I said," Balinor speaks for the first time since entering the circle, voice as devoid of emotion as his face. He looks as if a very frightening and realistic vision of death itself isn't approaching him with intent. "It's merely an illusion. It's incapable of inflicting physical harm." He lifts a hand and shoves the hooded figure as soon as it's within arm's reach. As soon as his fingertips make contact with the dark cloak, the figure dissipates in inky smoke.

Merlin feels everyone sighing in relief at its disintegration.

Balinor seamlessly step out of the circle, the whole demonstration taking less than a minute. The circle pulses once more in response, symbols glowing. The applicants stare at him, amazed that he could face such frightening visions without so much as a twitch.

"That's Camelot's Court Sorcerer for you, I suppose," a nobleman remarks dazedly.

"I guess even the Court Sorcerer's afraid of the böggel-mann," another says, a drop of terror present in their nervous chuckle.

"Afraid? Did we watch the same thing? There's nothing afraid in the way he handled that!"

"Well, the essence of the mandrake root did show that . . . so he must be the tiniest bit afraid?"

The böggel-mann? Merlin mouths the word to himself, having heard it clearly amidst the mutterings. The term exists even in his own realm; it's a creature used by parents to scare their children into behaving. You should finish all your chores or the böggel-mann will get you! Oh, don't stay out too late; the böggel-mann lurks in the night, waiting for children like you to get lost! The böggel-mann eats disobedient children! It's a mythical tale, and one every adult knows does not truly exist.

Merlin thinks back to the malefic figure in black. Does the böggel-mann actually exist in this world, terrorizing citizens in every kingdom? The notion simultaneously intrigues and appalls him.

Any further musing on his part is disrupted, when, just a few seconds later, Lady Jayden enters the enclosure. The ring shifts into charcoal-color once more in preparation. Surprise flits by the Court Sorcerer's expression at the happenstance. Lord Dalion visibly rolls his eyes.

Lady Jayden cocks a brow and says, "Just like Lord Balinor, I won't have you do something I'm not willing to do myself."

Shockingly, just like Balinor, a sniffing wildren is the first to appear for her. There are less screams this time, the people watching more prepared. Lady Jayden wrinkles her nose but looks otherwise unperturbed by the creature. A few seconds later, the wildren disappears without a fuss.

A man with a halo of blonde curls spawns next, on his knees and clutching a bleeding wound on his chest. He turns their wide agony-filled eyes to Lady Jayden, pleading for help. Exclamations resound in the area at his blood-soaked appearance.

Lady Jayden presses her lips into a tight line, staring at the man with a hint of pain. Her hands are twisted into fists by her sides. It's obviously taking a lot of effort for her not to move an inch, not to go nearer and heed the pleas.

Merlin looks closer as familiarity flares again in his mind. Unlike before, however, he is able to put a name to the face almost immediately. Edwin Muirden, with one side of his face scarred by the fires that burnt his parents, is one of the first sorcerers Merlin had encountered and defeated during his first year in Camelot. Edwin is also the first person to teach Merlin that being a naive sorcerer in Camelot would get you and your loved ones killed.

Now, it is Edwin Muirden's unblemished face that is currently twisted in undeniable pain. Merlin returns his astounded gaze to Lady Jayden; what exactly is her relationship with the Edwin of this realm?

The illusions fizzles out after several seconds, and Lady Jayden backs out of the circle in one giant gait. As soon as the sorceress is out, Lord Dalion takes his turn. The action prompts Balinor to lift a delicate brow, seemingly astonished with the turn of events but making no motion to stop it.

A serket and a heartbreaking scene with a dying little girl later, Lord Dalion stalks out of the circle with a blank face but pale pallor. Lord Mavin bravely steps in next.

On it goes, the twenty-four sorcerers and sorceresses of court nonchalantly slipping inside the beaming runes. They exit with not-so-nonchalant faces. Merlin supposes it's difficult to be absolutely aloof after seeing scenes depicting frightening creatures or bleeding loved ones.

The audience are torn between wishing to watch the proceedings and wishing to look away to make it less awkward for the magic-user inside the circle. The applicants, meanwhile, has no qualms in observing the whole process keenly; hopefully, they'll extract a viable technique on how to deal with the phantoms appearing inside. Unfortunately, however, it seems there are none - no tricks, no loopholes, and no further help. It is as straightforward as Balinor advised.

"Be careful what you wish for, they always say," Theo mutters with exasperation. Merlin almost laughs out loud because wishes are exactly what brought him here.

Merlin, along with the other applicants, fully realizes just what they will be revealing as soon as they enter the ring. The naked vulnerability, the idea of being practically exposed in front of dozens of eyes, the petrifying truths that they themselves may be denying . . .

Cold dread trickles down Merlin's stomach. What will the illusions show with him in the circle? He side-eyes the two magic-users beside him. Morgana or Modred attacking him? Camelot's castle in ruins? The Dorocha, the wild griffin, the Afanc, or any of the terrifying creatures Merlin has fought? Nimueh, with cold blue eyes, summoning a fireball? Morgause, with the moue of utter hatred, lunging for him? The possibilities are endless. More than anything, however, Merlin fears the illusions might reveal a little too much of his origins.

"I don't think I can do this," Elise confesses quietly, mouth turned downward.

"It's the last test," Morgana soothes, offering her a soft smile. The tightness around her eyes, however, belies her own anxiety. "I'm certain it'll be over before you know it."

Theo cocks a brow at that, doubt and worry written in every inch of his face. Although Mordred has adapted another unaffected visage, tension lines the set of his shoulders. Merlin takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Morgana is right about one thing: it is the last test. He can't turn back now. If the illusions divulge something strange for the people in this realm, he just need to invent an explanation quickly.

And I face my fears everyday, don't I? The warlock ruefully thinks of the pyre, of lying to his friends' faces, of bantering with Arthur and wondering if that will be the last day he will get to do so.

Half an hour later, the last sorcerer of court backs out of the circle. "Now that our respective demonstrations over -" The Court Sorcerer shoots the magic-users of court an unamused glance; clearly, only Balinor was supposed to show how the third test worked. " - let us begin with yours."

A sorcerer with long dark curls and sheafs of paper on both hands comes up beside Balinor. He mindlessly and speedily shuffles the parchments, the articles shimmying and crunching in protest. The sorcerer finally halts his ministrations, clears his throat, and calls out the first name on the parchment on top, "Danali of Obina Village!"

The applicants and audience glance around, looking for the first victim of the third test. After several seconds, a short-haired woman in cream-colored frills staggers forward. She has a look of understandable panic as she draws closer to the circle. The Court Sorcerer flips the tiny hourglass as soon as her feet are placed firmly inside.

At the sight of several large red-bellied snakes, she yelps and hurriedly backs away. She accidentally withdraws out of the circle.

"Um. I'll try again," she says sheepishly.

"Oh, no need," Lady Jayden replies, offering her an understandable smile as the sorceress herself twists the barely trickled hourglass back to its previous state. "I think that would be enough."

Danali slinks away with a grimace, no doubt commiserating over her not-so-stellar performance during the test. Another applicant pats her back in consolation as she rejoins the group.

The sorcerer with the parchments leafs through the next document, through the next casualty. "Theo of Drefir!"

Mordred, Morgana, Elise, and Merlin turn to the owner of the name. The gray-haired man startles. Then, he lifts the bowl of soup in his hand and finishes it in one giant gulp like a tankard of mead.

Theo lets go of the empty bowl, and rolls his shoulders. "Wish me luck," he quips in a false cheery tone before marching forward.

The hourglass starts the time and Theo drags himself inside the runes.

The böggel-mann materializes not even a full second later in all its black sinister glory, reappearing for the first time since Balinor's demonstration. Theo flinches violently, almost recoiling out of the circle. Thankfully, he manages to keep himself still at the last moment. His fingers curl into tight shaky fists, blue eyes darting everywhere but the vision in front of him.

Merlin's gaze slides to the Court Sorcerer and Prince Arthur. Both stare at the illusion with scarily impassive faces even as the rest of people shirk away.

"What is the böggel-mann?" Merlin can't help but ask, curiosity nearly overwhelming him. In the ring, the böggel-mann begins gliding towards Theo in slow unhurried treads.

"Not what but who," Mordred replies, attention still on the spectacle before them. He gives the warlock a sidelong glance, tone casual as he remarks, "It seems you've lived an awfully sheltered life, Merlin."

The warlock tries not to let alarm show on his face. "W-Well, yeah, somewhat. My mother was overprotective, and our village is really isolated." None of those things are, technically, lies.

Theo dashes to the other side of the circle, ensuring he's as far away from the hooded creature as possible. The vision follows him like a haunting ghost.

Mordred hums, displaying no hint whatsoever as to whether he believed Merlin's lies or not. Fortunately, he continues his elaboration, "The böggel-mann is merely an epithet. No one mentions him by name; it's said to bring bad luck."

The böggel-mann is a person, not a magical creature of darkness or chaos. Somehow, that fact makes it - him - much more disturbing. Merlin halts his line of questioning, suddenly feeling that just knowing more about this supposed böggel-mann will attract (more) trouble for him. It's not the warlock's business, anyways.

In the circle, the böggel-mann has finally disappeared. Instead, it's replaced by an apparition of a white-haired young woman convulsing on the ground. Theo releases a choked sound that might have been a name, and unhesitatingly drops to his knees by her side. As soon as his hand makes contact with the woman, she fizzles out in smoke. Theo stares at the spot where she laid with wide unnerved eyes.

"Thank you, Theo of Drefir. You may exit," Lady Jayden says amiably, flipping the hourglass again. Half of the sand had already been at the bottom.

Theo gets to his feet and exits the circle with a jerky nod. Behind him, the symbols glow once more, asking for the next prey.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," the gray-haired man informs them with a wobbly smile. "Could've been worse, really."

They all merely nod in sympathy.

"Orphel Williams!"

A nobleman with a mop of light brown hair walks ahead. He straightens his garments, takes a deep breath, and declares with confidence, "I forfeit my application for this year's Apprentice Exam."

Exclamations follow his proclamation, applicants giving him scandalized looks.

"No shame in that," Lady Jayden assures them firmly. "You may opt to stay in the grounds until the test is over if you wish."

Orphel nods, not at all bothered by all the gawking. "I do wish it." Without another word, he swivels around and away from the circle.

Half of the applicants stare at him dubiously while others appear contemplative. Merlin admits that professing one's shortcomings in front of hundreds of people also takes a certain kind of courage.

"Francs Heloise!"

Another nobleman drags himself into the circle, face a mesh of anxiousness. One by one, applicants take their turns in exposing their fears in front of several seemingly judgmental eyes. The illusion are never too gory or disgusting but their lifelike movements and sounds do little to remind the applicant of their safety. An angry guardian sprinting towards them, a dying dog whimpering its last, a tsunami of water cresting over, a deep pit slowly crumbling the ground underneath, a ghostly image with far too many teeth . . . The warlock stares with awe and trepidation as nightmares upon nightmares spring into existence. More than one magic-user accidentally perform enchantments in an attempt to keep the illusions away. Unfortunately for them, the spells merely bounce off of the visions without much effect.

The audience watches in rapture, some making quiet gasps of surprise with every frightening imagery.

A couple of the applicants manage to keep themselves inside the circle and touch nothing in it until the time ran out. They are met with raucous applause from the observers in the stands as soon as they step out. The magic-users of court give them worthy nods of acknowledgement. Fi and Cava accomplish such a feat, getting through the third test with the hourglass emptied out at the bottom. Clar, who has faced a crumbling castle wall and crawling scorpions with a practiced sneer, also succeeds in fulfilling the Court Sorcerer's requirements.

The böggel-mann resurfaces a few more times, and each of those who summoned him fails to last long. None can even look directly at him, preferring to blindlessly run around him. Merlin wonders how one singular person can evoke such terror in so many hearts. He fights down a shudder at the potential answers. He hopes, for this realm's sake, that this böggel-mann gets caught sooner rather than later.

Since the precedent has been set, more than fifteen applicants have actually dropped from the Apprentice Exam, deciding not to submit themselves to the ordeal that is the third test. The warlock can't help but breathe out a sigh of relief each time; with the applicants decreasing, his chances of being chosen are increasing.

From Merlin little circle, Elise's name is selected next. Despite her earlier lack of confidence, she pushes through and refuses to forfeit, even though she does dither for quite a while.

A wall of fire, a dying baker, and a revolting mass of maggots later, Elise withdraws from the circle, only a tiny bit pale. Applause ensues, seeing as the hourglass has run its course. Elise beams and practically skips back to the other applicants.

"Well done," Theo congratulates with a grin.

"I thought it would show worse, to be honest," Elise says with a wince. "Not that those things were easy to face . . ."

Their conversation stops when the next applicant is named: "Mordred of the Forest of Engred?"

The said druid's back straightens abruptly, shoulders tensing. He gives the others a solemn nod before striding towards the runed ring. The hourglass pitches downward and the countdown starts as Mordred casually steps inside.

A young woman with a sharp nose and long brown locks stands demurely in the middle of the circle. She dons tattered druidic robes the color of a clear lake. Her humble appearance doesn't match the absolutely manic and mocking grin stretching her lips wide, and her cobalt eyes hold twin drops of malice.

Mordred doesn't look surprised at the vision. His cool azure eyes bore through the woman as if he's trying to freeze her on the spot. Nonetheless, the illusion begins marching towards him, expression not faltering in the slightest. Mordred carefully side-steps her attempts to reach him, keeping his hands folded upon his back. Merlin sort of feels like he's watching a dance, albeit one where the two partners are avoiding any contact with one another.

The woman abruptly disappears after several seconds of the chase.

Then, Mordred finds himself facing an exact image of himself, in the same stance, clothing and mien. The druid's eyes widen fractionally, countenance becoming more wary and hands falling to his sides. His cloned image slowly begins to smirk, a tint of mania slipping in his youthful features. Mordred backs away from him - it. It follows, stride confident and unhurried. Its eyes blaze a bright golden color. Suddenly, bodies are strewn inside the circle, all bloodied and motionless. Mordred's twin image is marred with splatters of blood itself - in its hair, cheeks, tunic, hands. All the while, its grin has turned wider and borderline insane.

Mordred takes in the scene with eerie tranquility. His jaw clenches. As calm as the eye of the storm, the druid then places his right foot back, and leaves the circle in one smooth move. The illusions vanish, and a few moments of stunned silence settle over the area.

Merlin blinks rapidly, not knowing how to interpret what he has just seen. The vision is fictitious, that the warlock is certain of, because he doubts the court of Camelot would allow the druid to walk free if it's not. Is Mordred capable of all that? Or does he only fear that he might be? Again, the warlock recalls the prophecies in his own world and wonders whether there are similar prophecies in this world about Mordred, about the devastation he will bring to the kingdom of Camelot.

Lady Jayden clears her throat and resets the hourglass. "Thank you, Mordred of the Forest of Engred."

Mordred nods gravely and returns to the other applicants. Most of them give him uncertain glances and a wide berth, their attitude towards the druid not unlike their behavior towards Merlin now.

"Wasn't that bad, really," Theo attempts to comfort as the next applicant is called. His smile resembles a grimace more than an actual smile.

"The illusions have shown worse earlier," Elise tries afterwards, looking as unconvinced as she sounds.

Mordred says nothing, and seems to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. His expression, as usual, reveals little but Merlin sees, in the cracks of his mask, the undeniable rattled quality to his whole visage.

And for the first time since Merlin has been transported into this unknown unfamiliar world, he sees not the man who's destined to end his best friend, not the druid who killed men with an angry shout, but rather the injured child lost and mute in the markets.

"It's only natural to be apprehensive, I think," Merlin says quietly, looking at the applicant currently being tested but not really seeing them. "Especially when we know we're more than capable enough to inflict hurt." At this, his eyes can't help but stray to Morgana in remembrance of the incident earlier. He immediately snaps them away, and, by chance, locks eyes with Mordred. Merlin offers a wan smile and shrugs in an attempt to be nonchalant, in an attempt to hide that he had worried (is still worrying? 'I'm not a monster, am I?') about the same thing. "It's good to be aware and wary of our strength. Makes us think before we act."

The druid casts a considering glance at the warlock as if the words are the last thing he expects to hear from Merlin. Merlin feels a tad offended; he says wise and profound things all the time! Although perhaps not so much in the past few days, seeing as he is clueless of the realms's workings.

"Well said, Merlin," Morgana remarks approvingly with a soft smile. She places a gentle hand over Mordred's shoulder. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. The exam is meant to test your mettle, and I should think you've done more than enough to prove your worth in the third test."

The ghost of a smile lifts the druid's lips. Again, he says naught a word in reply but he nods to all four of them in gratitude. They offer no more advice, letting the druid gather his thoughts.

After three more applicants, another familiar name echoes. "Morgana Le Fay?"

The aforementioned sorceress inhales deeply before gracefully strolling towards the pulsing circle. Merlin feels the mounting interests of the townspeople in the stands, the applicants on the grounds, and the court's magic-users scattered around. The warlock can't help but lean forward himself as the Morgana easily enters the ring.

Merlin breathes in sharply when the solemn image of Morgause emerges, dressed in extravagant but practical hunting gear. This Morgana is afraid of her own sister? He observes that many of those in court wear similarly astonished faces, clearly recognizing the apparition. The illusion arches a condescending brow at Morgana. By her sides, Morgana's fingers twitch for a brief moment. They both stare at each other for a long while, silent and expectant.

After several seconds of standstill, Morgana blinks.

As if on cue, Morgause snarls, face transforming into something less than human. Her hands curl into claws, long nails heading towards Morgana's neck. Morgana freezes for a split second, emerald eyes widening. She snaps herself out of the trance and begins running to the side to avoid the assault. However, it's too late; the illusion's fingers graze her skin, and Morgause's image dissipates with nary a trace. Morgana stares at the spot where the illusion has dissipated with blank eyes.

Then, she summarily composes herself; she smoothes out the creases in her dress and cloak before exiting the circle.

"Thank you, Morgana Le Fay," Lady Jayden says in the same cordial tone as before. The next applicant is called without further fuss.

Morgana takes up her previous spot beside Merlin and sighs heavily. "That was disappointing, wasn't it?"

"A bit," Theo admits with a careless shrug. "You still lasted longer than me though." He doesn't seem too bothered by this fact.

Morgana replies, shaking her head slightly, "I suppose we'll just have to see in the choosing ceremony."

Mordred's face shifts into something a tad grim. Theo bites the inside of his cheek and crosses his arms. Elise herself worries the hem of her sleeves, eyes darting to the magic-users of court. They all have been confident regarding their status after the second test. After taking the third test, however, their spirits have drastically plummeted.

The choosing ceremony? The warlock's gaze slides to the Court Sorcerer; the man himself has adopted an almost bored bearing as he watches the applicants get scared out of their wits. Merlin pulls his eyes away, ridding himself of the ludicrous thought that crossed his mind. Laughable, really, he thinks ruefully to himself, rubbing the back of his bare neck. He has made a mess of things at the latter part of the second test, and barely figured out the trick of the first. Perhaps he can redeem himself during the third test? Then maybe . . .

A shout freezes the blood in his veins. The warlock abruptly realizes that, even though he has been provided ample time, he has lost the opportunity to prepare himself for his turn. Arthur is right; he really is an idiot sometimes.

"Merlin of Ealdor!"

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Chapter Text

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The Court Sorcerer feels the interest of every person in the training grounds spiking tenfold as the name loudly resounds throughout the area. All, especially his fellow magic-users in court, collectively lean forward, countenance brimming with anticipation. Balinor himself would admit that he’s more keen to see the results of this particular applicant’s test than most of them. 

The owner of the name bristles, eyes guilelessly wide. After a moment, he snaps himself out of his trance and clumsily staggers towards the drawn ring. Every eye follows him.

The tests in every Apprentice Exam have always served a two-fold purpose. In this year, the test of luck was, firstly, supposed to evaluate the applicants’ wits. Secondly, it aimed to show whether they, nobles and commoners alike, can overcome the disadvantages of their birthright. While many know the handicaps of being born into a peasant family, very few realizes that growing up in a noble household has its own drawbacks. Complacency runs prominent among most noblemen and noblewomen, their dependency on their status hindering the development of any skills irrelevant to politics or academics. They also tend to underestimate those who they view as lesser, which is an attitude that may prove fatal in their later years and an attitude that’s barely tolerated in Camelot’s court.

If the applicants fail to think for themselves, however, then their luck may come to play. Those who solved the puzzle may, after all, choose not to share the solution with their fellow applicants. It was exactly what some of the nobles did during the first exam, opting to be tight-lipped once they’ve figured it out. It was the exact opposite of what this Merlin did with his group; the boy had decided to share the answer with others, and ensured the success of all.

The second test intended to assess the applicants’ current magical knowledge, and examine their aptitude for learning magical concepts foreign to them; the latter skill being far more important than the former in the court’s eyes. It doesn’t matter how much they’ve learned in the past; if they are unable to absorb new material, then it would be useless to take them as apprentices. The test of magic also had the added bonus of seeing each applicant’s ability to work with others. From the start, Balinor and the others had planned to offer their expertise an hour into the test, after watching the applicants scurry around by themselves. Of course, only half-an-hour in, their ruse had been discovered by one brazen applicant.

Now, the said applicant is about to take the third test — a test that is partially designed with someone like him in mind.

The last test had been a source of great contention among those in court. The idea sparked from Dalion, who initially suggested that they create a frightening golem that’ll chase the applicants around the grounds. Ivaìr had protested that applicants merely needed to work together and the golem can easily be destroyed, rendering the test useless for their desired purpose. The discussion then revolved around using illusions. The problem was to decide on one singular image that can put even the littlest of fear in each and every applicant.

Balinor knew the first thing that crossed all of their minds. A fluttering cloak the color of a starless night. A face perpetually shrouded in a deep cowl, one no one alive has glimpsed upon. A garbled voice sending chills to anyone who’s unlucky enough to hear it.

None of them said it out loud, not with him in earshot.

Jayden had then cleared her throat to dispel the awkward silence and said, “Well, I think applicants will fear different things so why don’t we just show illusions tailored to each of them?”

On that note, Mavin lightly suggested using mandrake roots. The vehement argument that ensued spanned almost an hour. In the end, all of them — half of them rather reluctantly, including Balinor himself — agreed that it was the best course of action for the year’s Apprentice Exam. Concessions were made and extra steps were taken to ensure that it was safe as possible; the essence of mandrake roots were to be diluted, the illusions can’t display too graphically gory scenes, the visions would allow realistic sounds but would be unable to say anything close to coherent.

Of course, there were some unpreventable downsides. While diluted mandrake essence is incapable of accessing one’s deepest fears, it can sometimes pluck out someone’s surface thoughts and use those. Balinor and the others had debated whether to divulge this fact or not. Eventually, they chose not to because to tell applicants not to think of the things they don’t want to see would be rather counterintuitive. On the other hand, it seems keeping such information a secret had not helped some of them.

It is, mayhaps, partially his fault. When they tested the circle a few weeks before, Balinor had consistently seen a wildren and a swarm of bees. He had never expected to see —

He knows not why the illusions changed for him, now of all time. His demonstration had placed the very image that they had hoped to avoid at the forefront of the applicants’ minds, causing some of them to struggle against a perturbing vision.

It matters not, he supposes. The only way to truly fail the test to not take it at all. At this point in the exam, those of court are already eyeing the applicants they’ll be choosing. They just want to see their chosen’s attitude towards adversity, towards things the applicants think they would not be able to overcome, and the third test will show them exactly that. To be an apprentice under Camelot’s flag is not for the faint of heart.

The third test’s other and subtler goal is to humanize the participants in front of the very people they’ve impressed. Balinor glances at the audience stands.

In every Apprentice Exam, they have always aimed to include such an aspect. Throughout all the extraordinary and exciting enchantments the applicants perform with vigor, it’s good to remind the people watching and the applicants themselves that they are no different than anyone — that magic makes no person more than or less than human.

And with this Merlin’s astounding performance at every turn, the Court Sorcerer knows that people need more reminder with him than the others.

The boy’s eyes flit to Balinor. The Court Sorcerer, in turn, raises a brow. The boy sighs and looks away. Then, he steps inside the circle in one decisive move. The glowing runes take on a dark hue as they work their magic inwards.

Jayden starts the hourglass.

The first vision appears, and Balinor straightens up in alarm. Beside him, the other magic-users of court draw in a sharp breath.

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Merlin’s four companions send him off with encouraging looks and gestures. It bolsters the warlock slightly but still does little to prevent his racing heart from beating out of his chest.

It doesn’t help that Merlin can feel hundreds of eyes intensely stabbing him with every step. He belatedly wishes the return of the opaque dome shield around the grounds. That way, he doesn’t have to be conscious of the audience as he takes the test. But he figures the reason for its disappearance is for the applicants to be conscious of exactly that, making the third test much harder than it is.

He stumbles towards the circle, mind whirring in preparation whatever it might show him. He glances at the Court Sorcerer, half-hoping that Balinor has summarily fallen asleep on his feet and will thus be missing Merlin’s turn in embarrassing himself. No such luck.

The warlock abruptly decides that he really just need to get this over with. He rids himself of any hesitation, takes a solid breath, and hops inside.

All right. Merlin exhales the breath he has been holding as soon the first vision pops into existence before him.

He hears a ripple of shocked gasps and concerned exclamations from everyone watching. He represses the urge to turn and look, eyes steadily on the vision of a hissing creature just in case it attempts to touch him.

“What is that?” one applicant asks, aghast.

“Hell if I know.”

“I've never seen the likes of it before.”

“It looks completely terrifying.”

Merlin understands their confusion and alarm. After all, when Merlin first saw it, he himself was utterly petrified and flabbergasted. Merlin doubts anyone would feel anything else when a beast the size of a house with a head of cobra and a body similar to lion with spots begins chasing you through the undergrowth. Attached to the image of this creature are also several severely bad memories for him.

— Arthur, wan and unconscious, being carried through the courtyard —

— Nimueh, smiling with red-painted lips, holding out a golden chalice —

— His mother, covered in boils, collapsing on the floorboard with wheezing breaths —

— His chest, scorched and raw, with the smell of burning flesh permeating the air —

— A scream, a lightning bolt, and tiny chunks of gore flying through the air —

— Gaius, unmoving against the altar, and oh gods, he was too late, too late —

Merlin winces and quickly swipes away the unbidden flashes in his mind before it could consume him.

But that’s it. The creature may have been the precedence of an atrocious period of his life but was never at all harmful or relevant after that. The warlock had easily defeated it after a spell and a flying sword. Merlin has certainly battled against much worse, and gained much worse injuries in doing so.

All in all, for a first vision, it truly is tame and unrevealing. Surely, as a creature of the Old Religion, the vision before him exists even in this realm. It would, therefore, not be strange to know and to fear. Merlin can ask for no better.

Inside the circle, the illusion’s forked tongue slithers out from between rows of fangs, slitted eyes narrowing as they continue to assess the prey in front of it. The creature makes no further actions except to continuously flick its tail. Merlin’s eyes are cautiously drawn to the movement, anticipating any kind of attack.

A headache lances through his head the moment his gaze settled on the general direction of the tail. He frowns in extreme bafflement, pupils trying to fasten to that certain area but unable to do so. His eyes keep shying away, redirecting themselves to the ground on the left or on the right of it.

What? He lifts a hand to rub his temples. He glances around and notes that he is able to look at anything else without a problem.

Then, the seething creature vanishes, the air sizzles, and the second illusion appears before him.

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The Questing Beast.

Balinor has only seen depictions of it in ancient texts, ones written so long ago that facts had turned into myths.

The appearance of the Questing Beast foreshadows a time of great upheaval, the tomes have warned.

Even knowing that it’s merely an illusion, staring at the lifelike monstrous hybrid sends a drop of dread rolling down his spine. In front of him stands a simulacrum of a creature that carries the Old Religion’s magic over life and death. The vision is much too vivid, much too precise to simply be something etched on paper.

This boy — this Merlin — has not only seen a real living Questing Beast but lived to tell the tale.

“Where the hell did this boy encounter a dratted Questing Beast?” Dalion has barely kept his voice in a whisper, his whole demeanor agitated. The others of court fare no better, seeing as all of them know the implications of the beast in front of them

Indeed, isn’t that the golden question? When? Recently? Where? Within Camelot’s borders? How? The inquiries threaten to pour out of him in succession. Balinor wants nothing more than to find answers and find them as soon as possible. The Court Sorcerer looks to the audience stands where he’s certain that Ris and his knights are watching avidly, and where, incidentally, another much more capable observer sits hidden in the crowds. Balinor is careful not to gaze directly at the latter’s location, no matter how much he desires to know what they have garnered so far. They’ll reconvene later anyway, and perhaps Camelot’s Spymaster might have some important insight on the matter.

For now, Balinor’s eyes hone in on the applicant who caused such a fuss and who holds all the answers.

A De Bois sigil, the ability to shatter measuring crystals, the knowledge of advanced spells yet the lack of proper training, the practically violent reaction to a mere spell combination, and now, a Questing Beast. The mysteries just keep on piling up with no real answers in sight. That interrogation that Ygraine suggested is becoming more and more likely, although Balinor doubts he’ll be able to do it as discreetly as she had hoped.

The Court Sorcerer sees relief flits by the boy’s face, as if he’s glad to not be dealing with something much worse.

Who on earth are you, Merlin of Ealdor?

Something in the air shifts, and Balinor bristles. He surreptitiously glances around, looking for anything amiss. Nothing unusual pops in sight and no one else seems to be bothered, seeing as they’re all focused on the applicant inside the circle. It’s no surprise; a second illusion has replaced the first. Although it’s less disturbing in appearance, it is more perturbing in its implication.

However, Balinor fails to give it his full attention now. Something has changed in the area, and his instincts are screaming at him to find it.

Where? What? What is it?

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Merlin blinks rapidly, jaw slack.

Directly opposite him, feet barely inches away from the blackened arc of the circle, calmly stands himself. It bears his exact resemblance — from the chin to the cheekbones and ears.

All right, maybe Merlin should have seen this coming. After Mordred’s turn, the warlock has suspected in the deepest recesses of his mind that something similar will happen to him. Unlike with Mordred, however, Merlin’s twin image adorns different garments than the one he’s currently wearing; it wears a dirty-white tunic, light brown trousers, and shiny dark boots. Merlin doesn’t think he owns any attire even remotely similar to those. In fact, the only familiar piece of clothing is the ratty red neckerchief tied around its neck.

The clone tilts its head at him, dark blue eyes frosty and blank. The action sends a chill down Merlin’s spine. While Mordred’s double displayed a blatantly obvious threat through its aggressive movements and insane expressions, his twin, on the other hand, emanates callousness and apathy on every miniscule gesture.

The clone eyes the warlock like he’s seeing through him — like it has already assessed him and found him not even worth looking at.

Merlin swallows audibly. It’s not that frightening but it's definitely disconcerting. He shifts on his heel, silently begging the illusion to stay as it is and not to get worse like Mordred’s.

The warlock blinks, eyes closing for the briefest of moments. When he next opens them, the clone’s inscrutable face fills his whole vision. It now stands just inches away from him, their breaths intermingling due to close proximity. The warlock inhales sharply as his heart almost explodes out of his chest. At the last second, he fights down the ripple of magic that instinctively desires to defend him; he knows any physically offensive spell will be useless on an illusion.

The wave of gasps that resounds around the grounds denotes similarly frightened reactions to the instantaneous movement.

The warlock immediately begins leaning away, eyes down as he ensures he doesn’t accidentally step out of the circle. It may be too late as the illusion is already reaching out with spindly fingers. But Merlin tries to dodge nonetheless, and hopes for the best.

Then, a cool solid hand cages the warlock’s arm in a tight unbreakable grip.

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Balinor’s eyes catches on to the irregularity he has desperately been searching for. His gaze has glazed over it several times in his hunt for something afoot. But through sheer luck and persistence, he finally found it.

He frowns, utterly befuddled. After a second, the implications sink in and ice races through his veins. In a tiny portion of the mandrake circle’s circumference, a sketched rune has been altered and smudged almost unnoticeably. With that certain etching destroyed, it’s impossible for the illusion spell to still be active. Balinor reaches out with his magic, and confirms the lack of a spell around and in the circle.

The Court Sorcerer’s head snaps up, heart stopping for a beat. Whatever is with Merlin in that circle is no illusion.

Balinor lifts his arm, hazel eyes flaring gold.

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Merlin looks down at the still visible and still present hand clasps around his forearm with the most bewildered expression.

Someone in the crowd demands “What? Why isn’t the illusion vanishing?”, voicing out the same question on everyone’s face.

In Merlin’s mind, warning bells are ringing. He abrasively tugs his arm back but the illusion’s grip holds true.

Then, it opens its mouth and says with Merlin’s voice, “Let’s see what you really are, shall we?” Curiosity drips from its very tone even as its expression remains deadened.

The warlock’s wide-eyed gaze whips to the clone. None of the other illusions have ever spoken; they produced groans or roars but not one of them has ever uttered a sentence. All the hairs in Merlin’s body rise, his instincts screaming at him. This time, the warlock opts to listen to it.

A shlik sound vibrates in the air, and metal glints in the afternoon light. The illusion tries to pull him closer with one hand while the other speedily directs a curved dagger in the air.

Instinctively and in panic, Merlin slows down time. Every sound becomes muted and every movement sluggish. But impossibly, the hand holding the weapon is barely affected, still going by speeds too fast for Merlin to completely follow. The warlock gapes, having never encountered something even slightly impervious to this certain spell before.

Merlin hastily steps away to elude, and simultaneously unleashes an angry gust of wind just as time resumes. The blade loses its momentum and direction but not before bequeathing an inch-deep cut upon Merlin’s left side. Merlin hisses, and the clone’s eyes widen fractionally in stifled surprise. Merlin’s hand flies over the wound in an attempt to soothe the burning and stinging sensation. Merlin supposes he should be thankful the dagger merely grazed him instead of achieving its goal — which, judging by the angle and speed, was to bury itself in the spot underneath his ribs.

The warlock’s spell propels his clone away just as another force lifts Merlin’s feet off the ground and drags him out of the circle. The clone crosses its arms in front of its face and torso to shield against the lashing winds. It stumbles, boots making indents on the ground as the assault shoves it several feet backwards. Everyone gawks as it skids to a halt several inches outside of the circle with the illusion spell.

Merlin roughly bumps into someone, the spell hauling him away finally ceasing. He bites down a whimper as the impact jostles his wound. Callused hands grasp his shoulders and turns him around.

The Court Sorcerer’s hazel eyes runs over the warlock’s whole body, taking in the hunched posture and the bloody fingers covering his right side. Balinor’s expression darkens. He passes Merlin over to Lady Jayden and Lord Mavin, who promptly attend to his wound.

“It’s just a scratch,” the warlock insists distractedly as they pry his hand away from the injury. The thing that wears his face and almost stabbed him has stolen most of his attention. Merlin is certain now that it’s no sort of illusion. Then, what is it? A person that sneaked into the grounds? Someone who looks exactly like the warlock himself . . .

The magic-users of court begin clustering together with hurried jerky movements. They stand alongside their Court Sorcerer, countenance hostile against the unexpected intruder. At this time, half of the audience have stood up, peering down to get a better look at the situation.

“What happened?”

“I think someone’s been hurt!”

“Merlin? Merlin!”

“They said it was safe!”

“That’s not an illusion.”

“What the hell is going on!?”

Meanwhile, all the applicants trade confused and increasingly frightened looks. Slowly, a sort of realization dawns on them, and they dash away to ensure they are far away from the inexplicable illusion. Most of them seek refuge behind the wall of grim-faced full-fledged magic-users that has formed. Lord Dalion beckons and guides them, ensuring the applicants are safe behind those of court.

Prince Arthur shoots out of his seat, and easily jumps over the barrier between the stands and the grounds. Merlin’s eyes are naturally drawn to the movement, and his feet moved almost automatically to approach and stand beside Arthur in the face of potential danger. Fortunately, Lady Jayden’s order of “Stay still” knocks him back to his senses.

Instead, the warlock watches from a distance as the prince wrests the curious cylindrical item from his waist. It’s twice the size of Prince Arthur’s palm and almost as thick as a tankard. The prince presses something in its side, and briskly shakes the whole thing. Merlin realizes with amazement the article is a foldable contraption; the wood quickly springs open in a series of soft clicks, revealing a long curved article with a tense string tied at both ends. A thinner piece, tipped with a sharpened obsidian metal, separates from the rest with a pop, and Prince Arthur snatches it in the air without breaking his gaze away from the possible threat.

In less than three breaths since he landed on the grounds, the prince smoothly nocks a feathered arrow onto a longbow and aims it at the unknown specter.

Merlin stares. He has seen Arthur use a bow and arrow before but only once or twice, and only during knights’ training. It's hardly his best friend’s first choice of weapon.

“Reveal yourself!” Balinor roars as he pelts out a spell, sounding indescribably furious. Merlin wide-eyed stare whips to him, detecting a hint of the power that commands dragons underlining the vehement tone.

The non-illusion, still composing itself after Merlin’s assault, is unable to completely evade Balinor’s enchantment. It staggers back as it’s hit directly by the spell. Annoyance sweeps by its face, an expression that is both familiar and foreign to Merlin — familiar because he sees it on reflective surfaces, and foreign because he has never seen it outside of them.

Merlin reels back when that same face begins rippling unnaturally, transforming and molding into something else entirely.

It's a disguise, Merlin realizes abruptly, although he should’ve probably guessed it from the start. Something similar to relief blooms inside him, although he can’t exactly explain why.

However, before the transformation could even properly begin, the non-illusion swiftly reaches an arm over one shoulder and unveils a familiar-looking cloak from seemingly out of nowhere.

Merlin’s stomach twists because the cloak is made from the darkest black he has ever laid his eyes upon — a hue that has become more and more familiar during the third test.

Silence deafens the whole training grounds as the non-illusion shrouds itself and its features in the smothering shadows of the cloak’s hood.

Balinor’s eyes widen, a look of pure stupor settling over his slack face. Everyone else seems to be in similar condition, bodies paralyzed with either fright or shock.

Then, the Court Sorcerer’s features turn as dark as night, and a word filled with unadulterated contempt falls from his sneering lips. “Wracu.”

Three things happen at once.

An arrow whizzes loudly in the air, the string in Prince Arthur’s bow vibrating aggressively in the aftermath. A fireball the size of the sun swirls into existence over Balinor’s head, and the Court Sorcerer throws it towards the cloaked figure in one emphatic wave. Someone in the audience screams, “It’s the bloody böggel-mann!” and violently shatters the quiet.

The dark-cloaked phantom quickly waves leather-gloved hands in a large arc, and a thick golden shield envelopes it in the nick of time. The spinning fireball and speeding arrow hit the barrier with a dull roar and a loud clang. The arrow’s obsidian tip fails to pierce, and the fireball smothers itself out after mere seconds.

Wails erupt from the audience stands, and hysteria grips each and everyone in sight. Chaos descends upon them.

“Is it real? Is it really him?”

“Run, run, run, bloody run!”

“Go, go, go, get out of my way!”

“Scite, scite, scite!”

Members of the audience bolt to the exits, shoving each other in terror. Guardians and parents hold their children protectively, uncaring of the people they push in their haste to get their family to safety. Half of the applicants leap over the barrier to get to the stands, and head for the exits themselves.

“Make sure everyone’s safe!” Lady Jayden commands to those of court while Balinor prepares another spell. “Prevent a stampede!” 

A handful of full-fledged magic-users take off to follow the order as the seats steadily emptied in a frenzy.

Lady Jayden turns to a nearby sorceress and orders succinctly, “Get the mages.” The sorceress nods and runs to do just that. Then, she turns to Merlin and places a yellow handkerchief over his wound. “Don’t you worry, my boy. We’ll just need to wait for a mage, all right?”

Merlin nods, pressing the given cloth over his injury and stifling a pained wince. Being terrible at healing spells, he doesn’t even attempt to heal the injury with magic. He’s also thankful Lady Jayden doesn’t try to do so; tense as he is, he isn’t sure how his magic with react to others’, no matter how well-intentioned.

The magic-users that remained, meanwhile, prepare their own offensive enchantments. Prince Arthur raises a fist adorn with an arm guard. His arrow, which has fallen motionless onto the ground after its failure, unsticks itself from the soil and flies feather-first into Prince Arthur’s open palm.

Merlin goggles. Did . . . Did the prince of Camelot just used magic? While he knows there might be more important things to worry about, he can’t help but wonder what kind of expression the prince wears after doing such a thing. His gaze strays to the said prince’s face, and he almost takes a step back at what he saw.

Reflected in Prince Arthur’s visage is complete and merciless hatred, his blue eyes icy as they glare at the phantom, at the one they had called böggel-mann. At the back of Merlin’s mind, he thinks ruefully that he doesn’t need the mandrake circle to see one of his fears after all.

“Emrys,” a deep distorted inhuman voice reverberates amidst the deafening cacophony. Merlin blanches, gaze returning to the cloaked figure. Even with the shadows befalling its whole facade, the böggel-mann is clearly facing his direction. “We’ll meet again.” It’s a promise and threat wrapped in one.

Only a few days into this realm and somebody is already trying to kill him. Sounds about right, really.

Various eyes flick to Merlin, including Prince Arthur’s and Balinor’s. Suspicion and bewilderment line their irises, questions that Merlin is in no way prepared to answer practically at the tips of their tongues.

The böggel-mann throws out a spell with a scratchy roar and a forceful gesture, effectively diminishing their desire for answers. The bronze ball at the corner, one that was once their pot for the second test, rolls itself towards the gathered magic-users with impossible speeds and ominous groans. The five nearest magic-users of court perform their own spells to hinder or slow down the heavy object. The remaining applicants shriek and attempt to get out of the way.

Again, Merlin slows down time without a word. He’s glad when he sees that even the speeding ball of metal slows down with it. He hits it with a wordless spell of his own, delaying its dangerous arrival by a few seconds. Time resumes. The sorcerers and sorceresses manage to finish their spells and collectively push the weighty ball away from them.

“After him!” Balinor shouts before running forward. Prince Arthur is right at his heels.

Merlin’s head whips to the böggel-mann; it’s already levitating in the air, descending out of the training grounds and making its escape. Most of the remaining magic-users of court dash to pursue the black-cloaked sorcerer themselves. Merlin takes a step to also do just that; he’s not letting his not-father and a version of his best friend face something so sinister without him.

Lady Jayden, one of the three remaining full-fledged magic-users, tuts and grasps one shoulder to hold him back. “My boy, if you don’t stay still, I’ll be forced to knock you out.” She then gestures down. “Come and lie down for a while.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Merlin insists again, trying to get out of her grip. Balinor and the others are already at the exit and the böggel-mann itself is now out of Merlin’s sight. He hears someone yell a spell; a bright light erupts and the smell of lightning fills the air.

“Merlin.” Mordred, one of the very few applicants who chose to stay, pops out beside the warlock with pursed lips. “A wound inflicted by the böggel-mann’s blade is not to be taken lightly.”

At that, the warlock pauses. He looks between Lady Jayden’s somber face, and Mordred’s serious one. Then, he glances down at his side, at the sluggishly bleeding laceration pressed with a now bloodied cloth. Merlin closes his eyes briefly and lets out a breath. He extends his inner senses, searching for anything foreign or unusual within him and his body. It’s a spell he does on Arthur once or twice in recent years to check for poisons or heinous enchantments.

The spell he dreaded finding is the first thing he found imbued around his wound.

“There’s a reverse healing spell,” he says, shock causing his voice to choke up a bit.

Lord Mavin glances at him, mien filled with intrigue. “You’re able to sense it?”

“I sure hope so,” the warlock blurts out without thinking.

“And why is that?” Lady Jayden asks, face a portrait of casual.

Merlin, realizing the error in his statement, hurriedly amends, “Er — It’s just something I’ve encountered before.”

And it’s something that made me unintentionally kill my best friend’s father, he thinks to himself darkly.

He knows that the curse infused in his injury is the same as the one on the pendant around the old king’s neck during Uther’s last moments. After that tragedy, Merlin and Gaius have studied the pendant thoroughly for hours. The warlock has ensured he memorized the feel of such a dark enchantment so that he can recognize it should he have the misfortune to encounter it again.

He has thought he would find it upon a friend. He never considered that he himself might be hexed with it. He’s doubly thankful now that no one attempted healing spells on him. While Merlin doubts he could have died from that, it would’ve made the wound infinitely worse.

Had the böggel-mann been successfully in impaling him, he surely would have died with a simple healing spell.

“A mage is coming, don’t worry,” Lady Jayden reassures, perhaps reading the uneasiness in Merlin’s expression. “They’ll be able to remove the curse and we’ll heal you up in no time.”

“But . . .” The warlock’s eyes goes to the exit of the training grounds. The cacophony of a fight is distant and unintelligible now. Worry nibbles at Merlin; in the last seven years, he has always been in the center of whatever battle is occurring, secretly saving Arthur and the knights’ arses. It feels very strange and troubling to be excluded from a fight for once. “I can still join them. It really is just a scratch.”

Lady Jayden tightens her grip on him, further discouraging his trail of thought. “My boy, we don’t know what else Wracu has placed upon you. It’s safer to be cautious.” Lady Jayden herself glances at the ground’s entrance. “I'm certain Lord Balinor and the others are more than capable enough to handle the threat.”

“You called him by his name,” an applicant nearby whispers, awe and terror warring in their face.

Lady Jayden cocks a brow, knowing exactly to whom the applicant is referring. “We shouldn’t be afraid of a mere name, my dear.” She turns to Merlin again, and says with a hint of command, “Now, are you going to sit down or do I have to force you?”

Merlin doesn’t want to know what forcing him entails. Gingerly and reluctantly, he sits down, fighting down the inexplicable urge to follow the battle. He lets reason win out. Lady Jayden is most likely right; in a land where magic is freely practiced, full-fledged sorcerers and sorceresses can surely defeat one evil sorcerer.

No matter how feared this sorcerer is.

Mordred decides to join Merlin down on the ground. The twelve other present applicants, already exhausted after the third test and now more than tired after several terror-filled minutes, figure sitting down truly is a genius idea. Lady Jayden, Lord Mavin, and another full-fledged sorceress stay standing, still tense and alert.

The quiet in the air is bleak. The audience stands lay empty, pieces of cloths and wooden bowls litter the bare seats. On the grounds, the soil has been imprinted with hundreds of angry footfalls. The mandrake circle has lost its form, the ink smeared and in the midst of disappearing. The hourglass of the third test rests shattered on the floor, the cool late afternoon wind blowing away the spilled sand. Where there was once more than seventy people, there are now only seventeen.

It's difficult to believe that just a couple of moments ago, the whole area was boisterous and vivacious.

Merlin barely registers any of this. Thousands of questions distracts him and runs through his mind. Who is this Wracu? Why does he know Merlin as Emrys at a glance when Mordred, a druid, fails to identify the warlock as such? What reason has he to attack Merlin? Merlin has only been in this realm for a few days, and he spent most of that time unconscious! How could he have already offended a prominently nefarious entity of this world?

Merlin has told himself that he will be as uninvolved as possible in this world’s affairs. But it seems this world’s affairs are determined to involve him nonetheless.

After a few more minutes of silence, the applicant named Danali turns to a fellow peasant born and whispers, “I can’t believe I saw the real böggel-mann with my own two eyes.”

All ears, including Merlin’s, can’t help but absentmindedly listen in on the conversation. It's the only break in the tense-filled silence.

“It's an experience I’d rather not have,” Theo, Danali’s current conversation partner, drawls out.

“Do you . . .” The boy with a bowl cut nervously looks around. “Do you think the böggel-mann’s followers are here too?”

There’s a pause, everyone contemplating on that. For Merlin, exasperation mixed with dismay grips him. “This böggel-mann has followers?” he can’t help but blurt out.

Every applicant’s gaze swivels to him with various degrees of bewilderment. The warlock inwardly groans; can’t he just ask a question for once without anyone giving him disbelieving looks?

“You don’t know about the Warlocks and Witches Army?” A flaxen-haired commoner lifts a skeptical brow.

“Mind your language,” a noblewoman scolds, huffing in offense.

The commonborn rolls his eyes hard enough to possibly strain them. “The Army then.” He side-eyes Merlin.

In hopes of laying to rest all other inquiries, Merlin says, “My village is really isolated. We barely get any news about anything.”

Most of them, especially the nobles, nod, seeming to accept this explanation with little doubt. Some, however, cast him suspicious glances, clearly unconvinced.

The boy with a bowl cut leans closer to Merlin, and explains, “The Army is really just composed of a couple of people. But they’re all . . . you-know-whats . . . so they have the strength of an army.”

“Composed of warlocks and witches?” Merlin infers guilelessly.

The boy winces, and the nobles all huff in indignation. Merlin belatedly recalls what Mordred and Gilli told him regarding such terms.

“Yes.” The boy forges on despite Merlin’s misstep. “And they are all under the böggel-mann’s command. And his mother’s too, of course.” His brown eyes dart around. “With the böggel-mann appearing in the middle of the exam . . . some of those in the Army might be here too!”

“It is possible.” Morgana, seated to Merlin’s right, adorns a contemplative look.

The warlock himself carefully looks around, wondering if another unexpected assault will befall him. Then, “Wait, his mother? The böggel-mann’s mother?” Merlin hopes that she isn’t going to be trying to kill him too.

The brown-eyed boy blinks rapidly. “The Priestess Nimueh,” he states, expression denoting that Merlin should have known this.

Right. It’s good that the warlock didn’t raise his hopes too high. 

So Nimueh’s still alive. The mere notion makes his head throb. And her son just tried to kill me.

While Merlin’s digesting this information, Mordred speaks up and tells them, “I doubt the böggel-mann will risk one of his followers getting caught inside Camelot’s walls. They might be used against him.”

“But he’ll risk getting caught himself?” Danali asks, incredulous.

Mordred purses his lips. “I think the böggel-mann knows he won’t be. Caught, that is.”

“Even with the best of Camelot pursuing him?” Morgana asks in turn.

“Perhaps even then,” Mordred replies, a tint of bitterness slipping in his tone.

The three magic-users of court press their lips into a thin line but say nothing.

On a lighter note, Mordred adds, “But I'm still hoping today would be the day he ceases roaming freely in the streets.”

“Yeah, let’s hope for that,” Theo says, nodding emphatically.

The others mutter their own resounding agreements. After that, they settle into another fatigue-filled silence.

Merlin’s eyes once again flicker to the ground’s exit. The apprehension lodged in his chest decreases not one bit.

He rifles through his memories, trying to recall if the Nimueh he knows had a child. Based on the very few interactions he had with the malicious sorceress, she always seems to be working alone. All magic and curses had been her own. No allies came to stand beside her, even as Merlin shouted the fatal spell that destroyed her. In Merlin’s world, had she decided not to involve her son in her quest for revenge against Pendragons? Or perhaps she merely didn’t have a son? Or maybe . . .

Uther didn’t care for the age of those he burned during his crusade, and maybe Nimueh’s hatred for Pendragons isn’t merely because of her banishment. The thought sickens Merlin, despite the fact that Nimueh had been one of his worst foes.

Then, an epiphany strikes him like lightning, making him lightheaded. It's a realization that he probably should have had sooner.

With people of this realm having children that their versions in Merlin’s world did not have, then, it’s no surprise that the vice versa might be true — that some people that were born in Merlin’s Camelot might not at all exist in this one.

“Mordred.” Merlin shifts to face the druid in one quick move. The cut on his side throbs in protest at the action but the warlock has more important matters on his mind.

The druid, in turn, faces him with a hint of surprise. Merlin may not have noticed it but it is the first time the man has called Mordred by his name.

Merlin lowers his voice, ensuring no other can hear his words. He has to know, even if it causes the druid to be suspicious of him. “E - Emrys. Are you familiar with the word?”

Mordred keeps his expression blank. “It is the name the böggel-mann called you.”

The warlock suppresses the urge to let out an exasperated breath at the reminder that he has to deal with the fallout of that soon. “Y-Yes, I suppose it is. But have you heard of it before? Before today?”

The druid’s brows furrow. “No. Should I have?” The light of realization smoothens the lines of his brows. “Is it prominent noble surname?”

“No,” Merlin says, trying to keep his voice steady as his suspicions are confirmed. “I-I don’t know. I’ve also never heard of it before,” he tacks on spontaneously. Clueless peasant it is, he thinks wryly.

“All right,” Mordred simply says, and Merlin is wholly certain that the druid believes him not one bit.

So Mordred truly doesn’t know. Even as a child, the Mordred of his world knows of Emrys, of the prophecies surrounding him. This Mordred is clueless to his identity because those prophecies likely don’t exist in this realm.

No recognition had flitted over Balinor’s face when Merlin is called during the third test, when the name of his village is mentioned. Of course. Why would the Court Sorcerer of Camelot, a person of obviously high position, visit a small unimportant village just at the borders of Essetir? Without the ban against all magic, what reason has he to run away and seek refuge in the humble home of Hunith of Ealdor?

All the events that lead to Merlin’s birth didn’t occur at all.

Before the warlock could fully process this realization and what he feels regarding it, a commanding voice breaks the quiet.

“What is going on?”

Everyone lifts their heads, eyes whirling to the ground’s entrance.

Queen Ygraine marches in the messy area without hesitation, blue eyes quickly taking in every sign of chaos in sight. Following her are a handful of guards and the blonde noble called Tristan. Further behind them, several people dressed in extravagant and colorful garments walk briskly towards the only people inside the grounds. 

Merlin immediately recognizes Gaius — Mage Gaius — to be one of them. Relief floods him at the sight of a familiar face, even if he knows it’s not truly his mentor. Then, the warlock spots an anxious Gilli among the crowds of the new arrivals, and recognizes that half of the people are actually mage applicants.

Queen Ygraine and her entourage stop in front of Lady Jayden, who bows shallowly.

“Lady Jayden,” the queen speaks, tone not quite angry but definitely not calm. “Where is my Court Sorcerer?”

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Chapter Text

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Ris helps an old woman get to her feet, shielding her from the wave of frantic runners with his bulk. The wave passes swiftly, and he sends her on her way not long after. 

“May the Goddess bless you, dear,” she shouts as she blends into the frenzy once more.

A few feet away, Bedivere steadies a child and a father that lost their footing.

Galahad, expression that of a knight ready for battle, draws nearer to Ris to be heard amidst the cacophony. “Do we join the chase, sire?” He asks solemnly as he watches the Court Sorcerer and other magic-users bolt out of the grounds without another glance back.

Ris is tempted to say yes. Right now, the senior knight knows that the Court Sorcerer is compromised, and has been the moment that dark cloak materialized before their very eyes. But to get between Lord Balinor and his quarry would be folly indeed, and Ris lacks the ability to snap the lord out of this particular bloodlust. He just needs to trust that the magic-users that accompanied the Court Sorcerer will prevent the lord and Prince Arthur from doing something regrettable.

“No,” he says instead, hoping he’s making the right decision. “Our priority is to get the people to safety.”

“But—” Bedivere begins, eyes darting to the commotion following one of Camelot’s greatest foes.

“Sir Bedivere, am I clear?” Ris demands, tone lined with command.

Bedivere nods sharply, remembering his place. “Yes, sire.”

The three of them calmly head to the nearest exit, not wanting to contribute to the stampede that’s quickly forming. They help the people that’s been shoved and injured get to their feet, and shield the ones that are being stepped on until they could stand up. Galahad finds a sniffling little boy separated from his parent, and unhesitatingly takes him with them.

“Hey, it's all right. We’ll find your Da,” the knight soothes as he carries the boy.

The little boy nods, wiping the back of his hand over his runny nose. Galahad looks down, blinking at the revealed creature bundled in the boy’s arms.

“This is Kelly.” The boy rubs the baby griffin’s feathery head. The creature does not open its eyes nor stir in anyway. “Someone kicked her and now she won’t wake up.” Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, lips wobbling dangerously.

“Well, she’s still breathing.” Thank the Goddess for Bedivere who chimes in at the right moment. “And griffins are tougher than they look. She’ll be all right.” Bedivere offers the boy a giant grin in assurance.

That seems to mollify the child slightly, enough that his tears have dried by the time they manage to squeeze out of the training grounds. 

“Find his father,” Ris tells Galahad, who holds the child more firmly to his chest. To a restless Bedivere, he says, “We’ll find anyone too injured to stand and gather them near the grounds.” He looks around, and notes with relief that the crowd appears to be thinning out somewhat. “Someone would’ve called the mages already, and they’ll be arriving to tend to the injured.”

Both knights under his command spread out to comply to his order without further questions. Ris loses sight of them in the crowds not a moment after. With them gone, the senior knight lets narrow eyes roam around. He jostles in between the panicking people, looking for anyone who needs help.

A teen clad in dirty white tunic catches his gaze. In the midst of all the chaos and movement, the straw-haired boy is standing as still as a statue. His rigid back is to Ris, his front facing the direction everyone is running away from.

Ris approaches him without hesitation, knowing that sometimes shock and fright freezes people in place, rendering them unable to even call for help. In a place as raucous as this, such reactions might prove fatal.

“Hello,” the knight says, hand coming up to clasp the boy’s shoulder but he thinks better of it at the last moment. Instead, he lets his hand hover. “Do you need any help? It’s not safe to stay here.”

For one long second, the boy moves not a single muscle. Then, he slowly turns his head to the side. Gold-consumed gaze pierces Ris like a lance, and sets his heart racing.

The knight backs away a step, immediately sensing something amiss. He takes in the boy’s whole form, and chilling familiarity slams into him.

The boy’s attire is exactly the same one Wracu wore when he disguised himself during the exam, when he wore an applicant’s face and tried to stab them.

Ris’ hand immediately grasps the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. That is as far as he gets before a petrifying enchantment locks almost all his muscles into stillness. His drumming heart and panting lungs work doubly as if to make up for his other limbs’ sudden immobility. Ris curses himself for letting his guard down, for letting himself be complacent.

“It’s certainly not safe here, Sir Knight,” the boy says monotonously, completely turning around and facing Ris with a placid expression. The voice is childishly high-pitched but the tone makes the sentence nothing short of ominous.

Ris glares as hard as he can while fighting off the spell coursing through his veins. He recalls the knights’ training, the sessions Lord Balinor held to teach them how to shake off such enchantments. Had he encountered a lesser magic-user, he would have broken the hold seconds ago. As it is, he could barely twitch a finger.

Glowing eyes set in a deceivingly boyish face stare right through the knight. Spindly fingers reach for him. “You should be more careful.”

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Screams resound in the streets of the citadel as a blur of fluttering black flies by their midst. The sight of the Court Sorcerer, their prince, and several magic-users feverishly chasing the specter further sends the townspeople in a panicked bout.

“What — Who — ?”

“It's the böggel-mann! The böggel-mann is here in the city!”

“What!? How!?”

“Hide in your homes!”

“Get the children off the streets!”

Vendors abandon their wares, children dash on to their houses, and doors and windows slam shut as the commotion reaches them.

Wracu weaves through the alleyways between houses, steps inhumanely quick and movements impossibly agile. Balinor does not let his eyes stray away from him, tracking every gesture and minute twitch. Magic simmers underneath the Court Sorcerer’s fingertips and he’s furious that he’s unable to give it form. The pathways are too narrow and the people around too many to risk throwing out a careless and flamboyant spell. Balinor knows better than to think that Wracu is careening into such alleyways by chance.

He locks eyes with Ivaìr, Ovrel, Alana, and Sweìl. He sharply and speedily signaled directions. The four magic-users nod in reply, and promptly breaks off from the group with silent footfalls.

An arrow whistles through the air, and their enemy swivels to the left without decreasing his speed. The pointed tip misses his shoulder by mere inches. Arthur, letting out panting breaths as he runs, calls the arrow back to him before it could hit anything else.

Dalion swings an arm up as soon as Wracu enters a wider street, roaring out an enchantment. A thick colorless barrier rises meters away, right in the path of their lone enemy. Balinor and two more sorceress throw out fire spells, igniting the barrier and making it a wall of fire.

Wracu, without even lifting a finger for or giving voice to a spell, merely sprints through the flaming wall with nary soot nor burn on his dark cloak. Balinor and the others suppress their bewildered surprise, and continue the pursuit. They throw out various other attacks — a pit opening right under their enemy’s feet, projectiles made of ice flying through the air, webs of electricity crackling in the atmosphere. But Wracu merely jumps over or dodges under their assaults, his gait never faltering. He doesn’t even take the time to put up counterattacks, determined to reach wherever it is he’s heading to.

Directly up ahead and progressively drawing nearer, the archway for the eastern gate looms. Anti-teleportation enchantments suffuse the whole city — enchantments that span only up until the citadel’s borders. The moment Wracu crosses the threshold of the gates is the moment they will lose him. Balinor won’t let the vile warlock take one step outside these walls. In fact, Balinor will make sure that the only steps Wracu will be taking are towards the waiting pyre.

The guards up at the parapets shout, and scurry with clanking armors. After a short moment, the cold-iron grates slam down over the once welcoming eastern gates with earth-quaking clangs, barring anyone from entering or exiting.

The four magic-users Balinor has ordered ahead block the streets on both sides of the gates. They lift their arms, chanting and forming their own defensive spells.

Nowhere to go, Balinor thinks triumphantly. With the gates shut and magic-users surrounding him on all sides, the warlock has no way to escape now.

Wracu keeps up his pace, giving no indication that he has even noticed the hindrances in his way. He heads towards the closed gates still, and does not change direction even a few feet away from it. Balinor narrows his eyes, embers sparking from his fingertips in preparation for whatever Wracu has planned.

The warlock runs right into iron bars. The dark cloak hits the metal and deflates like a popped rubber ball unto the ground.

Balinor and his men halt abruptly, shock claiming their voices. They stare at the piece of clothing that once covered their enemy, one that now innocuously lies on the ground. The Court Sorcerer marches forward, and plucks the black cloak off of the soil. His eyes swivel to the iron grates, ones that have been bespelled to be impervious to any tampering magic. How? Where did he . . . ? 

“We - We’ve been chasing an illusion,” Arthur, with a heaving chest and sweaty demeanor, practically spits out as he catches up with them.

The rage that has slowly been simmering underneath Balinor’s skin as the chase went on explodes into a full-force inferno inside his chest. Not again. Red peppers his vision, and his whole frame trembles with fury.

“Search the city!” He bellows, unable to prevent the dragonlord’s roar from slipping in his voice. The flimsy cloth in his hands almost garners crescent-shaped rips from his tight grip. “He must be nearby to be able to control the illusion. Go to —”

“There’s no need for all of that, is there?” a garbling voice interrupts Balinor’s orders.

His head snaps up so fast his neck twinges. The fabric in his hands glides seamlessly to the ground.

On the other side of the barricaded gate, Wracu, clothed in another dark cloak, stands casually atop the dirt road beyond the drawbridge. The warlock tilts his head, leather-clad fingers twitching. For one tense beat, Balinor stares at the featureless shadows that shrouds Wracu’s face. The warlock looks back, silent and motionless.

“Open the gates!” Balinor shouts, magic surging through his veins.

Wracu makes one sharp gesture, muttering a spell. Biting winds begin encircling him, dirt and grass kicking up in the air. The Court Sorcerer growls, willing the gates to lift themselves up.

The guards on the parapets comply with Balinor’s command as fast as they can, pulling chains and spinning pulleys. Another set of guards rains down spears, axes, and all manner of projectiles upon their enemy outside the gates. All the weapons hit the translucent shield around Wracu before dropping heavily and uselessly to the ground.

Somewhere at the back of Balinor’s mind, a familiar voice echoes faintly. Revenge really is exhaustingly endless, isn’t it?

I seek justice, not revenge, Balinor answers back with gritted teeth.

The Court Sorcerer sees the dome barrier around Wracu flicker, tearing him out of his one-sided conversation. The teleportation spell is overwhelming the shield, rendering it nil.

Not even a second after, an obsidian-tipped arrow flies past the Court Sorcerer’s head, and slips through the opening of the gate’s bars.

The arrow heads straight for Wracu’s unprotected chest. It would have met its target had the warlock not finished the teleportation spell at that exact moment. Their enemy disappears with one last strong gust, and the projectile smacks into empty air before eventually piercing the soil.

The Court Sorcerer’s hands curl into tight fists.

When the gates open up wide enough, Balinor ducks down and strides towards the area disturbed by the whipping whirlwind. Behind him, the others follow swiftly without hesitation.

Balinor crouches down, inspecting the spot where their enemy disappeared using sight, touch, and an analyzation spell.

“He got away.” Arthur’s tone is eerily monotonous. The prince jerks the arrow that missed its mark off the ground with white-knuckled fingers. “Again.”

“He’s been using exhaustive spells simultaneously in the past few minutes,” Balinor explains curtly, mind already working through the clues he has gathered. He straightens, astute gaze roaming around.

Ivaír concludes with climbing elation, “He won’t have the power to teleport far away.”

The Court Sorcerer opens his mouth, about to spout off orders and plans to search the forests.

Thunderous clip-clops rumble the ground, making everyone pause and bristle in alarm. Balinor stares at the foliage ahead, magic preparing for another threat. Arthur nocks his arrow once more, and aims it at the direction of the noise.

After a few more moments of the sounds increasingly growing louder, the sources of them burst forth from between the trees. Men and women clad in armor gleaming in the afternoon sun, and armed with weapons soaked with magic sit astride their trained steeds. They reign in their horses as soon they spot Balinor and his group in front of the gates. The array of brown, black and white steeds bray and snort, kicking off dirt as their riders force their stop.

The magic-users breathe out a collective sigh of relief, dispelling their prepared enchantments. Arthur lowers his bow, azure eyes observing the troop of knights gathered before them.

The Court Sorcerer lifts his gaze, and locks eyes with Camelot’s Head Knight.

“Your Highness,” the Head Knight greets the prince first as she dismounts gracefully. Behind her, her knights do the same, getting to their feet and bowing their heads. “Lord Balinor. Is something the matter, my lords and ladies?” Her blue-grey eyes meander from one rumpled magic-user to the next. “What happened with the Apprentice Exam?”

“Sir Isolde,” Balinor returns crisply, countenance cool. A suspicion pierces his mind, sharp and sour. ”Would you mind telling me what exactly is going on?”

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Two men with haloes of blonde curls, dressed in robes darned with Pendragon’s crests and unfamiliar symbols, stride forward to stand on Lady Jayden’s sides. With a suppressed flinch, Merlin recognizes one of the men as Edwin Muirden, face unblemished of burn scars. Worry mars the man’s expression and his bright blue eyes quickly flicks over Lady Jayden’s form. The other man beside Lady Jayden, one who resembles a much older version of Edwin, emulates Edwin’s actions but in a subtler manner.

Merlin supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Edwin. Lady Jayden did see him in the mandrake circle, and Merlin’s quite sure now regarding the nature of their relationship. Still, Edwin is another not-enemy that Merlin hopes to avoid; even with his changed appearance, he still bears a close resemblance to the man who tried to kill Merlin’s mentor.

Lady Jayden casts the two men a cursory look but nothing more, her attention fully on the queen. She begins explaining the whole sorry situation to the queen and mages, tone calm but succinct. Queen Ygraine listens avidly, expression bordering on thunderous. Lady Jayden doesn’t mention Merlin by name in the whole discussion nor does she point or gesture to him at any point. Merlin’s a tad grateful for it.

“And then Lord Balinor and Prince Arthur chased after him,” Lady Jayden concludes.

“Arthur?” The queen’s head snaps to the empty ornate chair as if she expects the prince to still be seated there, as if she expects Prince Arthur to merely be idle when a threat to the kingdom materialized before their eyes.

Merlin fails to follow their discussion further as deep blue trousers block his view of them. The warlock cranes his neck up only to meet Mage Gaius’ very familiar face wearing a very familiar disapproving expression.

“Give us some space to work,” Mage Gaius eyes Mordred and Morgana. They both move away from Merlin in compliance. From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees and hears an agitated Gilli slumping down beside a placid Mordred, and demanding to know what has happened.

With the grace of a man in his prime, Mage Gaius kneels down in front of Merlin without another word. Hands lined with wrinkles comes up to remove the warlock’s blood-stained fingers from the cut on his side. 

“It has a reverse healing spell,” Merlin tells him, letting his hand and the bloodied kerchief fall away from the wound as he begins rambling. “I don’t know how. I thought the spell can only be placed on an item, and not directly on someone.”

Mage Gaius’ head snaps up, leveling Merlin with a calculating look. The warlock closes his mouth with a click, abruptly remembering himself. Behind him, he hears unintelligible murmurs rising. In front of him, full-fledged and apprenticed mages offer him chastising glares or scandalized looks.

“Er — my lord,” Merlin adds, tone unintentionally lilting in an almost question.

Mage Gaius pins him with a piercing look for a second longer. Even with the long white hair tied in a plait, and the uncharacteristically elegant clothes, Merlin cannot help see this Gaius as his mentor. Mage Gaius wears the same expression his Gaius does to convey ‘I don’t know what trouble is brewing but I do know you’re at the center of it.’

Merlin pulls his lips into a close-lipped guileless smile in reply. Mage Gaius ignores him and, without preamble, grips the bottom of Merlin’s tunic to raise it up. Panic shoots through the warlock; he clasps the old man’s hand before his shirt could lift an inch. The abrupt movement agitated the area around the cut, and Merlin lets out a hiss.

Mage Gaius stares at him, disapproval lining his forehead. “Boy, I do need to see the wound to treat it.”

Merlin tamps down the hurt that spikes at the brusque way Mage Gaius speaks to him. Instead, he focuses on explaining himself. “Can’t we do this somewhere a little, uh, private? My lord.” He glances around meaningfully at the people who are badly trying to hide their interest at the proceedings.

Mage Gaius’ brows rise to his hairline. Merlin merely gives a helpless little shrug. He knows a commoner asking for privacy is something a tad unusual. There’s no room for propriety when one grows up bathing in streams, goes shirtless in summers when the only clothes you have are suited for cold weather, and shares space with several other people during winter. Up until seven years ago, Merlin cares little for privacy at all. But the warlock is also aware of the atypical sets of scars he has gained in recent years, and how they will definitely spark a plethora of questions from anyone who sees them.

At this point, further questions are the last thing Merlin needs.

“Very well,” Mage Gaius concedes, finally. He turns to one of the mages waiting patiently behind him. “Prepare a tent.”

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The tents used during the exam’s registration turn into one enclosed space with a simple wave of the hand. The mages set up the medical tent right outside of the now quiet grounds, and efficiently gather up the injured. Servants bring forth cots, bowls of herbs, piles of clean cloths, and other various knicknacks that the mages might need. Merlin recognizes half of them from Gaius’ workshop but the other half is obviously magical in nature.

As everything is being prepared, a handful of sorcerers and sorceresses of court return with less than energetic mein. Trailing behind them are the applicants who bolted away during the chaos.

“Sorry I left you lot behind,” Elise greets with sheepish expression as all the applicants reunite. 

Theo replies with a wry grin, “The only reason we didn’t run away ourselves is because we were too terrified to move.” Theo side-eyes a seated Merlin. With the tiniest of smirks, he adds with a hint of teasing, “Well, except for Merlin here, who was too busy getting stabbed by the böggel-mann himself.”

The aforementioned injured warlock looks up as he hears his name, gaze tearing away from the glimpses of flapping fabrics and levitating tools.

Elise sends him a curious glance, hundreds of inquiries blatant in the set of her thick brows. Inevitably, she voices one out, “Is your name actually Emrys?”

“I — no. It’s Merlin,” the warlock stutters out. “I’ve no idea why that — the böggel-mann called me by that name,” he says, sticking to his lie and fervently hoping that it’s believable.

Elise blinks rapidly at his answer. “I see,” she says, obviously not seeing anything at all. “You might want to think of a better excuse before someone of court asks you the same question.”

Drat. Fortunately, before Merlin can spout anything else that might dig him deeper in suspicion, Mage Gaius, along with a couple of mages, approaches with unyielding countenance. Gili shoots Merlin a worried look as the aforementioned magic-users begin shuffling him and the other injured applicants into the humongous tent. Mordred offers Merlin a close-lipped smile, silently wishing him good luck. Merlin stifles a wince, mind whirling once more as Mordred inadvertently reminded him why he needs the luck. Merlin doubts that almost getting stabbed will hinder the mounting questions headed his way. He needs to come up with a believable explanation to fend off the severe suspicions laid upon him.

The warlock then catches the emerald-colored gaze of Morgana Le Fay. For the first time since he has been transported into this strange realm, Merlin sees not a curious, confused or amused look upon the sorceress. Instead, a calculative expression paints Morgana’s features, her brows slanted in an almost frown and her lips pursed into a thin flat line. Her posture is casual— too casual, in fact. Merlin shudders, neck prickling in alarm as he remembers another set of malicious green eyes sending him the same look. He tears his eyes away, and follows the mages into the tent. Behind him, the flap closes, hiding him from the eyes of anyone outside.

Inside the tent, the bitter and saccharine smell of smoking herbs and brewing potions sharply assaults Merlin’s nose. Hay-filled cots pepper the ground, some already occupied by men and women cradling broken limbs. Mages carefully aid them, applying poultices, giving out potions, and whispering healing spells. Merlin swallows, feeling heavy gazes following his every step. He meets the eyes of some of the applicants lounging on the cots. Clar, favoring a swelling left arm, glares back at him with heated blue eyes. Guilt tugs at Merlin’s chest; it is partially his fault why so many people have found themselves inside this tent.

Mage Gaius directs Merlin to one of the most isolated cots with a hand around his arm. As soon as the warlock is properly settled down, the mage tears his tunic in half with a word and a flippant gesture. Merlin yelps in surprise, arms coming up in a futile attempt to draw the torn shirt close.

“The wound’s been left unattended long enough, boy,” Mage Gaius scolds with a scowl. “Let me see it.”

“A little warning would have been nice,” Merlin mutters, placing down his arms and gingerly shrugging off his brown jacket. 

Blood coats its right side, bright red and already congealing. Merlin sighs softly upon seeing the large hole at the corner; not only would he have a hard time removing the stain, he would also have to find a suitable enough cloth to patch it up. Had he been in his own Camelot, he could just cut up Arthur’s old tunics and use those.

Without a word, a young mage, who has been silently standing just beside Mage Gaius, snatches the jacket from Merlin’s hands. Before the warlock could protest or indeed, even finish being indignant, the said mage has exited the tent with it. The warlock hopes the mage would give it back later.

Not a moment too soon, Mage Gaius grips the bottom of the split tunic and carefully unsticks the cloth from Merlin’s wound. The action produces an unholy squishy sound that nauseates the warlock slightly. Mage Gaius then speedily strips away what remains of the warlock’s tunic.

The pendant around Merlin’s neck swings, caught in the final piece cloth. The movement draws Mage Gaius’ already narrowed eyes. Then, those grey eyes shift their focus to the palm-sized circular burn mark marring the center of Merlin’s chest — Nimueh’s parting gift. Merlin’s hands twitch, and he valiantly fights down the urge to cross his arms. Mage Gaius’ gaze traces the other much smaller scars peppering Merlin’s torso and arms — the puckered skin near the burn caused by a bandit’s spiked mace, the white raised lines inflicted during sword fights and various wall/floor-slamming endeavors.

The warlock bites down every defensive word threatening to spill from his mouth. He’s just grateful that the fabric of the tent is at his back, thus hiding the scars upon his back from sight. That Mage Gaius’ form is hiding most of his body from the others’ view is another plus.

Mage Gaius snaps his gaze away after a long moment. With the tips of his fingers, he begins lightly pressing the area around the wound. The cut throbs dully, agitated by the mage’s ministration. But a push at a particular spot emits a sharp painful sensation that travels all the way down Merlin’s spine. He hisses, back arching as he instinctively tries to pull away from Mage Gaius’ grip.

Mage Gaius nods resolutely, drawing his fingers back. A female mage hands him a pair of metallic tweezers, which he accepts without looking away from the wound.

“Try not to tense,” Mage Gaius warns.

Merlin nods stiffly, bracing himself for it. Mage Gaius then leans forward, and carefully wiggles the tweezers into the laceration. Merlin feels the metal poking into skin and muscle, and it isn’t a good feeling at all. It’s not quite painful but definitely not comfortable. After a few more seconds, it latches onto something. Mage Gaius gingerly pulls the tweezers back.

Between its tongs glints a chip of ragged silver barely the size Merlin’s fingernail. Mage Gaius holds it up to the light, humming as he studies it.

Chapter Text

From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Queen Ygraine and Prince Arthur meeting eyes. The queen glances meaningfully at one of the wooden chairs placed near the center of the tent. Prince Arthur’s eyes flash with an emotion Merlin fails to quickly identify. Then, the prince settles down on the chair, movements stiff. The queen seats herself in the chair adjacent to him.

“Wracu was able to mimic you,” Balinor begins somberly. Merlin brings his attention back to his own interrogation. “Was there —“ He cuts himself off, head whipping to the side of the tent.

Everyone straightens abruptly, alarmed by his reaction.

“Balinor?” Queen Ygraine prompts for an explanation.

“It’s nothing. I apologize,” he says, posture relaxing a tad. Before they could question him further, he plows on. “Was there someone who approached you in the past few days? Someone who could’ve gotten strands of your hair, stolen a cup you’ve used, gathered a dollop of your blood. Think, boy.”

Right. While Merlin hasn’t truly performed a disguising spell himself, he knows that such enchantments require an essence of the person the caster aims to emulate. He thinks back on all of his interaction in the past few days. Mordred. But he’s barely left my side. He couldn’t have had the opportunity to meet up with that boggel-man and give him something. Gili. Same as Mordred. Tom. Possibly but would he truly bring Selly to watch the exam if he knew that Wracu would cause chaos and get his child hurt? Levi. Another possibility. But he didn’t even get close enough to steal something from me.

Merlin cards a hand through his hair, getting frustrated. A memory flashes by his inner eye.

‘Are you hurt? Oh Goddess, I’m really stupid and clumsy. Oh no, your head!’ Then, fingers sweep the back of his head, plucking at his hair.

Merlin stills. But he was so earnest and guileless! Could it really be him?

“A name and a description, if you wouldn’t mind,” Balinor cuts through his meandering thoughts, reading that Merlin has recalled something significant.

“I’m not entirely sure that —“ Merlin recalls the words ‘I'm sneaking in for a while to see someone’ but does not recall the boy interacting with anyone else. Merlin remembers the torrent of unnecessary words, side-tracking conversations and fishing for information without arousing suspicion.

“Robin,” he lets out, expression darkening.

Of course. The overly clumsy, talkative, couldn’t-hurt-a-fly pretense. Telling a kernel of truth to sell a lie. Merlin berates himself for not immediately recognizing an act he himself often utilizes.

The warlock describes, “A boy. A foot shorter than me, and looking about fifteen summers. Light-brown hair. Wearing very big glasses. Green eyes.” Then, Merlin remembers what the clone was wearing during the third test. “He stole my neckerchief!”

“When and where did you encounter him?” Balinor inquires further, leaning forward.

“During the exam’s registration. He crashed into me just as we were lining up,” Merlin replies, frowning as he tries to remember more. “He approached me again, on the training grounds, just before the tests started.”

“On the training grounds?” Lord Tristan repeats sharply, startling the warlock. “He didn’t participate in the exam.”

It isn’t a question but Merlin confirms anyway. “He didn’t.” Well, Merlin supposes that he did in a way during the third test. “He — He seemed so harmless.”

Merlin has been wary of Mordred, of Morgana, of the people who wear his enemies’ faces. He has been wary of the wrong people. Unconsciously, he has also been blindly trusting the people who wear his allies’ forms. His eyes glides to a glowering Sir Lancelot, to a tensed Sir Isolde, to a regal Queen Ygraine, to a blank-faced Prince Arthur, and to a pondering Balinor.

He recalls his interactions with Mage Gaius, the nonchalant and detached way the mage has treated him. The warlock wanted to talk to Gaius’ counterpart, and wanted to impart the whole sorry situation to him. The fact that the mage might not be willing to help him after that has not crossed Merlin’s mind. Until now. Until he gazes upon people he calls friends and sees nothing but cold suspicion.

Merlin has no allies here in this realm, and the implications of that is finally sinking in after Wracu’s attack. 

Gaius wouldn’t have allowed Merlin out of his sight for at least a few days after an assault like that on his person. Lancelot would have been asking again and again if there are any awful side-effects of being stabbed with an enchanted blade. Arthur would have called him an idiot for not moving fast enough but would ensure his chores would practically be non-existent for at least a week.

An interrogation like this one would certainly not be taking place.

Merlin ruefully realizes he can’t risk telling anyone anything but the vague truth, especially these people of high court and prominent influence. At least, not until he knows the information won’t be used against him. Letting out the fact that he knows less than he pretends to would prove dangerous. While these people have no reason to hinder his quest to go home to his Camelot, they also have no reason to believe his ludicrous circumstances. He has no concrete proof of his origins after all, and claiming a ridiculous story to be true is a sure way to be labeled a spy from another kingdom.

Like always, the warlock has to do everything without outside help. Absolutely alone, this time, with not even his mentor to go to for guidance. The notion makes something constrict around his chest.

“Yes, well.” Sir Isolde offers the warlock a look that can be construed as pitying, snapping Merlin out of his racing thoughts. “Wracu’s disguises all look harmless.”

“Why did he target you?” Sir Lancelot demands, eyes narrowed.

Before Merlin can reply himself, Sir Tristan drawls out, “He knows not. Or so he claims.”

“It’s the truth,” the warlock says, cocking a brow. “I can’t think of anything I’ve done that could warrant that kind of attention.”

Lord Tristan looks tempted to maim the warlock once more. Possibly because Merlin’s words are less than respectful again. Fortunately, Sir Isolde clears her throat, grabbing the attention off of him.

“I believe he may be telling the truth,” she says, blue-grey eyes darting to the queen. The queen sends the subtlest of nods.

“What?” Lord Tristan scowls, the lines on his forehead becoming more prominent.

From the secret and secure pockets of her chainmail, she carefully fishes out a folded cream-colored cloth. She unfolds it fully, revealing a pair of distinct earrings. Their uniqueness comes in the form of the silver metal twisting into three knotted triangular shapes, the centers bejeweled with bright sapphires.

Lord Tristan inhales sharply. Balinor’s eyes widen fractionally, fingers twitching as if to reach out. Everyone’s gaze whips to Prince Arthur as he stands up and reaches Sir Isolde in three limping strides. Sir Isolde holds the earrings steadily under Prince Arthur’s scrutiny. 

Merlin glances at them all, terribly confused and hoping he’ll get an explanation soon.

Sir Isolde continues, voice much softer, “Before dawn broke this morning, a guard saw a — black-cloaked figure skirting around the outside of the citadel walls. The guards chased after him but they lost him eventually. He dropped this— ” She glances at the earrings. “— during the chase, however. The knights were called and when we realized what it was, we set out to trace his tracks in the forest.”

Prince Arthur picks up one of the jeweled silver and stares at it. “They are fake.”

Sir Lancelot and Sir Isolde look taken aback. “Your Highness?”

“They’re very good replicas. But these sapphires are diluted gems, not pure.” Prince Arthur says, rolling the jewelry between his fingers. “They’re not the ones I gifted her,” he concludes coldly, dropping the earring back. “It was bait, and you all fell for it.”

Gifted her? A million theories pop in Merlin’s mind regarding the person the prince is referring to, and how Wracu plays into all of it. The warlock suspects, with alarm, that the böggel-mann had committed a much more personal offense to Prince Arthur rather than being an overall evil entity against Camelot. 

Sir Isolde nods grimly, enfolding the jewels in cloth once more. “I figured as much, Your Highness.”

“You would have figured it out much sooner had you informed Lord Balinor and I of it,” Prince Arthur bites out, a smidge of anger bleeding out from his tone.

Sir Isolde and Sir Lancelot glance at the queen, not saying anything more.

Queen Ygraine sighs. “I ordered them not to tell you both,” she admits, eyeing Balinor and Prince Arthur’s cool expressions. “It’s the Apprentice Exam. I presumed Wracu did it to stir up restlessness among us on an important day. We’ll only be playing into his hands if we had informed you.” Then, her astute gaze shifts sharply to Merlin, who now realizes he really likes being in the background and being ignored. “Never would I think that Wracu would infiltrate and sabotage the Exam himself.”

“We believe Wracu led us away to get a better chance of killing him, Your Majesty.” Sir Lancelot points an accusing finger at the warlock. Merlin’s getting really tired being accused of things that are in no way his fault.

“Wracu has clearly planned ahead,” Sir Isolde adds. “But he could have attacked the boy before he even set foot on the training grounds, if he had already infiltrated the citadel early in the morning. Why wait until the Exam began? Perhaps Merlin here wasn’t the original intended target.”

Merlin nods vigorously in agreement. Balinor stares at Merlin contemplatively. “Tell us about the De Bois seal.”

Merlin keeps his hands to his sides and stutters out, “It—I don’t have a De Bois seal.”

“The seal was revealed during your registration. That may be the reason as to why Wracu targeted you.” Balinor states, ignoring Merlin’s claims. “Where did you truly get it?”

Guess they didn’t believe me earlier after all. Gods, for once in this world, Merlin wishes he could offer a believable lie. He suppose he just have to do what he usually does with Arthur: offer as little of the truth the best he can and let the other party believe whatever they want.

“I - I was telling the truth. A friend gave it to me. But he didn’t tell me where or how he got it.” The complete truth because Arthur didn’t explicitly tell Merlin that he inherited the sigil. “I truly didn’t realize its importance until later on. I didn’t want a big commotion over it s - so I lied.”

Balinor scrutinizes him intently, gauging the truth of his words.

“And the name of this friend?”

Merlin’s gaze shifts to Prince Arthur, who’s cold gaze and stiff stance bely nothing. The words are the first ones Arthur’s counterpart has directed to him. In any other instance, Merlin would laugh at the irony because the answer to the prince’s question is Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. 

“I - I’d rather not disclose their identity, Your Highness,” Merlin replies, earning surprised and suspicious looks all around. He cannot risk invoking a random noble’s name when he lacks the knowledge regarding their status in this world. He lifts his chin and hopes they’ll understand that he won’t be budging on this. “Nonetheless, I don’t think the sigil has anything to do with all of this.” Seeing as Wracu couldn’t possibly know who gave it to me. 

“So someone we know then.” Lord Tristan smirks, smug that he has discovered an apparent weakness. “A prominent noble, most likely.”

Merlin valiantly resists the urge to roll his eyes because he doubts they’ll be able to guess it.

“Someone who would be plunged into huge trouble should we find out they gave it to you . . .” Slowly, Lord Tristan meets eyes with Queen Ygraine. “Why would —” A flash of something unidentifiable passes between them.

Then, as one, both their eyes snap to him. Merlin fidgets uncomfortably as they analyze him from head to toe, taking in his road-worn boots, dusty trousers, and borrowed tunic. Their eyes linger on his face. “Er, my lord, Your Majesty?”

Queen Ygraine leans back on her chair, countenance one of casually unaffected. “I do believe the sigil is unrelated to this, Lord Balinor,” she informs them firmly.

Balinor’s brows rise while Prince Arthur’s furrow into a deep frown. Sir Isolde and Sir Lancelot look as bewildered as Merlin. Although in Merlin’s case, if Queen Ygraine won’t be pursuing the line of question, he’ll be more than thankful.

“Very well,” Balinor relents after several seconds of silent conversation with the queen. 

A pinch of confusion still persists upon his brows but he lets go of it for now. On the other side of the tent, Prince Arthur remains silent. His unblinking and piercing stare, however, unsettles Merlin further.

“I suppose I should merely say it directly then.” Balinor tilts his head, face shifting into an expression akin to disguised disgust. “Merlin, are you — or perhaps — were you a warlock under Wracu’s command?”

Sir Isolde hisses, shooting Balinor a disapproving look. Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan appear unamused but not surprised by Balinor’s frank manner.

“No!” Merlin denies vehemently, knowing such a perceived connection would spell trouble for him. “I’ve never met him before today, much less did anything under his command!”

“And yet he seems to know you by a name you do not present yourself with,” Balinor counters.

“I have no idea how he knows that name,” Merlin replies, unable to mitigate the scowl he directed at the Court Sorcerer. The implications of the accusation the man is casting upon him will make laying low quite difficult. If rumors of what he’s being accused of spread outside the tent, people would be less willing to help Merlin get the information he seeks.

It’s only because the warlock is looking directly at Balinor that he sees it. A dramatic shift occurs in Balinor’s whole demeanor, his face bathing in astounded stupor. Behind hazel eyes, a spark of something unfurls slowly but surely as he continues gazing at Merlin. The warlock himself blinks rapidly, unable to understand what the look means.

“We will grant you amnesty,” Sir Lancelot says, breaking their staring competition. Merlin is surprised to find Sir Lancelot, who has been nothing but brusque to him, speak such reassuring words. Of course, he ruins it by adding roughly, “Provided you have defected and you tell us everything you know.”

A headache throbs behind Merlin’s eyes. This is getting ridiculous.

When Merlin gazes back to the Court Sorcerer, a wall of blankness greets him. He wonders if he imagined the earlier change.

Merlin’s head snaps to Prince Arthur once more when the royal casually asks, “Where is Ealdor?”

“Er, just in the outskirts of Essetir, Your Highness.”

“And you’ve lived there your whole life?”

“Until I was seventeen winters, Your Highness.” Until my mother decided to send me to Camelot. “A-After that, I was a lowly servant under a lord’s house.”

Something flash behind Prince Arthur’s eyes. Merlin swallows and braces himself against it. “You are how old?”

“Twenty-four, Your Highness.”

“Seven years . . . You had the opportunity to join the Apprentice Exam earlier. Why now?”

Thankfully, Merlin already has an excuse ready for that. “B-Bandits accosted me on the road, and took everything I had. I - I arrived in Camelot two days ago, and needed a job to earn some coin. Someone suggested I try applying as a court apprentice.” Deciding it couldn’t hurt, he decides to drop a more trustworthy name. “Mordred, one of the applicants, can attest to that.”

A hint of surprise tugs at Prince Arthur’s expression, and Balinor’s voice holds the same hint as he inquires, “So you joined the Exam on a whim?”

“I - I needed the coin.” Well, coin is part of the reason. 

Although, does he really need to get into the castle now that he knows he will find no help there? He’s sure he can find a less troublesome and attention-attracting job elsewhere in the citadel whilst gathering information on how to get home. He can admit to himself that it’ll be saddening to never glimpse the alive counterpart of his father though.

He opens his mouth, about to verbally retract his application and hopefully spare him from further investigation.

Raised voices from outside halts their conversation. A moment later, a dark-haired man barely of age strides in, countenance harried. His eyes widen as he takes in the people inside the tent, clearly not expecting some of them to be present. “Y-Your Majesty, Your Highness, my lords,” he greets with a bow.

“Sir Galahad.” Sir Isolde straightens her shoulders, sensing something amiss.

The man’s jade eyes swivel to Sir Isolde. “Sire! I would like to preface this by saying he’s conscious and alive and Mage Gaius has assured us that there are no malicious side-effects.”

Sir Isolde seems to take little comfort in the words. She looks ready to run out of the tent and attend to whoever Sir Galahad is referring to. So Merlin’s not too surprised to hear the name, “Ris? What happened to him?”

Sir Lancelot tenses, gaze snapping to Merlin as if it’s somehow his fault even though the warlock has been in the tent with them the whole time.

Sir Galahad glances at the queen, prince and the lords. He swallows before saying, “The böggel-mann attacked Sir Ris before he escaped the citadel.”

“Come now, hurry. I think they’re starting,” Lady Morgana beckons as she steps closer to the Pendragon red tent.

Gilli joins her, looking giddy. Mordred follows in a more sedate place, still wondering why Lady Morgana has decided to drag them both into this. 

When Lady Morgana had invited them to join her for some harmless espionage, Gilli had readily agreed, excited by the prospect. The mage has never passed on participating in some innocuous mischief. Mordred had been reasonably hesitant. While the druid is awfully curious about the whole deal with Merlin, he had rather not get in trouble with Camelot royalty for hearing something he shouldn’t. But he figures that with Lady Morgana as the ringleader of it all, punishment won’t be too severe. So he goes with them, if only to ensure Gilli won’t walk into something he can’t get out of.

An anti-eavesdropping spell envelops the whole tent shortly after their arrival, making Gilli pout. Mordred has thought that would be the end of their little game. Contrary to expectations, Lady Morgana seamlessly performs a spell of her own to counter it, and enhances the volume of speech of the people inside.

Silence reigns for a number of seconds, making Mordred wonder if something had gone wrong. Then,

“Balinor?” The queen’s voice rings loud and clear in their ears.

“It’s nothing. I apologize.” Lord Balinor answers.

“No anti-eavesdropping spell can stand against me,” Lady Morgana says, a hint of pride present in her voice.

“I never expected someone of your reputation would do something akin to this,” Mordred remarks casually. On the other hand, a lot of events that day went beyond the druid’s expectations. Or perhaps this is the norm for city dwellers? For all nineteen years of his life, Mordred has never experienced this level of excitement all in one day.

Lady Morgana smirks. “Dear Mordred, I got my reputation because of doing things like this. Schemers never discuss their plans in the open, I’ll have you know.”

Mordred nods in acknowledgement of that. One of the first things Mordred learns during their eavesdropping endeavor is that, chillingly, he and Gilli had a close encounter with böggel-mann in disguise. Gilli exchanges a wide-eyed look with the druid at that.

“A De Bois sigil, huh?” Lady Morgana adopts a thoughtful mein.

Merlin is then accused of being part of the böggel-mann’s Army.

“Ack, Merlin, part of the Army, really?” Gilli frowns. “That’s unlikely.”

“Why is that?” Lady Morgana asks, face filled with curiosity.

“I may have only known him for a few days but Merlin’s too much of an open book to ever be part of the Army!” Gilli insists. “He’s also clueless to a great number of things.”

“Could be an act,” Lady Morgana points out.

“Could be, I suppose,” Mordred replies. “But if it is, it’s an act no one in the Army would be able to maintain at a length.”

Lady Morgana hums. Mordred does not know if she’s convinced. Mordred himself doesn’t know if he is.

Merlin has acted in a number of suspicious manner in the short time Mordred has known him. The man performs enchantments no one of his aptitude should know but remains mystified regarding the most common of knowledge. Can a person with a warm-safe-protect sáwle glæm truly be part of a group that mercilessly razes villages to the ground? Mordred knows for certain that sáwle glæms can’t be faked. While Merlin has his share of secrets, Mordred can believe for now that his intentions are pure in nature.

A man who can shatter scinncræfte crystals upon touch, unravel the shield of a veteran shieldmaker, effortlessly summon a terrifying hurricane, grow seeds into plants within seconds . . . If the böggel-mann had someone like that under his command, he won’t be allowing them near Camelot where they could be captured.

Mordred shudders to think of the destruction those abilities alone could wrought. The druid doubts that’s all Merlin is capable of.

Ris’ unfortunate condition leads to the abrupt end of Merlin’s interrogation. While the warlock wishes for the knight’s quick recovery, he also can’t help the relief that blooms inside his chest. The knights, the prince and the Court Sorcerer exits the tent with one last cursory glance at the man they interrogated.

“Merlin of Ealdor,” The queen of Camelot calls out to him after the others have gone. Merlin lowers his gaze, and awaits. “Do you know of Agravaine De Bois?”

Confused by the question that seemingly came out of nowhere, Merlin blurts out without thinking, “Yes, I’ve met him, Your Majesty.” Then, he blanches a little. The Agravaine of this world would have no recollection of such a meeting. ”In passing, that is! I doubt he’ll remember meeting a lowly servant like me.” Merlin suppresses the urge to chuckle nervously.

Queen Ygraine nods as if Merlin’s answer is what she expected. “Very good. If anyone else asks, answer the same way, boy.”

With that befuddling remark, the queen leaves with Lord Tristan. The warlock decides to think no more of it, having much more important things to do.

He stands there alone for a while, ruminating on what to do next. As always, he needs information — about this realm, about Djinns, about other worlds.

Books, pops brilliantly in his mind. Right. If he can’t go to his mentor, he’ll need to find documents or tomes that hold the information. As it turns out, he does know one place where there’ll be a plethora of them. Camelot’s castle library is one of the most wonderful places Merlin has been to, even though Lord Geoffrey glares at him whenever he comes by. Although all magical books have been burned, there’s still a ton of useful information to be found whenever Merlin is dealing with the threat to Camelot for that week. And now, in this realm of magic, the warlock is certain he can find all that he needs in this realm’s library.

I guess joining the Apprentice Exam wasn’t a useless endeavor after all. After getting into the castle with a talisman, he’ll have full access to the library. Surely, as someone of White Level, at least one person in Court would pick him as an apprentice. Wracu’s assault hasn’t ruined his chances, surely. Probably.

With a goal in mind, he heads out of the tent. He almost skewers himself into the hard plates of armor.

Sir Lancelot glares at Merlin, the giant scar on his face becoming intimidatingly prominent. “I am to ensure that you go back with the other applicants.”

“Of course, sire.” Merlin tries to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. He must have failed somewhat because Sir Lancelot scowls deeply.

“You should watch your mouth, boy. And know your place,” Sir Lancelot growls. “You’ve clearly not learned any manners. I'll be gladly teaching you if you keep it up.”

What Merlin wouldn’t give to have his gentle and friendly Lancelot here instead of this rude suspicious one. Everyone else seems to be used to the knight’s gruff attitude but Merlin still reels whenever terse words come out his not-friend’s mouth.

“Sir Lancelot.” Both their heads snap to the owner of the voice. Lady Morgana strides towards them with a beatific smile. Merlin is astonished to see Mordred and Gilli trailing just right behind her. “It’s wonderful to see you once more. You’ve grown taller!”

“Lady Morgana,” Sir Lancelot grunts out, eyeing her suspiciously because of the direction from whence she came. The applicants are gathered on the opposite side.

Merlin’s glad to know Sir Lancelot’s grumpy nature isn’t limited to his interactions with the warlock.

Together, they start walking towards the other applicants.

“How was the interrogation then?” Mordred asks as if inquiring about the weather.

Merlin smiles, amused despite himself.  “I’ve had worse.” Which, unfortunately, is true enough.

In only a few minutes, the five of them reach the resting place of the uninjured applicants. All discussions seem to come to an abrupt halt when they notice Merlin in the midst. The warlock ignores them, and claims a corner for himself. Now that he’s not battling wits with queens and princes, exhaustion has him in its tight grasp.

A strange realm, foreign devices and spells, familiar faces, three bloody tests, an unexpected attack, and a tiring inquiry.

He sits down on the ground and sighs. He hopes fervently the rest of the day go smoothly and quickly. Sir Lancelot stands beside the warlock, and crosses his arms. Merlin arches a brow at his continued presence but is far too tired to start another argument.

Mordred, Morgana, and Gilli settle not a foot away from him, glancing at him as if he’s about to perform a trick. The warlock redirects his raised brow to them. Unfortunately for them, Merlin has no more tricks to spare.

“Gilli,” Mordred begins, finally taking his attention away from Merlin. “You never did tell me what happened with the mage’s exam.”

The mage brightens considerably. He puffs up his chest. “I am pleased to inform you that you are now best friends with one of Mage Gaius’ amazing apprentices.”

“Very well done,” Morgana says, looking endeared.

“Congratulations, Gilli.” Mordred pats his friend’s shoulder, a bright grin painting his face. “I do hope you didn’t do anything too embarrassing in your Choosing Ceremony. I would hate to disown you.”

“I did not!” Gilli denies hotly. “I may have teared up a little. But! That’s only because I found out I was going to be apprenticing alongside a rather irritatingly snobbish nobleman.”

“Oh, yes, we have one of those as well,” Morgana replies with a chuckle.

Mordred asks further details regarding the mage’s exam, which Gilli happily provides with vivid descriptions. Merlin sits in silence, opting not to contribute and merely letting their lighthearted conversation wash over him.

Eyes the color of baked clay flick to the skies, taking note of the streaks of orange and pink hues. Lithe shoulders lean further onto the trunk of the tree, and an arm comes up to agitatedly push away long blonde curling locks away from a sharp angular face. She crosses her arms once more, growing incredibly impatient as minutes passed by with naught but crickets for company. Her eyes sweep between the thick and tall trees surrounding the clearing but glimpses nothing.

Late. He’s late. He’s rarely ever late.

Just as she’s deciding to comb the whole forest instead of waiting idly by, a dark figure slinks into the clearing like a bad omen, cloak flaring behind them. Wracu, son of Nimueh, walks with graceful and unhurried steps, as if he’s still not in Camelot’s borders and liable to get caught.

“You’re late,” she says, trying and failing to sound unconcerned. She straightens up and meets him halfway.

“There were complications,” he replies, his unsettlingly garbling voice as nonchalant as ever. He pulls a tattered red cloth from around his neck and stashes it in the folds of his cloak.

How forthcoming. She resists rolling her eyes. Instead, she circles him with brisk steps, eyes gleaming gold. “No tracking spells,” she informs him. She does, however, note the tiny tear in the middle of his dirty white tunic, right at the chest. Leaning closer, she sees that the skin underneath colors a dark red but doesn’t seem to be bleeding. “What happened with that then? That hole in your tunic.”

His hand comes up to touch the said area. “Prince Arthur’s parting gift.”

She nods curtly and says nothing more on the subject. She places a hand on both of his shoulders, and begins chanting. The wind around them grows sharp, whipping up a whirlwind. The smell of plucked grass and damp earth surround them as the spell reaches its peak. After a minute, the enchantment finishes, and they’re gone from the clearing in a blink.

Far away from the borders of Camelot, far away from the swords of its knights and spells of its court magicians, they both materialized. Wracu fixes his cloak and hood with practiced movements. His companion pats down and removes her unruly hair from her face, rather irritated with herself that she has forgotten to tie it before performing the teleportation spell.

“Morgause,” Wracu calls out rather suddenly. He pauses for a beat. Then, “Your sister was in Camelot’s Apprentice Exam.”

“What?” Shock colors Morgause Le Fay’s tone, along with a tinge of horror.

“You did not know.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Morgause snarls. “I would’ve done all that I could to stop her! That foolish girl,” she growls, agitation clawing at her chest.

“I’ll not stop you from going back, if you so desire,” Wracu says. “I’ve disrupted the exam. The choosing ceremony would be delayed, and you might be able to drag her away before then. But.”

“I’ll cast suspicion upon myself,” Morgause continues for him. She hasn’t been in their home for weeks and suddenly, she’s riding into Camelot with the knowledge that her sister is there? Drat it, Morgana. Do you have to make everything difficult?

“Your presence in Camelot mere hours after my departure would likely not be overlooked,” he adds. “And the Lady Morgana has . . . She already questions your allegiance.”

Oh, Morgause knows. She also knows her sister would never tell a soul of her suspicions, especially not a soul in Camelot.

Morgause settles into contemplative silence, debating on what to do, on what she can do. 

Wracu waits for her for a few minutes. Then, he lets out a breath that may have been a sigh had it come from anyone else. “Do what you must. I’m weary and in need of rest.”

Of course. Wracu has been consistently and constantly using magic for days with naught but an impersonation totem to help with the overuse. She squashes down the guilt that rises up in her for delaying his much needed rest.

Without waiting for a response, Wracu begins heading west, following the heat of the setting sun. Morgause watches him for a while and makes an abrupt decision. She follows behind him, valiantly curbing down the desire to ride for Camelot.

Wracu shifts his head to her in askance.

“I'll ride home tomorrow to get a viable reason to head for the citadel,” she says, voice tight. “It’s far too late now.”

Wracu nods in approval. Morgause knows that any rash decisions on her part may ruin whatever plans Wracu has set up. 

“Besides.” She matches his steps, coming forward to walk at his side as her anger and worry cools. She needs a distraction. Thankfully, she has one. “I want to know what happened. Did you get the answers you seek?” Her eyes slide down his whole form, looking for unusual bumps or eerie squirming. “Did you manage to find the Emrys?”

At the last question, Wracu’s head whips to her in a quick snap.

“You know anti-eavesdropping spells are useless against me.” She has a brow smugly arched and a smirk flitting by her lips.

“It doesn’t give you the right to listen in on my conversations with Mother,” Wracu replies, though without much heat.

“You woke me up at the dead of night. Told me I need to lay false tracks, and lead the best knights in all of Albion in a merry little chase. I didn’t ask questions then. Allow me to do so now,” she reminds him dryly. “I don’t get why this whole Emrys thing has to be secret anyway. The more the lot of us know, the more we can help.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Wracu relents after a thoughtful hum, facing forward once more. A gloved hand dips into the darkness of his hood, right where his throat should be. When he speaks, his voice is clearer, less distorted and more human. “But I do not want the others to know of it yet. Ask but my words shall be for your ears only. There’s too much I have yet to grasp, too many questions unanswered.”

Morgause’s eyes widen and her brows lift. “Still?” Rarely has Wracu lacked the information he needs, especially after all the effort he placed and risks he took in getting it. This whole Emrys is a bigger deal than she initially thought. She has thought it would merely be something they can quickly steal from Camelot, and use for their plans. “What exactly is an Emrys?”

“A creature that can take the form of a man,” Wracu answers, this time voice pitched chest-poundingly low. He ponders for a moment. “It’s possible that this one’s a newborn, still guileless to the way of the world.”

“The form of a man?” Morgause’s jaw slackens. “Is it not a Lamia?”

“Unlikely, given its behavior. It doesn’t seem keen to devour anyone,” Wracu dismisses. He tweaks his voice once more into a pitch almost like a woman’s. “I attempted to force it to reveal its true form but it dodged my blade.”

Morgause tries to unpack that statement, mouth working. “It — You — You attempted to stab a newborn?” Morgause feels a tad stupid that it’s the first question that escapes her.

“A possible newborn,” Wracu counters, a tint of amusement marring his tone. He smoothly steps over a large tree root. His voice’s timbre drops again. When he continues, a deep rich baritone flows out, “And you did not sense its power, Morgause. I doubt anything short of a blade burnished by dragon’s breath can deal a mortal blow to it.” He nods to himself, seemingly satisfied. He lets his hand fall from his throat.

Seems he found a new voice, Morgause thinks, cocking a brow at him. While Wracu changes voices as often as he changes faces, the timing of this particular change seems a tad peculiar.

Morgause turns over Wracu’s words in her head. Very few creatures can claim such invincibility. Still, Morgause feels that trying to harm it may not be the best of ideas. If the Emrys is sentient and intelligent enough to pass as human, then, taming it would be much harder if they fail to gain its favor. “But why harm it? Surely you could have just tried and removed the spell it’s using for its disguise?“

“I sensed no such spells.” Wracu sounds perturbed at the admission. “Therefore, I thought inflicting a major injury would make it drop its disguise.” His tone turns sober and serious. “I had the element of surprise. I even enchanted my whole body with a speed spell. Tell me, Morgause, how does one avoid such a well-planned close-ranged attack without preparing or incanting a spell?”

Morgause’s eyes grow wide with disbelief. “There must be a spell. Perhaps it countered you with another speed spell?”

Wracu shakes his head. “You and I both know speed spells require at least a minute to prepare. I didn’t give Emrys that time, and it didn’t chant anything. Yet it moved far too fast, and avoided my dagger.”

“Perhaps great speed is an inborn talent for its species?”

“If so, it couldn’t have used those abilities in human form.”

“Maybe it used a mythical enchantment,” Morgause jests, holding back a snort. 

To her astonishment, Wracu fails to rebut and seems to be taking her recommendation seriously. She looks at him incredulously. Mythical enchantments are called mythical for a good reason. Could this Emrys be truly powerful enough to invoke one? Morgause’s curiosity overwhelms her, and she half-wishes that she has Wracu’s fine-tuned sensitivity to the whims of the Old Religion. She desires to solve the puzzle as much as Wracu obviously does.

So she has to ask, “Why didn’t you steal it away? We could have studied it further in the stronghold.”

“I couldn’t,” Wracu replies, words clipped and curt. “I desired to do so. It appears human, and hides its aura expertly. Had I not scried for it beforehand, I would have never recognized its voice or the scent of its magic. And by the time I found it, there were too many witnesses, and far too many risks to simply take it away.”

“You could have bided your time,” Morgause suggests, still confused as to why Wracu failed to do so. “Waited ‘till nightfall, get it alone.”

“By nightfall, I wouldn’t be able to reach Emrys because it would be inside Camelot’s castle.” Wracu stops, both his words and steps.

To left here, whispers the trees, the grass, the wind, and the sky. If one is not paying attention, one would mistake the words to be their own thoughts, their own decision. 

Simultaneously, Wracu and Morgause raise their right hands. “Ontynan,” they hiss as one, and release a pulse of their magic in the air.

The compulsion enchantment surrounding the area identifies their magical signature and loosens its grip on them both, flitting by their skins like a soft breeze. They continue heading in a straight path.

“Emrys had participated in the Sorcerers’ Apprentice Exam.” Wracu drops the implausible fact like it’s nothing of the sort.

Shock electrifies Morgause’s whole body. “What? How? Why?” A magical creature apprenticing under someone? It’s unheard of. No magical creatures need a mentor, especially on the area of magic! Then, an epiphany haunts her. “Morgana, what about Morgana? Is she safe?” While Morgana has surely joined the mages’ exam, Morgause can’t help the knot of worry from twisting her stomach.

“Morgana is hale. I told you; Emrys isn’t keen on devouring or killing anyone.” The band around Morgause’s chest eases at the words. Wracu continues, “And I have yet to know of Emrys’ goals.” Wracu tugs at his hood, the only display of irritation he allows himself. “But Emrys had displayed an impressive array of skills; it was surely going to be chosen, and I had to act.”

“Had to —“ A hysterical realization dawns on Morgause. “Wait, don’t tell me you — Did you try to stab the Emrys during the exam? In front of an audience? In front of Camelot’s Court Sorcerer himself?”

“I had to act,” Wracu repeats firmly.

That was reckless, Morgause wants to say. Four years ago, Wracu wouldn’t even consider such a careless action, wouldn’t have gone into the citadel alone and without people to help him from the inside. He has always been so calculating, so careful of every decision and consequence. But sometimes, nowadays, he’s playing an entirely different tune, and Morgause cares not for it.

“I knew I may be discovered,” Wracu continues, unbeknownst to Morgause’s turmoil. He gestures to her. “That is why I had to get at least some of the knights out of the citadel to decrease the risk of capture.”

“There were still the court’s magic-users to contend with,” Morgause retorts, a touch of anger sparking in her chest. Him being caught would decimate all their work, all their efforts of several years.

“I already had a plan to escape.” He gesticulates at himself. “As you can see by my presence here, it was successful.”

“And all this for what?” Morgause snaps at him, annoyed that Wracu is still failing to understand. He shouldn’t have taken those risks in the first place. “You don’t know what Emrys’ true form is, you don’t know where it came from, and you certainly don’t know how to control it.”

“No, I suppose I don’t,” Wracu replies, a cool and calming force against Morgause’s heated countenance. “But we’ll have plenty of time to find out once it’s out of the citadel’s protective spells.”

Morgause draws back, surprise extinguishing her anger momentarily. “You think that the Emrys won’t stay in the citadel? You told me it was going to be chosen as an apprentice.” Morgause still couldn’t imagine it. Doesn’t Camelot have some device to detect whether an applicant isn’t human? Perhaps they themselves couldn’t imagine a magical creature just joining and blending in.

Morgause hears the smirk in Wracu’s voice when he claims, “I’ve ensured that the queen herself won’t let Emrys anywhere near her castle.”

Morgause’s eyes narrow. “How?”

Wracu’s head turns to her and his tone is just shy of patronizing. “I targeted Emrys and called it by its name in front of several witnesses. No one of court will risk the safety and security of Camelot by teaching someone potentially involved with their enemy. Once the rest of the city learns of what transpired, I doubt Emrys will find a warm welcome.” His new voice holds tints of triumph when he says, “I may not have shown them Emrys’ real face but no one of Camelot will be taking it as an apprentice.”

Morgause understands his logic, understands the long-term consequences of his no doubt improvised actions. But there’s one unpredictable thing — well, two things, really — he’s neglecting to consider —

A great shadow befalls them both, quelling Morgause’s words. In front of them, a crumbling and desolate castle swallows the remaining rays of sunset, bathing them in abrupt darkness. Debris consisting of brick and wood surround the structure, scattered in the pathways and entrances. Age and rain have damaged and stained exterior irreversibly, giving it a haunting look. Morgause had years to get used to the sight but the pressure emitting from it still subdues her when caught off guard.

Wracu walks past the malleable barrier surrounding the entrance. Morgause follows right behind him, lower back tingling as she finishes crossing. Inside the castle is a completely different look. The walls are clean and free of mold, the bricks as if newly formed. Soft carpet lines the spacious hallways, ornate candle holders and chandeliers decorate the ceilings, and all furniture remains undusted. The air is fresh, as if they’re still in the middle of the thriving forest. Morgause gratefully breathes it in.

They took no more than a few steps when sharp footfalls echo in their hallway. Wracu and Morgause both cease their treads when Priestess Nimueh rounds off the corner, beauty and lethality in one form. Her long black curls flows like silk behind her, night blue dress swirling with the speed of her strides. The sapphire iris of her left eye and the empty darkness that occupies her right socket pierce them like an arrow.

Skittering far behind her is a mousy boy, almost a man, with a mop of dark brown hair and clad in shabby clothing.

Morgause folds her arms upon her back, and lowers her head and gaze.

Wracu twitches not a muscle as Priestess Nimueh draws near. “Mother —“

A slap reverberates throughout the hallways, deafening and heavy-handed. Wracu’s head cracks to the side but he doesn’t stumble back nor does he make a sound. His cloak’s hood would have fallen back at the force of the assault had it not been enchanted to stay up. Morgause resists the urge to lift her eyes or wince. The mousy boy behind the priestess has no such compunction, grimacing in sympathy.

“What were you thinking?” Priestess Nimueh snarls, features contorted in a way that makes the empty socket of her eye prominent. Her slender hand is still raised in the air, prepared to deal another blow. “Going to Camelot without informing me? Without my permission?”

Morgause’s eyes widen. She thought that Priestess Nimueh ordered Wracu to infiltrate Camelot. She goes over the conversation she eavesdropped on the day before; belatedly, she notes that while Wracu mentioned the Emrys being in Camelot, he and Priestess Nimueh discussed no plans regarding sneaking into the citadel to extract the creature. Drat it, Wracu. Have you gone utterly mad?

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Wracu says, no emotion present in his new voice. “I acted on impulse. I wanted to know more about it as soon as I could.”

Priestess Nimueh doesn’t soften; in all the years Morgause have known her, she never does, not even towards her own son. But Priestess Nimueh does place tender hands into the shadows of Wracu’s face, and says with a tone still tinged with anger, “I would not know what to do had you been caught, had you been killed.”

Wracu grasps one of Priestess Nimueh’s wrists in comfort. “I am here,” he replies simply.

Priestess Nimueh’s lips twists. “You will not do this again.” The priestess wills, a threat underlining her words. “Camelot is not a place you should be traipsing about now. They are our enemies, Wracu. They would not hesitate to destroy you.”

“I know, Mother,” Wracu says, tone still cool and emotionless. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

Priestess Nimueh stares at him for a few moments more, gauging the sincerity of his promise. Morgause holds her breath, knowing violence could erupt at any moment.

Priestess Nimueh must have seen something she liked amidst the blackness of Wracu’s hood because she pulls back. Her face smooths out. “Rest for now, my son. Tell me of your findings in the morning.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mother.” Wracu bobs his head. Morgause breathes out, glad to have survived the encounter.

Priestess Nimueh stalks away without another word or another glance. She never even offered Morgause a cursory look. When her footsteps finally die down, the mousy boy that had accompanied her turns to Wracu and Morgause.

“I’m sorry, Lord Wracu,” the boy croaks out, wringing his hands. “I tried not to let her find out, I did! She asked and asked, and compelled me to tell her. I’m truly sorry, I couldn’t even —”

“Daegal.” Wracu interrupts the boy’s ramblings. Daegal looks up, biting his lips, face a portrait of contrition. “Prepare my dinner and bring it to my room,” Wracu says before striding away himself.

“R-Right away, sire,” Daegal calls after Wracu just before he rounds off the corner. The boy then releases a sigh of utmost relief. He turns to Morgause. “And you, my lady? Would you like some supper as well?”

Morgause drops her arms from her back and lifts her head. “I'm fine, Daegal. Tend to Wracu. Get some salve for his cheek.”

Daegal nods and bows, and scurries to the kitchen without further questions. Morgause, meanwhile, goes to her assigned room in the crumbling castle to pack her things. In the morn, she will ride to see her mother and father, and find out why Morgana applied for an apprenticeship in Camelot’s court. Then, she will ride to the citadel, and drag her sister out of it.

And perhaps, she will find out if Wracu’s schemes truly bear fruit.

Chapter Text

Mage Gaius surrounds Ris’ resting area with cloths, ensuring none could glimpse upon the events inside. Absentmindedly, Balinor pelts out another anti-eavesdropping spell to ensure none of the other patients outside could hear their conversation.

Isolde drops beside Ris’ cot, immediately taking his hand into both of hers. Ris squeezes her hands in assurance, offering a wan smile.

“Ris,” Ygraine begins, dropping titles. “Tell us what happened.”

The said knight breathes out. His cheeks and lips color a pale palette but no outward injury shows upon initial glance.

“I was searching for the injured after you chased Wracu. Or what seemed to be Wracu.” Ris glances at Balinor for confirmation. 

The Court Sorcerer tunes in on the conversation, letting the swirling thoughts in his head calm. He gives a swift nod and answers, “It was an illusion.”

“And I encountered the real one,” Ris says somberly. “He was disguised as a boy of sixteen summers. Brown hair —”

“Green eyes,” Arthur finishes.

Astonishment takes over Ris’ expression. “I—I don’t know the color of the eyes. He was already in the midst of a spell.”

Isolde decides to answer Ris’ unasked question. “The applicant he attacked met the disguise earlier on. Told us what it looked like.”

Ris sighs, carding through his flaxen-colored hair with the hand not attached to the Head Knight. “Then, I suppose I have nothing more useful to tell you. Shortly after I discovered him, he placed a petrifying spell on me, and knocked me unconscious. I believe it was Bedivere who found me.”

All the attention turns to the short brown-haired knight called Bedivere. His brown eyes are incredulously wide. “The — The böggel-mann was disguised as — ?” He swallows audibly. “I — I was fighting through the crowd when a b-boy called out to me. Sir Tristan was already on the ground, unconscious, and the boy told me he was knocked over by the running people.”

Isolde’s eyes narrow. “The boy?”

“Brown hair, green eyes,” Bedivere informs them, a tad pale.

Ris lurches forward. Isolde immediately supports him when he threatens to fall off the cot. “He called out to you? How?”

“Er -- He was waving and yelling ‘Sir Knight, Sir Knight’.” Bedivere rubs the back of his neck. “I had no idea that — He was — very convincing.”

Almost immediately, a horrifying epiphany dawns on every person listening in. They take in Bedivere’s clothing — the simply darned cream tunic, the plain brown trousers, and worn boots. No sword or any kind weapon is even strapped around him. Nothing on him indicates that he’s a knight of Camelot. Ris is the third-in-command of Camelot’s knights; he is prominent enough to be recognized on sight.

However, Bedivere was a squire knighted just a few weeks prior.

How did Wracu know of him and of his status?

There are countless answers to the question, most of them harmless in implication. But there is one answer that trickles dread over their spines.

A spy in the citadel.

Balinor turns on his heel, breaking the tense silence with the movement of his clothes. He heads for the gap in the enclosed space. “I need to clear my head. Send for me when the others have returned.”

He’s gone from sight before any of the others can open their mouths to stop him. 

“No exception for your favorite apprentice?” A blank face even if the tone holds hints of a jest.

“You’re my only apprentice.”

“Exactly. I’m the only one capable of putting up with your dour demeanor.” A smirk. “I should be exempted from all this nonsense as a reward.”

“Have you forgotten that I chose you and not the other way around?”

“I bet you’re regretting that choice now, aren’t you?” A teasing lilt and, finally, a tinge of laughter.

“ . . . No. In fact, I think it was my best decision yet.” A flustered silence. He hides a smile behind a hand. He doesn’t hide it well enough.

A scowl, one that’s not unfamiliar on her face. “I’ll turn your hair vomit green this time, see if I won’t, old man.”

“So you were here.”

A chalice blocks Balinor’s vision, startling him slightly. He ceases leaning onto the parapet ledge, straightens up, and takes the goblet from Arthur’s hands.

Arthur steps to stand beside him, nursing his own cup. His cerulean eyes follow Balinor’s gaze. The setting sun bathes the Darkling Woods with soft enticing light as it slowly disappears behind the dense foliage. In the city below, the bustle starts anew, the people gradually opening up their homes as the guards assure them of their safety.

Balinor sips the dark liquid from the goblet. And almost spits it back out. Dignity forces him to swallow the foul concoction.

Laughter gleams in the prince’s eyes as he sees the Court Sorcerer’s sour expression. “It would’ve been wine but Gaius insists you need a potion for possible magical exhaustion.” He tilts his own cup to show bright pink liquid. “I got one of his potions as well for my leg so we’ll be weathering through this together.” 

With that, he gulps down two swallows from his goblet. Nothing in his countenance indicates his distaste for the potion. Balinor can’t help but admire that.

“What are you thinking?” The prince asks, side-eyeing Balinor, tone abruptly sober.

Balinor stills, contemplating the question.

The Court Sorcerer is thinking of a shadow four years past, a ghost still haunting the halls of his mind, a thorn still piercing the organ in his chest. He’s thinking of the answer to a question he didn’t even know needed an answer.

The question of why he saw her during his demonstration of the third test.

Rage, bewilderment, grief — they swirl inside him like the winds of a storm, causing his pulse to drum quickly. He has gone over his memories of her, searching for an offhand statement or an implied circumstance that may offer him the explanation he seeks. He recalls nothing of the sort.

Perhaps the worst of it all is the hope stirring adamantly in his chest, taking his breath away.

Hope is possibly the most horrible thing the whole endeavor has fed him.

“Theatrics,” Balinor replies instead, unwilling to reveal to Arthur the impossible speculations on his mind. Until he knows more, he’ll not subject the prince himself to it.

Arthur lifts a delicate brow. “Theatrics?”

“Wracu is not prone to such,” Balinor says, twirling the goblet in his hand. The liquid inside sloshes, lines of bright red bubbling to the surface and breaking its dark color. “He pulls the strings from the shadows, hiding his actions from sight.”

A thoughtful look passes over Arthur’s face. “Yet, this time, he was practically ostentatious.”

The Court Sorcerer nods, eyes on the ever changing hue inside his chalice. “I found it suspect. If he acted so unsubtly . . . Then, there must be more to what we saw in the training grounds, there must be a hidden motive to his actions, a hidden reason as to why he would attempt to dispose of the boy. Perhaps this Merlin is one of his men, and he wanted to cast suspicion off of the boy by trying to make us think he wanted to kill him? Or maybe, all of it is a distraction to hide the real spy that’ll infiltrate the castle?”

“And now?” The prince prods, a hint of impatience lining his brow as he sets his half-filled cup atop the stone ledge.

“Now.” Balinor takes a tentative sip of the now rose-red liquid. Saccharine cherries burst upon his tongue, chasing away the awful taste of crushed herbs and animal oils. “I’m beginning to think that Wracu wants us to think that way.”

Arthur catches on quickly. “You think his motive is actually the obvious one: that he wanted to kill that applicant to prevent him from being an apprentice of Camelot’s court.”

— Clear skies, not a cloud on the bright blue sky. A soft ground, free of foliage, in the middle of the forest —

— A body clothed in the robes he had sewn himself sprawled on the ground, azure eyes unblinking and dull —

—Arthur, kneeling beside her, hands hovering, shaking, his bow carelessly thrown aside —

—Her skin is far too cold when he carried her, the pyre too hot as Jayden ignites the wood, the smoke stings his eyes —

The Court Sorcerer opens the eyes he didn’t realize he closed. He gulps down the remains of the potion, the sweet taste driving away the bitter images. He sets the goblet beside Arthur’s. “It’s as likely as any other possibility.”

Arthur tilts his head. “And what prompted this thinking that this Merlin’s blameless? It’s not like he helped his case earlier. All those shifty eyes and fidgeting . . .”

Balinor can’t help but let out an amused scoff. “I suppose, if nothing else, we can be certain that he’s a terrible liar.”

“Or very good at pretending to be one.” Arthur counters calmly.

The Court Sorcerer cannot deny that. There’s still plenty of unanswered questions regarding that unusual applicant, not only because Wracu targeted him but also because of the abilities he had shown throughout the tests. Balinor had planned to find out more over time, knowing Jayden would not hesitate to take the boy as an apprentice. 

But circumstances have changed, and he no longer has that luxury.

He needs to decide here and now, before the choosing ceremony, what path to take with the little information they have. The wrong choice may lead to them falling right into Wracu’s plans, and there is nothing Balinor loathes more.

“And you?” The Court Sorcerer nudges the still half-filled chalice towards the prince. The prince picks it up with the smallest of sighs. “What are your thoughts on all of this?”

Arthur taps the metal with a thumb, eyes looking out in the distance. “From the start, even during his registration, this Merlin had stood out. He had distinguished himself from the rest of the applicants, all the while looking extremely baffled. If it’s all an act, it’s a rather unnecessarily convoluted one. Furthermore, I doubt any spy of Wracu would call that much attention to themselves.” The prince ventures another sip from the bright pink concoction. “He has his secrets, as we all do. Considering my mother didn’t outright demand the return of the sigil, I’m inclined to believe he truly got it from a trustworthy source. For now, I believe the secrets he keeps do little harm to Camelot.”

“So you’re willing to allow him into the castle then? With all that’s happened?”

After all the prince has said, Balinor is quite astonished to hear him say a resolute, “No.”

“No?”

A hint of a frown pinches Arthur’s brows. “No matter how blameless he may be with regards to Wracu’s schemes, he was still involved. He interests me, true, and I do desire to use him to lure Wracu into a trap. But he brings ill tidings, and I’m not willing to invite that sort of omen into our home.” He runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “He’s a dangerous man, Balinor, no matter his intentions. And . . . Morgana.”

Immediately, the Court Sorcerer derives the prince’s implications because he has been of the same mind for a while now.

“It’s too early to tell but . . . She had been acting strange throughout the Exam, have you noticed? Especially when interacting with this Merlin.” Arthur points out before taking the last dregs from his cup. “Perhaps I just do not know her as well anymore. But it can also be that—”

“She Saw something,” Balinor finishes grimly. “Something involving that boy.”

Arthur nods. “And you know Morgana’s visions don't usually feature happy events.”

Balinor stares at Arthur, observing his clenched jaw and the white-knuckled grip he has upon the goblet. The Court Sorcerer knows the prince well enough to suspect that there may be something else, something more that he’s leaving usaid. Balinor, having some hidden thoughts of his own, prods no further.

Silence reigns over them. The sun gradually dips further below the array of trees, painting the horizon warm brushes of orange, red and pink. Balinor ponders over everything that happened that day — the epiphanies, the inquiries, the people’s behavior, and his own. He contemplates courses of actions and dismisses most of them. He gathers whatever information he gained to form a puzzle and a solution at the same time.

In an instant, Balinor knows what he must do.

The most difficult part would be convincing the queen regarding the soundness of it.

In the next instant, his eyes catch onto men and women in horseback weaving between the trees of the forest. The knights and his men are heading back, a couple of them entering through the western gate. Judging by the lack of urgency in their trots, they have little to report.

Even though he half-expected it, a swell of disappointment and frustration still settles at the base of Balinor’s stomach. If Arthur’s stone-like expression is any indication, then the prince must be feeling the same. The prince and the Court Sorcerer trade glances, confirming what the other has already deduced.

Balinor transports the goblets back to the kitchens with a wave of his hand. As one, he and Arthur turn to the exit of the parapets.

Night falls upon Camelot, stars shyly beginning to wink at the people of the land. Torches line their surroundings, their light and warmth making the darkness and cold a bit more bearable.

Half of the applicants of the Sorcerer’s Exam shift restlessly in their places. Some have abandoned propriety and slumped down flat on the ground, snoring and sleeping their exhaustion away. A handful of the injured ones bemoan their fates, telling all who would listen the cause of their wounds. A few are engaged in deep murmured discussions. All around them, the sorcerers and sorceresses of court wander around, answering questions and keeping them calm.

Those who forfeited their applications have been allowed to get out of the semi-containment the court has placed them in. They went to their homes or to their respective inns, dismayed at the results of their tests but more than eager to finish the day. Meanwhile, those who are still hoping to be chosen stayed and waited. And waited and waited, hoping that the choosing ceremony be done sooner rather than later.

The mages of court have long since cleaned up their tools and tent. They invite their apprentices with them to get them settled as new residents of the castle. Gilli has to bid them farewell.

“I’ll come back after I’ve sworn in and gotten my talisman, I promise!” The young mage vows before dashing away to follow the striding Mage Gaius.

Merlin, who has been staring despondently at Mage Gaius, shoots up at the words. “Sworn in? Like a knight?”

Mordred, used to Merlin’s questions, has a ready answer. “Certainly. After getting chosen, the apprentice has to sign a contract with their mentor to ensure both know what the apprenticeship entails.”

Lancelot, who’s still standing as stiff as a statue beside Merlin, frowns. “How have you joined the Exam without knowing that part?”

“Sheltered village, little news,” Merlin repeats his excuse tiredly and flippantly. “And won’t you at least sit down, Sir Lancelot?” Merlin’s tired of the knight looming over him. And he’s sure Sir Lancelot hasn’t even had a moment’s rest the whole day.

“No,” Sir Lancelot says.

Merlin rolls his eyes this time. Sir Lancelot reaches down, and cuffs him painfully at the back of his neck like Arthur used to do.

“Ow!“

“Sir Lancelot!” Morgana chides. “Please refrain from maiming Merlin.”

The knight’s dark eyes linger on Merlin’s nape before he turns to Morgana. “He should know how to respect people above his station.”

“I do respect you, sire,” Merlin replies, keeping his tone mild and respectful. Then, because he can’t restrain himself with regards to stubborn prats, he adds, “But not when you’re being an unreasonable grump.” He offers the knight a wide insolent grin.

Sir Lancelot scowls, gloved hands reaching down for the warlock once more. Merlin scrambles away to avoid his grip. Mordred watches the interaction with detached interest while Morgana lets out a chuckle.

Fortunately, before Sir Lancelot’s fingers could enclose the warlock, a commanding, “Applicants,” resound in the area.

Everyone pauses in their actions. Some kind-hearted ones prod the sleeping applicants awake. Merlin, along with several others, shoot up to their feet.

Their heads all turn to Queen Ygraine, the one who has spoken. Striding behind her are the missing magic-users of court, a handful of whom are trying to hide their exhausted states but also clearly failing. Joining them are Prince Arthur and the Court Sorcerer, standing before them hours after they chased after the böggel-mann. Merlin observes their faces, hoping to know what they plan to do with him after all that fuss. Unfortunately, he garners no clues from their stone-cut facades.

Queen Ygraine gazes at the gathered possible apprentices with keen eyes. Merlin notices that her gaze seems to skip over him, the action sweeping him with trepidation. With a firm commanding voice, she begins, “The Court of Camelot apologizes for the disruption in The Apprentice Exam, and the danger you were placed in today. Rest assured that you are in no danger now.”

“Guess they didn’t catch the böggel-mann after all,” Merlin hears someone close to him whisper.

“Why do you think so?”

“They would have proudly announced it otherwise, don’t you think?”

Queen Ygraine speaks over the mutterings. “Furthermore, as recompense for today’s events, the court will pay for your stay tonight in respectable and high-class inns and for hearty dinners.” The queen’s remark sets off a wave of pleased sighs and approving noises. “As for what happens now . . .” 

Queen Ygraine gestures at the Court Sorcerer, who has been quietly standing behind her, to come forward. Balinor does so, hands behind his back and countenance only belying nonchalance.

“There are still three of you who have yet to take the third test.” The applicants glance around, attempting to determine the three. “To be fair to those who came before, we will still have you to take it to proceed. If you prefer not to forfeit, we will redraw the mandrake circle and re-enchant it.”

Relief loosens Merlin’s chest when Balinor mentions nothing about him retaking the test. Merlin loathes to admit it but he rather not take the test again. Wracu’s sabotage was a tiny blessing in disguise because Merlin needn’t worry about what the next illusions would reveal about him. That the warlock hasn’t been disqualified outright is also quite a comfort.

The Court Sorcerer looks expectantly at the group. When none but soft murmurings greets him, he nods resolutely and heads to the training grounds once more. They all follow him like little ducklings, steps sluggish and uncertain.

Sir Lancelot breaks away from the group, duty seemingly done, but not before sending Merlin a glare of ‘I’m closely watching you’. The knight’s departure relieves and saddens the warlock at the same time.

They all enter the training grounds with a lot less enthusiasm than before. Lit torches circle the grounds’ barrier, casting a rather somber ambiance upon the whole area. Lady Jayden wiggles her fingers; the fires flare brighter than the morning sun dispelling the heavy air. Merlin notes that more than a handful of people are now sitting in the audience stands. He can’t make out their expressions but judging by the way they lean forward in their seats, they’re more excited about the continuation of the Exam than the applicants themselves. The number of audience is certainly drastically lesser than before but Merlin’s surprised some have returned at all considering the dire events earlier.

Two sorceresses hastily gather the two jugs left in the corner, uncork them, and let the black ichor drip onto the ground. The rest of the court waves away the debris covering the soil to make a clear space. Lord Dalion, with both hands and gold eyes, carefully pieces together the broken hourglass. The runes are sketched quickly but tidily, and in no more than a few minutes, Balinor has cast the illusion spell upon it.

Nerves gnaw the fringes of Merlin’s mind as names are once again shouted for the third test. He glances at the Court Sorcerer and Prince Arthur, whose gazes are uncannily focused in the mandrake circle. Merlin’s stare switches to the queen, who’s talking quietly with Lord Tristan. Both look as if they’ve eaten something sour. Dread pools in the warlock’s stomach, and he tears his gaze away.

In seemingly no time at all, the three applicants finish their respective tests. The last one, a short ginger-haired boy, walks back to the cluster of applicants with a jaw-breaking yawn. He seems more concerned about finding a bed than the results of the test he just took.

With a muttered spell from Lord Mavin, the soil prances, burying and dissipating the inked runes with little fuss.

Almost immediately, Merlin feels and sees all the remaining applicants straighten, the sleepiness and tiredness gone from their demeanor. With bright alert eyes, they turn their gazes to their hopefully would-be mentors. The taste of excitement and a wave of quick murmurs spill into the air, lifting the pall of dreariness the night has covered them in. Their giddiness is infectious. Despite his own woes, Merlin can’t help but feel the same elated buzz coursing through him.

“Goddess above, finally . . .”

“Please choose me, choose me, choose me.”

“I think I did well in the three tests. I’m definitely going to be picked.”

“Your hair was purple.”

“W-Well, it’s not purple now!”

“Who are you hoping for?” Elise asks of Theo.

The gray-haired man sighs so deeply that Merlin worries that his lungs might collapse. “I’m really just hoping to get chosen by anyone this time.”

Prince Arthur steps forward, hands behind his back in a pose similar to one the Court Sorcerer usually adopts. The applicants’ conversations draw into an abrupt hush at the movement.

“Applicants, the choosing ceremony shall now commence,” Prince Arthur addresses the participants for the first time in the Exam. He gestures at the empty space in the middle of the grounds.

The applicants, getting the hint, all shuffle towards the referred space. Merlin’s heart pounds; it’s the first time he has participated in some sort of courtly competition but he has to have done well, right? He passed the first and second test, at the very least, unlike some of the others.

When all has settled and quieted, Prince Arthur resumes. “Our sorcerers and sorceresses will now be choosing their apprentices, people who they will be mentoring for three years.” 

Merlin’s slightly astonished at the duration. Three years is a long time to teach someone . . . 

“In this Sorcerer’s Exam, each of them can choose at most two apprentices. Or they may choose none.” The prince’s gaze sweeps over them swiftly. Like his mother, however, his eyes seem to skip over Merlin. “If you gave it your all, may you get through the ceremony without regrets.”

The young sorcerers and sorceresses steel themselves, preparing for the results of their hard work. They trade glances; some derisive, some reassuring, most uncertain. Merlin tunes them all out, staring at Prince Arthur.

Bemusedly, Merlin recognizes none of the mannerisms the prince adopts as he’s making his speech. His voice is of a softer timbre than Arthur’s, still commanding but less firm. His hands are hidden behind his back instead of folded on his front. His expression also barely changes all throughout . . . Or perhaps Merlin’s just not really used to his tics to detect such. Usually with Arthur, the moue of his mouth changes when he knows he’s getting to the bad news or the corner of the king’s left eyebrow twitches when he sees someone talking amidst his speech. The dissonance between Prince Arthur’s expressionless countenance and King Arthur’s expressive ones discombobulates Merlin once more.

Prince Arthur speaks, shaking Merlin out of his musings. “The court shall go by order of rank. The honor of the first choices: Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, Lord Balinor of the Thrakon Isles.”

Balinor breaks from their group, coming forward to stand beside Arthur.

“I doubt he’ll choose an apprentice this year too,” Merlin hears a noblewoman whisper to the nobleman beside her. “Well . . . perhaps, had the Exam proceeded smoothly . . .” She trails off.

“I don’t think anyone’s hoping for Lord Balinor to choose. I’m hoping Lady Jayden may choose me,” the nobleman replies.

Merlin side-eyes them both, thinking their words over. Merlin knows Balinor has only had one apprentice in the fifteen years since the Apprentice Exam began. He knows not what made that apprentice distinguish herself during her own Exam but Merlin himself has seen some pretty awe-inspiring magic performed that day — Cava’s superior handling of fire magic, Theo’s impressive array of unique spells, Mordred’s ability to control a plethora of things at once, and plenty of others who belted out enchantments Merlin didn’t even know could exist. Clar, who must be barely sixteen summers, even has knowledge of a spell Merlin has only learned when he was eighteen winters.

Given that, the warlock is not quite as surprised as the others when the Court Sorcerer opens his mouth and says a name.

“Morgana Le Fay,” Balinor intones, beckoning her.

All heads whip to the aforementioned lady as gasps ripple through the crowd. Even a flash of astonishment flits by Prince Arthur's face. Morgana . . . does not look the tiniest bit shocked as she strides towards the Court Sorcerer’s outstretched hand.

“Goodness . . .” Cava breathes out.

A smile ghosts Morgana’s lips, jade eyes glittering with warmth as she stops before the Court Sorcerer. Even in this realm, Morgana has powerful magic that she can command with no difficulty at all. Merlin can see why she would be Balinor’s choice. Although, she mostly only displayed spells similar to my own.

The Court Sorcerer lowers his head — low enough to be considered a shallow bow. With a firm low tone, he asks, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my apprentice?”

“Lord Balinor, I will be more than happy to be your apprentice,” Morgana Le Fay replies brightly, eyes now adopting a teary quality even as her voice remains steady.

Balinor lifts his head and gives Morgana the briefest and smallest of smiles. If Merlin had not been looking closely, he might have missed it. Morgana pads to Balinor’s side, pride settling in the set of her shoulders.

Prince Arthur nods in acknowledgement of the events. His mouth opens, eyes already darting to Lady Jayden.

However, Balinor speaks again before the prince could do so. “Mordred of the Forest of Engred.”

The said druid’s mouth drops open, unbridled shock stiffening his whole body. Merlin glances at Mordred, who’s standing just to his left, with wide eyes himself. Mordred turns to him with the same exact look, looking younger than his age with the unguardedness of it. While the druid has been hoping to be the Court Sorcerer’s apprentice, given the history, he probably isn’t expecting this.

Because of the memorable third test, everyone knows where to look for the owner of the name. Modred receives plenty of stunned stares, amazed looks, and more than one envious glare.

“T-Two apprentices!?” Someone cries out.

“In the same year!”

Another wave of gasps paves through the applicants. Even those of court appear nonplussed. Merlin gets over his own shock fairly quickly. He elbows Mordred frantically, knocking the druid out of his stupor.

“Go on!” Merlin urges him, unable to curb his growing smile. While he still has his reservations regarding Mordred, Merlin feels inordinately pleased for him. It’s not everyday he sees someone’s impossible dream fulfilled in front of them.

Mordred staggers towards the Court Sorcerer, azure eyes wide and still unbelieving. In Merlin’s chest, something twists painfully.

Watching as Mordred comes to stand in front of his not-father as the second apprentice, Merlin realizes that a part of him had hoped —

He is only going to be in this other realm for only a short while. While he has been saddened to recognize his friends and not be recognized in return, he wishes to have the opportunity to spend more time with the man that’s dead in his own realm. A part of him longs to prove something to this counterpart that he has (apparently) proven the man he spent barely two days with in his own world. (“I’ve seen enough in you to know you will make me proud.”). It is a foolish childish hope, he supposes.

He inwardly shakes his head; it matters not. The Court Sorcerer has already chosen his two apprentices.

Balinor does the same shallow bow, and asks the same question of Mordred. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my apprentice?”

The druid stares at the Court Sorcerer, gobsmacked for moments. Then, he composes himself and hastily replies, “I - I shall do my best as your apprentice, my lord.”

Balinor lifts his head, and nods at him. Mordred walks to stand beside his now fellow apprentice. Morgana offers him a bright smile. It seems the facts are finally beginning to sink in for Mordred because a giant unrestrained grin starts to climb his face.

Lady Jayden takes a step forward, clearly preparing to take her turn. Prince Arthur opens his mouth once more to declare her turn.

But to the absolute flabbergast of everyone around, Balinor utters another name.

“Merlin of Ealdor.”

Silence follows his words.

“What.” Merlin blinks rapidly, staring at the Court Sorcerer as if he has grown a dragon head in the past few minutes. “What?”

Balinor delicately raises a bushy brow, giving him a look one would give a stubborn child. He motions for the warlock to come closer.

“I think . . .” Theo starts, staring at the warlock with a dumbfounded expression. “Lord Balinor wants you to go over there, Merlin.”

“What for?” Merlin asks, voice pitching high in confusion.

“As the, uh, third apprentice . . . ?” Elise’s tone lilts in an undeniable question, more of asking rather than answering.

The statement breaks the shield of bewilderment that has wrapped around the training grounds. 

Prince Arthur inhales sharply, fiery gaze shifting to the Court Sorcerer. Balinor refuses to meet his eyes, amber gaze focused solely on Merlin. The warlock himself stares back at the Court Sorcerer, alarmed and confused.

Deafening noise spills from everyone, applicants and audience alike, demanding explanations.

“Third apprentice!?”

“Wha—Why?”

“I was quite sure I heard there can only be two . . .”

“And he was chosen even after —“

“Silence,” Queen Ygraine’s voice permeates the air sharply. Almost immediately, every other voice falls to a tensed hush. The queen’s blue eyes flick to her Court Sorcerer before she faces the applicants once more. “Given his lack of apprentices in the past years, for this year, I have permitted Lord Balinor to choose three apprentices instead of only two. We have not informed you sooner for we hoped it would be a pleasant surprise.” Queen Ygraine’s smile, when she turns it to Merlin, is filled with the pointed and poisoned-dipped knives.

Being a king’s servant for years, Merlin identifies a hidden threat when he sees one.

Merlin suppresses a shudder, knowing what the queen wants him to do. However, he didn’t put all that effort just to give up when he’s so close to fulfilling part of his plan. He’s not very good at following orders anyway, unspoken or otherwise.

He plasters on a ‘clueless farm boy unknowing of whatever courtly threats anyone is making on his person’ look, and unsticks his boots from the ground. He forces himself to tread the path towards Balinor. Subdued murmurings greet him from every side, and piercing gazes stab him deeper with every step.

Merlin only raises his head when halts before the Court Sorcerer. Balinor’s face paints an intimidatingly placid portrait, no tic or twitch belying his thoughts. He bows just as before, and asks the same question to Merlin, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my apprentice?”

Despite the confusion still swirling in his mind and the headache-inducing glares he’s currently receiving, Merlin can’t quite prevent his lips from curling upwards. An inexplicable ball of warmth swells in his chest as he replies, “The honor is all mine, Lord Balinor.”

The Court Sorcerer blinks back at Merlin. Then, he gives the warlock a curt nod. Balinor motions to his three new apprentices. Getting the hint, the three of them follow him as he leads them into a corner of the grounds, far from the still stunned crowd. Morgana gives Merlin a sunny smile as they walk. Mordred, a cheerful visage dripping through his attempts to adopt an unaffected facade, grins freely, unbothered by the unusualness of the situation. Merlin can only offer them a grimace-disguising-as-a-smile of his own as he still feels Queen Ygraine’s sharp glare upon his back.

Behind them, Prince Arthur finally calls out, “Lady Jayden Muirden, to choose her apprentices.”

An hour prior to the choosing ceremony, and a few minutes after the returning patrol have given their report of finding nothing, the Court Sorcerer approaches Queen Ygraine.

“If you’d be willing, Your Majesty, I would like to speak with you,” Balinor asks.

The queen stares at him for one long moment before nodding. Queen  Ygraine stalks off towards one of the empty guest rooms. Balinor is a step behind her. He meets Arthur’s questioning gaze but refuses to provide the prince an answer.

The room they entered is bare and dusty, the large bed the only furniture in it. With a spell, Balinor ignites the torches on either side of the door, bathing them both in flickering firelight.

“Speak then,” Queen Ygraine says after the door has been locked.

“I wish to take three apprentices this year,” Balinor declares, getting straight to the point.

The queen’s eyes narrow. “You told me that taking in more than two apprentices might interfere with one’s duties to court.”

“I vow that having three won’t interfere with mine.”

Queen Ygraine searches his face. She lifts a brow at whatever she has found. “Why three?”

Because there are three white levels, three who have shown impressive skills throughout the tests. Because Merlin has let on that Her magic looks — uh, feels similar to someone I know and Um, my magic might react poorly with Mordred too. Because Merlin may only be the diversion, the fake target to hide the real one. Because Balinor knows any one of the three of them can be in immediate danger the moment they take a step outside the citadel. Because Balinor knows that with the threat of a citadel spy in their midst, it’s better to keep their potential enemies close and contained.

“There are three who have caught my eye this year,” Balinor answers instead of the millions of other reasons on his mind. “I would like to mentor them myself and ensure their growth.”

“Do you now.” The queen tilts her head. “Very well. I shall allow it. As long as you don’t choose the boy.”

Both know who the queen is referring to. Balinor’s fingers twitch. “He has not forfeited nor has he been disqualified.”

A heavy frown mars Queen Ygraine’s face. Her tone holds a hint of venom when she replies, “Do you truly think allowing that boy in the castle is the right idea?”

The Court Sorcerer takes on a pondering look. “I suppose disqualifying him may solve our problem.”

Irritation flashes by the queen’s features as she bites out, “But?”

“It may also solve Wracu’s.”

“I care not,” Queen Ygraine replies coldly. “I have the mind to banish the boy from the kingdom for all this trouble.”

Balinor expertly hides astonishment at the statement, looking at the queen with pinched brows. “. . . Because of the sigil?” The queen bristles almost imperceptibly, and Balinor knows he has guessed correctly. Carefully, he asks, “Will you tell me, Your Majesty, what the boy’s sigil means to you?”

The queen presses her lips into a thin line. “It means nothing.” Then, swiftly and firmly, she switches to another line of topic. “I would not call for his disqualification but you will not choose him.” It’s an order, not a request. “Although I doubt the others will choose him as well. I’ll not have him as a potential successor.”

The Court Sorcerer says nothing for a long while.

“Balinor,” the queen warns. “I will not support your madness.”

“He won’t be a successor,” Balinor promises.

Queen Ygraine stares him down, gauging the sincerity of the promise. She must’ve found something that made her doubt less because she gives an approving nod.

He won’t be a successor to Balinor’s position, that can be ensured. After the three years of apprenticeship is finished, Balinor merely needed to pick a successor that is not the boy or perhaps pick no one under him at all. But the Court Sorcerer made no remarks or vows regarding who he’ll be choosing as apprentices.

Ygraine realizes this quite sourly as Balinor chooses his third apprentice, and she has to hide her shock from witnesses. She supposes it’s partly her fault for not seeing through it.

Balinor has always been the most talented wordsmith in her court.

“Theo of Drefir,” Lady Jayden calls out.

At the name, Merlin can’t help but glance back. The owner of the name sports a confouded look, disbelief written in every line of his face.

“Come. With your persistence, I think it’s about time your hard work is acknowledged,” Lady Jayden says, tone filled with fondness.

At that, Theo’s expression blanked. Hesitation filters through his voice as he responds, “My lady, if this stems from pity—”

The sorceress shakes her head, and gently says, “I would not belittle your efforts by taking you in out of pity, my dear.”

Merlin faces forward, pleased for Theo. The man, after showcasing his resourcefulness and useful skills, deserves no less. 

When the four of them are far enough to barely make out Lady Jayden’s words, Balinor stops and turns to the three apprentices. From the inner pockets of his coat, he pulls out rolled pieces of parchment. “Seeing as everything’s been delayed, we’ll be swearing you in immediately. Do the three of you know how to read and write?”

Merlin nods in sync with Morgana and Mordred.

“Good.” He hands each of them three leafs of paper. “Read the contract carefully. Have you any questions, ask them immediately.”

Covenant Between Mentor and Apprentice, reads the first line in large darkened letters. Merlin skims through the clauses and conditions. He’s relieved to understand most of the words on it; there’s little magical terms inscripted in the sentences. 

Three years of lodging in the castle plus their own talisman and sets of robes to signify their status. Three meals a day and an allowance of seven silvers per week will be provided.

They’re paying us seven silvers a week to learn from prodigious masters. No wonder a plethora of people want the position.

A day-off once per week. Mentor shall provide guidance, lessons and protection. Apprentice shall help the mentor with their duties. Apprentice shall follow Camelot’s law and traditions during their stay. Apprentice should not purposely associate with known enemies of Camelot or share any of their learned knowledge to even allied kingdoms. There are more clarifications and specifications on this front, several paragraphs detailing what they’re allowed to share, who they’re allowed to share it with, and when they can claim the information as their own. Mentor can and will let go of apprentices found to be in violation of the terms stated, with the threat of banishment, imprisonment or even execution depending on the degree of the crime. The rest of the contract states further stipulations regarding what is expected of a court apprentice. The last sentence denotes that the contract will be bespelled with a spell unfamiliar to Merlin upon the signing of both parties.

The whole thing is a proper pact, and it sinks in to Merlin that this is really happening. He’s about to become a proper sorcerer apprentice under Camelot’s flag, and under Camelot’s Court Sorcerer. Not only that —

The warlock’s eyes flit to the person on his left; Mordred has seemingly finished reading his copy of the contract for he’s only holding the parchments aloft. To the warlock’s right, Morgana is still perusing the documents, lips moving wordlessly.

Not only is he apprenticing under his not-father, he’s also going to be fellow apprentices with two of his greatest not-enemies.

I think only I could be in a situation like this, Merlin thinks, feeling a bit hysterical. If this is part of destiny’s plans, then Merlin is certain that it isn’t a very good plan.

“The spell for the contract-binding,” the warlock starts, deciding to push the oncoming hysteria deep deep down until he can find himself alone to deal with it. “How does it work? Um, my lord.”

Balinor answers promptly, “The undeóp dness, also known as the Shallow Contract, is the simplest contract enchantment. Once one of the signed parties breaks a clause, both parties will immediately know of it.” He points at the documents on Merlin’s hands. “A red line will appear upon the broken rules, and the party which broke it will be written.”

How reliable. If that’s the simplest contract spell, Merlin is interested in what a more complicated one does. The warlock rereads the whole thing again, ensuring that no terms require him to reveal his past or answer any questions he doesn’t want to. Thankfully, as long as he doesn’t withhold information that purposely endangers the citizens of Camelot, he’s not required to reveal anything else.

“Ready, then?” the Court Sorcerer asks them after several minutes. 

At this point, Merlin observes, from the corner of his eye, that more than a handful of mentors and apprentices have gathered in their little corners. He spies Theo and Clar discussing with Lady Jayden, making a rather interesting pair of apprentices. The boy called Fi is talking with Lord Mavin while Cava and Elise seem to be arguing rather vehemently with Lord Dalion. Merlin notes with surprise, however, that about ten of those in court stand apart from the crowd with no apprentice in sight. With only five mentors left and more than twenty possible apprentices still, the warlock understands why half of the remaining applicants look to be on the verge of tears.

I guess Balinor is not the only one with high standards, Merlin thinks to himself.

“Ready, my lord,” Mordred replies, dragging Merlin back to his own little circle.

Morgana and Merlin follow up with their own assent. The Court Sorcerer flicks a hand. The parchments on their hands are abruptly taken away from their grasp. The papers are crisply straightened and accordingly laid out on thin air in front of each of them.

“Sign each page anywhere.” Balinor hands them a feathered quill each.

Merlin watches Morgana write on the parchment without dipping the quill in ink. Hesitantly, Merlin presses the nib of his own quill to his own copy, and signs a loopy ‘Merlin’ on the side; the ink flows freely and doesn’t even blot unnaturally while the paper remains stiff and steady even if all it has as support is air.

Magic truly is amazingly convenient. Merlin needs to learn these types of spells and bring them back to his own Camelot. It would really help when (re)writing Arthur’s speeches.

After the three of them have signed all three pages, Balinor draws the documents to himself. He taps each leaf with an index finger, and identical symbols appear on each page with each gesture. It’s less of a letter, more of a blocky rune. Before Merlin could take a closer look, the Court Sorcerer rolls up the documents and lowly encants over them. “Undeóp Dness eac Morgana Le Fay, Undeóp Dness eac Mordred sylfum Fyrhþ Engred, Undeóp Dness eac Merlin sylfum Ealdor.”

Morgana sighs, shoulders losing their tension and eyes swirling a gentle gold. Mordred breathes out reverently, irises of the same shade.

Merlin suppresses a gasp and the instinctive urge to defend as the spell courses through his blood. Unlike previous enchantments cast upon him, the particular spell is mellow and benign, skittering through his veins almost unnoticeably.

In short moments, the enchantment finishes. Merlin feels something flexing at the back of his mind, like a muscle he never knew he could use. He rubs the back of his head at the sensation. As soon as he stops paying the littlest of attention to it, however, it settles and melds, almost disappearing but not quite.

“The contract has been signed and bound,” the Court Sorcerer informs them. With a tone more fitted to announcing deaths in the family, he declares, “Well done. You are now apprentices under Camelot’s court.”

Chapter Text

Balinor leads them out of the training grounds and towards the eastern side of the castle. There, six exam officials await just outside the castle shield.

“My lord.” Tina bows low as they approach, the motion emulated by the rest of her companions.

An array of bronze pendants strapped with leather cords hangs by their left forearms, clanging softly together with their every move. The pendants are motleys of shapes no bigger than Merlin’s palm.

Tina lifts her head, and seems to startle to still see the Court Sorcerer in her midst.

“Three talismans,” Balinor prompts, holding out his hand.

“Talismans . . . Three.” Tina repeats, looking rather befuddled. Her gaze finally strays to the people behind the Court Sorcerer, and brown eyes widen in disbelief. “Of course, my lord . . . Three. Um.” Awkwardly, she extracts three talismans from her arm. Balinor accepts them from her without further fuss.

“These will be your castle talismans,” Balinor begins, presenting the pendants to three curious apprentices. “Each will be tailored to you, and can be used by no other. Have it at all times for you cannot go through the castle shield without it. Should you lose it, inform me immediately.” Separating one pendant from the others, he turns to Morgana and signals her.

The said lady walks closer, fingers separating a curl of her hair from her head and summarily plucking out a strand. She gingerly puts the lock upon the crescent moon-shaped pendant Balinor holds out. From underneath his tunic and around his neck, the Court Sorcerer pulls out a pendant of his own, his the form of the triple moon. He presses both pendants together, hazel eyes glowing as he whispers an enchantment. After a few moments, he detaches the talismans, and bequeathes the other to Morgana.

Morgana happily accepts it. She wears it around her neck, tracing the metal with slender fingers. The Court Sorcerer gestures at the castle with his head. Without another word, Morgana strides towards the entrance. She reaches the archway and pauses, encountering no hindrance.

“Mordred,” Balinor calls.

Mordred places a strand of his own hair on a pendant with swirling circles. Balinor repeats the same process, enchanting the talisman as before. Same as Morgana, after putting it on, Mordred goes through the castle shield with no difficulty at all.

Merlin approaches, a tinge of excitement tickling him and a strand of hair already upon his fingers. The warlock’s own talisman is that of interweaving almond shapes, forming what looks similar to a three-petalled flower — a triquetra. Balinor does the same spell upon it, interlocking his own talisman with it.

Unnaturally warm metal suffuses Merlin’s palm as he cradles the talisman in his hands. The hum of its magic feels comfortingly familiar. He puts it on with more enthusiasm than necessary and rests it just beside Arthur’s given sigil. He glances at the castle, and at Morgana and Mordred who stares expectantly at him. Slowly, he places a foot forward and takes a step. And then another. And another. The resistance that hurt his nose that very morning does not do so this time. Within a few moments, he touches the castle’s stone walls with reverence.

Finally! He grins, pleased that at least he has achieved a goal he has set for himself that morning. He is now able to enter the castle grounds.

“Come along now.” Balinor waves his hands at the three, and they all follow him into the castle proper.

Inside, just beyond the archway that served as the entrance, servants line the corridor, conversing casually. Upon seeing the new arrivals, all stand to attention, immediately straightening their backs and silencing their words. A servant leaps ahead of the rest.

George, with his hawkish nose, bowl-cut hair, and formal air, looks exactly the same as the one Merlin knows. Even his clothes mimic the same combination of colors — the light blue tunic, deep red undercoat and deep brown overcoat. It amazes Merlin quite a bit, and brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Lord Balinor, I shall lead your new apprentices to their rooms.” If George is surprised that Balinor has any apprentices at all, he does not show it. The same cannot be said for the other servants watching them with awe.

“Thank you, George,” Balinor says. He gestures at Mordred and Merlin. “Take these two to their chambers. I will take Morgana to hers.”

Merlin pauses in looking around the familiar walls to give Balinor and Morgana a curious glance. Morgana smiles at the warlock again as their gazes meet, something Merlin still can’t properly return.

“Very well, my lord.” To Mordred and Merlin, George says mildly, “If you would follow me.” The servant turns on his heel and strides into one of the twisting halls of the castle.

Mordred and Merlin comply, walking a step behind him. Merlin glances back just in time to see Balinor and Morgana disappearing into another aisle.

“I have the strangest feeling that we’re not heading to any of the apprentice chambers,” Morgana remarks guilelessly as they climb the sets of stairs heading towards the parapets.

Balinor replies somberly, “I wish to speak with you privately.”

They reach the top of the stairs, and enter the battlements. The cold night air blows by their cheeks, the torches doing little to provide warmth. Morgana pulls her cloak closer to her body.

“What do you wish to talk about then?” Morgana asks, staring at the Court Sorcerer placidly. Balinor opens his mouth to answer but another voice beats him to it.

“Your visions.”

Both their heads snap to the source of the words. Arthur emerges from the shadows of the turrets like a ghost at midnight.

Morgana cocks a brow. “An ambush, is it?”

Balinor’s brows furrow. “Arthur, what —“

“I knew you would speak with her as soon as you can,” the prince cuts Balinor off. He smirks, a small and almost invisible thing. “I also know the battlements are what you consider a ‘private setting’.”

Balinor debates whether he should be offended or not. Morgana releases an amused huff. Arthur shifts his attention to her, gaze nothing less than piercing.

“Will you tell us, Morgana, what you Saw?” Arthur inquires, tone casual as if he’s not fully interested in the subject. The way he stalks closer and leans forward, however, belies otherwise. “And what this Merlin has to do with it.”

Morgana inhales sharply. “Astute as always, my prince.”

“So you did See something.” A hint of accusation slips through Balinor’s tone. “Why did you not tell us? We have to know and act as soon as possible to prevent a catastrophe from occurring.”

“It’s not —“ Morgana presses her lips together, a flash of sorrow flitting by her features. “It isn’t like that.”

“Then, what is it like?” Seeing the hesitation on Morgana’s expression perplexes Balinor quite a bit because, “You’ve never once hidden the contents of your visions before.”

Morgana dithers some more, emerald eyes flicking from an expectant Arthur to a curious Balinor.

“Information for information.” Balinor cocks his head to the side. “Did I not let you listen in on our conversation in the tent?”

Arthur shoots the Court Sorcerer a surprised look. “You let her listen in?”

Balinor responds airily, “I believe she would be more lenient with information on her end should I give her the same courtesy.”

“And here I thought I expertly dispersed your spell without your knowledge.” Morgana appears more exasperated than guilty at being caught.

Balinor allows himself to smirk. “You’re still far too young to hope for that.” A pondering look crosses his face. “But the fact that you attempted to do so in that tent confirmed that Merlin truly has something to do with what you Saw. Morgana, I wish to know if any of my apprentices pose any threat or will be in any danger.”

Morgana sighs. “I suppose it’s only fair. There’s no chance either of you is going to let this slide, is there?”

Arthur gives her a look of ‘do you really need to ask?’. Balinor merely raises a brow.

Morgana nods, a blatant resolve sets her shoulders in a determined line. She holds out both her hands, palms up and fingers splayed, and says, “It’ll be easier to show you.”

“Show us?”

This time, it is Balinor and Arthur’s turn to hesitate. It’s no secret that Morgana’s prominent Sight, while very useful in saving lives and preventing wars, is also a great blight upon her. She glimpses upon futures bathed in the blood of innocents, deafening with the pained cries of the people, and suffused with unmerciful betrayals in courts. She declares their contents as soon as she receives it, describing each event in detail to ensure the accuracy of the information. However, she has never offered to show them to anyone. Consequently, no one has ever asked to see them personally.

While Balinor and Arthur are no strangers to gore, they’re still unsure whether they can just plunge into it without knowing what the visions entail.

Noting the look upon their face, Morgana’s lips twist into a knowing smirk. “I suppose if you’re that afraid to know . . .”

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes Morgana’s hand into one of his own before she could finish the sentence, curiosity winning over caution. Balinor lets out a breath that may have been a sigh, and places his own hand on top of Morgana’s free one.

Without further preamble, she sends out a pulse of energy through their points of contact, slithering through veins and lightly prodding at their minds. They open a door for her magic in their heads, giving her permission and allowing her in.

And Morgana projects.

Sunlight streams between the gaps of the leaves, flickering as the tree’s branches frolic with the breeze. The bushes nearby rustle boisterously as a strong gust of wind circles and plays with them. The smell of spring, of newly formed life and new beginnings, fills the air wonderfully. Silken cloth drapes over their skin, and another rougher texture rests upon their hands.

Soon, other smells filter in. The sweet scent of honey and jams. The fragrance of freshly baked bread. The tang of good wine and cheap ale mixing unexpectedly smoothly. Sizzling meat wafting in the air. Cut fruits dripping juices.

Soon, other sounds also begin to reach their ears. Laughter.

“— and then, Lancelot, the absolute lightweight, falls over his seat in mere minutes!“

“I had one whole mug of ale!”

“Yes, someone getting utterly smashed on only one cup of ale is what we call a lightweight, Lancelot.”

Their field of vision shifts, drifting down to the people conversing. Lancelot is dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, scowling mightily at whatever embarrassing story is being told. Having had enough, the knight grabs a bread roll from the picnic basket, and shoves it in the storyteller’s — Gilli, Morgana supplies them — mouth to cease his speech. Gilli flails, trying to prevent himself from choking. Mordred, slouching beside Gilli and adorning familiarly stitched blue robes, merely guffaws at his friend’s fate, making no move to help him.

“I think it’s adorable.” Beside Lancelot, garbed in sleeveless leathers and earthen-colored cloths, sits the most renowned blacksmith of the citadel. Toned and prominent biceps flex as the blacksmith reaches out to liberate a peach from the bowl, ringlets of brown curls swaying at the movement. “Sir Lancelot merely isn’t a man to indulge too often in drink, and so hasn't had a strong resistance to it. Not that there’s anything wrong with indulging in it too often. As long as they can still work by the next morning.”

Lancelot blushes heavily, grabbing an apple from the fruit pile and aggressively biting into it.

“They aren’t subtle at all.”

Their eyes turn to their left, turn to the owner of the voice. Merlin, dressed in the same robes as Mordred, stares at Lancelot amusedly. A hovering butter knife spreading raspberry jam on a hovering bread lays close to his wiggling fingers. On his lap, curled atop his folded legs is a pale-colored winged creature, sleeping peacefully amidst the bickering. Merlin rubs the ridges on its back absentmindedly.

“No, they’re not.” Beside Merlin, Arthur plucks the bread from thin air and takes a large bite out of it. Merlin’s irritated “Hey, that’s mine!” goes largely ignored. After swallowing, the prince says, “I should start a betting pool among the knights on when Lancelot will finally admit he has actual feelings other than grumpiness.”

Merlin huffs, dark-blue eyes glowing gold as he lifts another piece of bread and begins smearing blueberry jam on it. “Lancelot will skin you.”

“I’m the crowned prince, Merlin. The worst he can do is glare at me from a distance.”

“You’re a clotpole.” Undeniable fondness paints Merlin’s tone. “I’ll be taking revenge in Lancelot’s stead then.”

A pale delicate hand robed with the same shade of blue is raised in the air. Merlin’s blueberry-soaked bread comes flying towards their fingers.

“My thanks, Merlin,” Morgana’s voice says before the taste of blueberries fills their tongue.

Merlin squawks, indignant. “Prats, both of you!”

Morgana’s laughter rings loudly and freely in the air. Merlin, grumbling about thieving nobilities, grabs another slice and uses strawberry jam this time.

“I see you’re having fun.”

Their heads whip behind them. Balinor emerges from the trees like an unbidden nightmare. Merlin’s bread drops with an unappetizing squish onto the cloth-covered ground.

Balinor stares, unamused, at the whole scene. “I don’t remember today being a day-off.”

They trade panicked looks with Mordred and Merlin.

“Merlin was getting antsy.”

“It was Morgana who dragged us all out!”

“Mordred told us he’d never had a picnic!”

The three blue-robed individuals in the group yell simultaneously. Then, the three of them send each other offended looks. The creature on Merlin’s lap abruptly jolts awake with a sharp croon at the shouts. Lancelot, the blacksmith, and Gilli make themselves smaller in the hopes that the Court Sorcerer won’t notice them. Arthur’s sudden coughing fit definitely started out as a laugh.

Balinor’s unimpressed gaze switches to Arthur. “I see you’ve kidnapped the prince as well and forced him to forsake his own duties.”

Arthur clears his throat. “That’s right. These scoundrels have kidnapped me and forced this on me.” He takes another large bite of his raspberry-smeared bread. “I’m not enjoying this at all.”

The pale creature yawns, beak-resque mouth opening widely and showing an array of pointed baby teeth. Merlin’s gaze is drawn by the movement. He grabs the creature by the middle and presents it to Balinor like an offering to an altar.

“She can’t stay inside the castle all the time. It’s too stifling. She needs open air and the sun to grow.” Merlin informs him, adopting a pitiful look. The creature turns its big dark pupils to Balinor and trills, wagging its ridged tail languidly. “We were just accompanying her.”

“Is that so.” Balinor drawls out, looking like he would like to twist Merlin’s ear for using the creature as an excuse. 

Merlin thrusts the creature further forward, shaking it for good measure. Thankfully, the creature takes his actions in good humor rather than gnawing on Merlin’s fingers in revenge. Balinor continues staring at Merlin, stoic and unyielding. Everyone else in the clearing waits with bated breath.

Then, Balinor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He ceremoniously seats himself beside Merlin, and snatches the creature from Merlin’s grasp. “If the queen asks, I was not here.” He gently puts down the pale creature on his own lap, whereupon it curls on its stomach and resumes its slumber.

“Yes, sire,” Merlin replies with a giant grin and a mock salute. He hands Balinor a goblet. A bottle of wine comes leaping in the air to fill it.

“We’ll pin it all on Arthur, not to worry,” Morgana’s voice assures.

“Oi,” the said prince protests with a faux glower.

Gilli continues his story as if they haven’t been interrupted. On the picnic cloth they’re all sitting on, the blacksmith’s callused fingers definitely rest a lot closer to Lancelot’s than before. The knight either does not notice or does not want to acknowledge it. Mordred steals another one of Merlin’s lovingly prepared bread with a quick wave of his hand, prompting a round of curses from the latter.

“Why don’t you lot prepare your own!?” Merlin harrumphs, annoyed. “I’m not anyone’s servant here.”

“But you do it better than any of us,” Mordred retorts, sounding more earnest than necessary.

Merlin sees right through the act and glares. Balinor snorts before gulping down his wine. Arthur chuckles, throwing Merlin a sweet roll as an apology. Merlin catches it without looking and bites into it huffily.

Warmth swells in their chest, swirling leisurely and filling their whole being. The vision fades slowly, glimpses of the cheerful scene lingering tenderly before blackening in the edges.

Balinor, Arthur, Morgana blink rapidly, temporarily disoriented from transitioning from sunlight to night. Morgana releases their hands as they compose themselves.

After several moments, Morgana explains, tone low and soft, “I Saw it two days ago. It’s the first time I had a vision like that — so peaceful, so trivial, such an insignificant moment. There was no useful information I could gather, nothing I should prevent. No one was in danger.” A smile flits by her face. “Just people having a picnic on a very nice day.” She lifts her head, glancing between them. “For the first time, I desire this vision to come to life. I wish to see it, to experience it myself. I gathered that mentioning it to anyone before the results of the Exam would not be conducive to that.”

Arthur looks at her, expression blank. Then, he turns around and stalks away without a word. Morgana stares at his back as he disappears down the stairs, features marred with bewilderment.

“A lot has changed since we’ve seen you last,” Balinor tells her, tone making it clear he’s not willing to talk about said changes at that moment.

“So I have observed,” Morgana replies, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You participated in the Exam because of this vision?” Balinor asks, straight to the point.

Morgana smiles. “Packed up my things as soon as I woke up and headed straight here. I recognized the stitchings on our robes.” Morgana gestures at Balinor’s own attire. “You’ve always favored the symbol of the triple moon.”

“You knew who I would be choosing. That I would pick three.”

“I suspected. You know as well as I do my visions only show a possible future.” She looks up at Balinor, and continues grimly,  “But I assure you, I did not know the böggel-man would show up during the Exam. I would have warned you otherwise.”

Balinor nods, already knowing that. After a beat, he says, “Thank you, Morgana. Let me take you to your chambers then.” With that, he leads her down the parapets.

Morgana sounds taken aback as she asks, “That’s it?” She follows him, walking by his side.

The Court Sorcerer side-eyes her and simply answers, “That’s it.”

But even as he says so, his mind is still processing the information Morgana has given them. For even if Morgana claims the moment as insignificant, it is anything but. The prince knows it as well, hence, his quick departure.

Arthur smiling and laughing, carefree in actions and mannerisms.

Lancelot mingling carelessly with people, looking unworried and off-guard.

Balinor himself, acting so familiarly with people he has promised himself not to grow attached to.

For Balinor, perhaps the most damning information of it all is the small white creature with leather wings slumbering comfortably in the arms of someone not their kin.

A white dragon — the rarest dragon kind in existence. It’s no surprise Morgana and Arthur did not recognize it. Furthermore, the white dragon in the vision is in its infancy. A month old, maybe less. Balinor reels at the knowledge that somehow, one day, him and his apprentices would possibly acquire a dragon and keep it. He fails to wrap his head around it.

They reach Morgana’s assigned chambers with the Court Sorcerer still ruminating upon the many implausibilities in the vision.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Morgana says solemnly, interpreting Balinor’s silence throughout their whole trip to be because of anger.

Balinor is quick to correct her. “I understand why you did so. There’s no need to apologize.” If nothing else, at the very least, the Court Sorcerer can breathe a little easier knowing his decision causes no major tragedy in the near future.

Morgana nods, relief evident in her countenance. Then, tentatively, hands fidgeting ever so subtly on the hem of her cloak, she inquires, “You’re not averse to it, are you? It is just . . . a picnic.”

Balinor pauses.

He understands why Morgana is so invested in the vision. Being the first vision to depict something close to neutral, the importance of it to her is nothing to scoff at. For her, it is not just a picnic.

On the other hand, there are still things in the vision that Balinor just cannot believe, things that merely cannot be possible. Morgana’s Sight is splendid indeed, and eerily accurate. This one cannot be a fluke but Balinor has a hard time believing that it’s within his future.

“A lot has changed, Morgana,” he repeats, a subtle warning.

“And it seems a lot more changes are coming,” Morgana replies, her smile soft and understanding.

Surprise overcomes Balinor for a moment at the unshakeable certainty present in Morgana’s tone. The Court Sorcerer’s mind flashes to the momentous proceedings and decisions of the day, and finds a kernel of truth between her words. So, instead of further challenging the vision, he responds with a mere,

“I suppose we shall see.”

For all the hallways and ornaments look similar, the castle feels utterly different.

It takes Merlin several minutes to realize why. He runs a hand through the smooth stone wall as they trudge, sending a tiny pulse of his magic. Electric energy meets with the skin of his palms, causing the hairs at the back of his neck to rise. A passing servant, easily carrying a tray filled with foodstuff, glances at him bemusedly. Merlin takes his hand back and stares at it with amazement.

Every inch of the castle vibrates with unadulterated magic. Merlin recognizes a couple of defensive charms but there are layers upon layers of other enchantments wrapping around the stones. The whole castle feels like it’s teeming with life. Merlin has never seen anything akin to it.

“And here are your chambers.” George stops in front of a room, knocking Merlin out of his musings.

The warlock peeks into the dark room, along with Mordred. Three beds line half of the chambers, three wardrobes take up a fourth, a privacy screen surrounding a large tub stands in another corner, and three writing desks take up one side. Even with all these furnitures packed in, the chambers are still surprisingly spacious. In his realm, Merlin recalls this to be one of the guest rooms reserved for high nobility.

“You will, of course, be sharing it with another male apprentice.” George enters the room, approaching the unlit torch beside the door. With a short spell, and a flash of gold eyes, the torch flares with fire.

Merlin gapes and nearly takes a step back. George has magic!?

The servant continues walking to and lighting the torches peppering the corners of the chambers like it’s nothing unusual. “Tomorrow, I shall be rousing you two candlemarks after sunrise to guide you through the workings of the castle and discuss its rules. I believe your first lessons will start in the afternoon.” He nods to himself as he finishes his task. “Now, would any of you be wanting a bath?”

Merlin wants one, feeling sticky and dirty after the day’s events. But he’s always been the one fetching baths; it seems a tad awkward to ask someone else to do so for him now.

“I-If it’s no trouble, I would like one,” Merlin eventually stutters out, the desire to be clean overcoming his embarrassment.

“No trouble at all,” George replies easily. He looks expectantly at Mordred. The druid shakes his head, and George nods. “I will be back in a few minutes with water and oils.” With that, he exits the room and leaves the two of them alone.

Mordred claims the bed in the middle and one of the empty wardrobes. Merlin takes the bed nearest to the door, and sits down on the feather-filled mattress. Yet another one of the benefits of being Camelot’s apprentice. He debates whether he should start a conversation with Mordred to alleviate some of the awkwardness. However, the druid seems to still be in a gleeful trance, taking in everything in the room with a barely restrained smile.

Stomping footfalls start out as faint background sounds but grow quickly louder. Soon, a blur of a figure arrives at the open door of their chambers.

“Mordred, you incredibly lucky sod!” Gilli exclaims, a giant grin almost splitting his face in half. “You did it! The Court Sorcerer’s apprentice!”

Mordred jumps up from his own seat, expression matching Gilli’s even as he says, “Luck has nothing to do with it. It all comes down to my magnificent skills.”

Gilli laughs, boisterous and unbridled, and almost tackles Mordred from the force of his hug. “Congratulations! I bet you cried!”

“I’m not like you, Gilli.”

Merlin watches their antics with amusement, and perhaps a tiny bit of envy.

George and another servant appear in the entryway, prompting Gilli and Mordred to seat themselves onto Mordred’s bed so as not to block them. The servants carry four buckets of water each yet they don’t seem to be having a hard time with them. In fact, they look as if they’re merely carrying pieces of fabrics.

George and the other servant carefully pour the water into the large tub behind the privacy screen. With the bathing tub three-fourths filled up, George mutters another spell upon it. Steam rises from the now heated water, and George dips his hand into it to check its temperature. Satisfied, he arranges the oils and soaps around the tub, and puts a clean piece of cloth over its lip.

“Your bath,” George declares in a rather humorously serious manner.

“Thank you, George,” Merlin says, still rather shocked at the way the servant has seamlessly used magic to do his chores. Yes, Merlin does that as well but, well, the threat of execution usually hangs over his mind and he certainly doesn’t do it around other people.

George nods. “We shall take our leave then.” Without further fuss, him and the other servant leaves the room.

Merlin extends the screen before stripping and submerging himself into the tub. Immediately, the warmth of the water relaxes his sore muscles. As a servant, one doesn’t usually get the opportunity to bathe in large tubs such as this. As the king’s servant and very amazing best friend, however, Arthur graciously allows Merlin to use the king’s tub as often as he likes. Merlin just has to perform a discreet spell to heat up Arthur’s used bathwater, and he can bathe as often as Arthur does. Which, due to knights’ training and regular hunts, is quite often.

Merlin hears Gilli and Mordred conversing excitedly, although their words are too low to make out. The hum of their voices serve to ease him further.

He allows himself a moment to just be. With no one looking, there’s no need to put on a mask, no need to pretend. He sinks deeper into the water, and sighs.

Gods, he’s so tired.

It feels like an eternity since he has seen his friends last. Gaius, with his disapprovingly raised brow but amused tilt of his lips. Perceival, Elyan and Leon, with their roughhousing and banter. Gwen, helping him prepare the food for their journey, telling him to be careful and to make sure Arthur doesn’t do anything too foolish. Gwaine, with his roguish grin and jests at inappropriate times. Lancelot, clapping him on the shoulder and smiling and softly encouraging him. Arthur, the prat who told Merlin to climb a tree and then woke up the mother crow with his shouts.

Will I ever get to see them again? His fingers flit by the brooch settled on his chest. His fingers touch upon a different piece of metal, reminding him of the additional pendant now around his neck.

Merlin shakes his head and abruptly dunks his head into the water. It’s no use thinking like that. One step at a time, as Gaius once advised. He got into the castle. That’s one step done.

When he resurfaces, a third voice has joined Gilli’s and Mordred’s. Merlin immediately recognizes Theo’s voice. It’s a slight relief that they’ll be sharing the room with someone at least familiar and friendly to them.

Merlin is reaching for the soap when Mordred calls out from the other side of the screen, “Merlin! We’re going to be celebrating at Tom’s inn and getting our things. Would you like to join us?”

The very notion exhausts Merlin further. “I think I’ll just rest up.”

“All right.”

Merlin hears them all shuffle out, still talking. The door creaks closed and their voices eventually peter out, leaving the warlock with only the flickering fires for company.

He quickly finishes bathing, viciously scrubbing out the dirt from his hair and skin. Seeing as he has no other clothes to wear, he washes his current clothes, including the borrowed tunic. During his habitual search of his pockets, he’s astonished to pull out a bloodied embroidered handkerchief. 

After ensuring he’s truly alone, he mutters, “Fordwin wamm.” In a blink, the handkerchief returns to its pristine unbloodied state. He runs his thumb over the soft white cloth, having almost forgotten about it. On one of the four corners of the fabric, the symbol of the triple moon is darned with silver-colored thread. Underneath that, red threads stitch a dragon laying curled on its side. He huffs out a laugh. If nothing else, at least he has another reminder of his father to take back to his own Camelot.

He dries his clothes with another spell. He wears them again and unceremoniously flops down onto the soft mattress of his bed, hair still wet.

He closes his eyes, and goes over his plans. On the morrow, he will ask George where the library is. Attend apprentice lessons, whatever that may entail, and spend whatever free time he has in the library to search for information on Djinns or other worlds. Perhaps he should research more on this world’s history and magic too; he needs to appear as a normal resident of this realm and he can’t do that with different knowledge of past events or differing views on some spells. It couldn’t hurt to decrease those suspicious and condescending looks . . .

Slumber takes Merlin in its tender embrace before he can think of anything more.

Chapter Text

A few nights ago, in the fringes of a Camelot desolate of magic, a woman with long unkempt locks and clothed in a tattered dress sleeps fitfully inside a derelict hovel.

She tosses and turns, pale face contorted in confusion and pain.

The smell of lightning and burning wood sting her nose. A wave of agony assaults her temples like a thousand needles stabbing her skull. Even with the pain, she cannot wake.

The helpless and distant voices scream her name in anger, in fright, in plea.

Gone

The balance —

You must right it —

She feels like she’s falling into an endless abyss, no walls or air to stop his descent. She screams but the darkness swallows any sound she makes.

Gone

Destruction —

Death to our —

Emry, Emrys, Emrys.

Find him —

Emrys is —

“— gone,” she breathes out, sitting up as she jerks awake. Her head swivels around, looking for enemies.

Eventually, the blurriness of her eyesight dissipates, rooting her in reality. She takes the time to compose herself, evening her breathing and processing the contents of her dreams.

The Old Religion has reached out to her in a way it never has, desperately asking for salvation. Emrys is gone, the voices have informed her. Why it turned to her for help in that affair, she knows not.

Morgana Pendragon should celebrate. Emrys, after all, is her doom. Was her doom, anyway. He must have succumbed to his old age or some sort. Now, Camelot stands unprotected. How easily she could conquer it without Emrys’ help and intervention.

But the deep and complete sense of wrongness clinging in the air like a hangman's noose stifles whatever glee Morgana feels. She feels nauseous and suffocated, like the very air has turned to smoke.

No, Emrys isn’t dead. Emrys is gone. She doesn’t understand the difference yet but there is a very important one.

After a while, her surroundings inexplicably calm down. She no longer feels smothered, and the sense of wrongness simmers at the back of her mind, easily forgotten.

She gets to her feet, irritated at bewildering information given to her by the dream. She suppose she should expect no less; her visions are rarely informative. She needs to be sure that Emrys is truly dead or, at least, well out of her way before she could risk another attack upon Camelot.

Something monumental has changed. If the change is to Morgana’s advantage, that is yet to be seen.

She swaddles herself with a black cloak and heads out of her hovel to find answers.

A few nights ago, in a forest of a Camelot desolate of magic, a servant and a lamp fell out of the top branches of a tall tree. Only the lamp hits the ground.

King Arthur and his knights snap their heads left and right, up and down, searching for the missing servant.

“Do you see him?” Arthur demands, trying to make out if Merlin has caught onto one of the tree’s branches. He hasn’t. The tree offers nothing but darkened leaves and twisting branches.

“No, Sire,” Leon says grimly. “He — He’s gone.”

“He can’t disappear just —“ Arthur’s eyes fall to the golden oil lamp innocently laying on the ground. He recalls the Djinn popping in and out of existence with a snap of a finger.

Without hesitation, Arthur roughly grabs the lamp. He turns it over, ignoring the expensive jewels encrusted upon it and instead looking for any runes or clues. He lifts the lid and finds nothing, not even dust or dirt, inside. Worry crests over him like a wave in the ocean, and he spies the knights still desperately looking around. Damn it, Merlin, why is it always you?

Belatedly, he remembers Gaius’ instructions regarding Djinns and their lamps. He bites down on the leather glove of his right hand, and brusquely removes it. He spits out the glove, and vehemently rubs one side of the golden lamp, warming up the cold metal.

The Djinn springs up in front of him without a sound, startling Arthur into almost dropping the lamp.

“What is it that you desire?” it asks in its usual monotone.

Arthur deftly unsheathes his sword, pointing the tip on the Djinn’s chest. The Djinn remains unimpressed. He growls, “Where is my manservant?” Behind him, he hears his knights unsheathe their own weapons, following his lead.

The Djinn promptly answers, “He is in my lamp, in my room.”

Coldness blossoms in Arthur’s chest, spreading swiftly to his limbs. He has never believed the Djinn had no will of its own, despite what Merlin insisted. Arthur has never let his guard down around it, knowing it could attack them at any moment. But he had believed that the Djinn, without anyone wishing, would be incapable of using its powers on its own. Clearly, he was wrong. He was not alert enough, and Merlin is currently paying the price. Now, with the lamp in their grasp, it seems the Djinn had decided to cease all pretenses, and had started its assault.

Arthur adopts an unaffected visage, hiding his worry and anger. “So you’ve taken him hostage.” A flash of annoyance flicks by the Djinn's youthful face. Yet further proof that the Djinn has a will and motivations of its own. It opens its mouth but Arthur will not let it beat around the bush, not with Merlin’s life on the line. “What do you want?” he asks directly.

“To be free,” the Djinn replies without missing a beat. Its periwinkle eyes widen, as if surprised by its own admission.

Arthur frowns. “To be free? From what?”

“To be free from the lamp. To be free from being a Djinn.” Again, the answer comes without hesitation. Yet its teeth are gritted, as if the words are being pulled from it unwillingly.

Gaius did inform them that the Djinn is bound to its lamp, unable to wander far without it. So the Djinn wants to be free of that bond. But, “How can you be set free?”

“Someone has to wish me free.”

Arthur blinks rapidly. That easy? He narrows his eyes, firming his grip on the hilt of his sword. “What happens when you’re set free?”

“I — I don’t know. A Djinn has never been set free before.”

The king breathes out, mind already working through the possible consequences. What will happen to Merlin if Arthur refuses to wish the Djinn free? The Djinn has already caused the disappearance of eleven people. Will Merlin be the twelfth? The notion sickens the king. If Arthur does wish the Djinn free, what will it do? Even bound by its lamp, it can already cure illnesses and make crops grow overnight. Will it become more powerful once unbounded? What kind of destruction will it wreak upon Camelot?

“What will you do once you’re set free?” Arthur asks, unknowingly cutting off the Djinn again before it could speak. The king is under no illusion that the Djinn will tell the full truth regarding its intentions.

The Djinn’s blank facade splinters ever so subtly, the corners of its lips turning down. “I might not get to do anything. I might die and merely turn to ashes.”

Arthur is taken aback. This time, Gwaine’s exclamation from behind interrupts their conversation. “You might die!?”

“A Djinn has never been set free before,” the Djinn repeats nonchalantly. “I might die. Or I might turn into a normal human. Or I might turn into an all-powerful being hellbent on the destruction of the world. One of the three, really.”

Silence greets the Djinn’s words for several moments. The king grits his teeth, irritation spiking in his chest. The Djinn is obviously toying with them, and Arthur cares not for it. “Speak plainly, Djinn.” He nudges the tip of his sword the slightest bit onward. Had the Djinn been capable of it, it would have been bleeding from the prick of the blade.

“I thought I was. Speaking plainly.” A hint of sarcasm slips through the Djinn’s emotionless act.

Arthur clenches his jaw, patience running out. “Will you attack Camelot once you’re freed?”

The Djinn blinks. “No.”

“Will you attack other kingdoms? Villages? Innocent people?”

The beginnings of a scowl mars the Djinn’s face. “No. If I don’t die and actually get to keep my powers, the very first thing I’ll do won’t be destroying villages. What will I even gain by doing that? Dirt and soot, that’s what. I’ll be summoning ice cream. Or Nutella.” A dreamy look crosses its face. “Hamburger. Pad Thai. Eclair. Mooncakes. Chocolate mousse cake. Chapchae. Chicken alfredo and carbonara. Arroz Caldo.”

The Djinn continues listing things that make little sense. The sudden disappearance of its aloof demeanor throws Arthur and his knights into stupefied states.

Then, the king nods. Gaius has warned them about the wiliness of Djinns; how Djinns can grant the speaker’s wishes in twisted ways if they’re not careful with the wording of their request. The Djinn is distracting them, confounding them with nonsensical words so that it could have an opportunity to catch them off-guard.

Arthur will go about this with overt and painstaking caution. This Djinn may find loopholes with its promises, or trick them outright with a web of lies. But Arthur has the advantage of pointing a sword right at it. He quietly and discreetly signals to the knights. They tighten their grip on their swords in response, drawing slowly closer.

The moment Merlin is back, safe and sound, with them, Arthur will do what he has to do. The Djinn has already hurt people. As with anything or anyone with magic, it simply cannot be trusted. He’ll need to incapacitate it immediately.

“Very well, Djinn,” Arthur cuts off the Djinn’s babbling, shoulders tensing.

The Djinn frowns. For the first time since the start of the conversation, it starts to speak out of its own volition. “I think I need to clear up —”

The king interrupts again, not desiring to be waylaid further. “My manservant, Merlin. Let him go. I want him to be safe.” Then, Arthur catches himself, remembering Gaius’ warnings about specific wording. “Beside me.” The Djinn might fling the idiot somewhere unknown. Safe, but faraway. Abruptly, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Those eleven people most likely went missing because of badly worded wishes. He rephrases hastily, “I want him out of your lamp and safely by my side.”

Years down the line, Arthur would look back at this very moment and wonder — wonder what would have happened if he had just said it differently, or perhaps if he didn’t rephrase it at all. He would go over his words and wonder if the right ones for that moment even exist. Alas, those potential futures are meant for other King Arthurs on other realms. Not for this one, not for him.

The Djinn opens its mouth to recite its customary phrase when granting wishes. But Arthur speaks before it could.

“Then, I wish you free.”

“Then, I wish you free.”

As soon as the words are out in the air, the metallic piercings on Djinn’s lip and ears drop to the ground without fuss. The manacles around their wrists that are disguised as decorative bracelets join the jewelries on the soil not long after. There’s no lightshow. No triumphant music swells in the background, no sparks of lightning crackle in the skies. Just pieces of metal releasing their grip upon Djinn’s skin and plummeting down.

Of course, it might be because they’re not truly free yet. There is still one more wish they’re obliged to fulfill, one final command to follow.

“Your wishes are my commands,” they choke out, mind spinning, mind wondering if any of it is real.

Here’s the thing:

Djinn is an all-powerful all-knowing entity. The problem is they cannot use said power or access said knowledge on their own. A question must be asked before Djinn can know the answer themselves. A wish must be spoken before Djinn can bend the universe to fulfill it.

Maybe the proper phrasing would be Djinn can be an all-powerful all-knowing entity — as long as they’re executing others’ wills and whims.

There will be none of that now.

Here’s what happened:

“Then, I wish you free,” says Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot at this point in the late 5th century A.D., an era without TVs or smartphones or even the internet. Camelot is a kingdom banned of all types of magic. Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, has enforced the ban in the one year he has been king. Kind and strong. Handsome in the eyes of most maidens in the village. Not really Djinn’s type.

But before those impossible words, there is this: “I want him out of your lamp and safely by my side.”

Language is a very funny and peculiar thing, Djinn thinks. Context, circumstances, intonation, timeline, and several other minute variables can cause phrases to vastly change meaning.

Djinn had been accused many many times of purposely misinterpreting wishes, of twisting words and wants into something barely recognizable. And sometimes — only sometimes! — they do intentionally decipher things the wrong way. After all, what’s the use of a long life and cosmic powers if you can’t troll people once in a while? But the rest of the time, Djinn really thought they were executing the wishes perfectly. It isn’t Djinn’s fault anyway; they can only interpret wishes based on what they know of the situation. Most of the time, Djinn knows zilch. Really, people should just develop telepathic powers or something to get their points across.

Here’s what Djinn knows:

They only have to fulfill one last wish. Inexplicably, like a painter etching the finishing strokes of their masterpiece, Djinn wants to execute this one with absolute perfection. There will be no misunderstandings in this one, no sir. So they analyze each part, each word, of the whole sentence.

“I want him out of your lamp and safely by my side.”

Him is clearly the king’s manservant. Merlin. Merlin, the sorcerer, who destroyed Djinn’s room because of his willfully contained magic. Merlin, who also wished their room to be put together again. Not a complete jerk, at least.

Out of your lamp refers to Djinn’s lamp. Okay, Djinn will be happily kicking Merlin out of their home.

And safely. Fine, Djinn will be gently guiding Merlin out of their home.

By my side. My is King Arthur, obviously. Arthur’s side. Safely by Arthur’s side.

Okay, there’s no room for any other interpretation —

Wait.

Place a magic-user safely by a magic-hater’s side?

Safely?

Djinn is stumped by the paradox.

They enter their lamp in a trance, still pondering on the conundrum and mind still cottoned by the notion of being free.

“Are you all right?” Merlin, who’s still in their lamp, asks with concern. Merlin, who needs to be safely by Arthur’s side. “What happened?”

“I’m . . . I’m free,” Almost. Like lightning, the answer to the paradox strikes them. Of course! They look up at Merlin, grinning. “And so are you.”

Here’s the key:

A woman born in the shape of a man weeps in front of Djinn. Her mother does not understand, does not want her to be as she truly is. You’re abnormal, her mother says. Please just act normal, her mother begs.

Heart broken to pieces, she mutters hoarsely, “I wish I could be who I am and still have my mother accept me. Is that possible?”

“Your wish is my command,” Djinn declares.

Djinn cannot bend another’s will, cannot make her mother suddenly have a change of heart. But the woman’s question produces knowledge of another world where a lot of things are possible. There is a world where a welcoming version of the mother longs to hold her daughter in her arms again. There’s a world with legal and tested potions capable of changing one’s physical gender.

A world where magic remains in the heart of Camelot.

A world where one Arthur Pendragon grows up loving magic, loving magic-users.

With the last of their omnipotence, Djinn fulfills the final wish.

And Djinn sets them both free.

Djinn pops out of the lamp, unbridled joy tickling their whole being. King Arthur and his knights startle, brandishing their weapons towards them once more. Djinn is too happy to care, stretching their limbs and checking out their whole body. They feel so grounded, so real, as if they have woken up from a deep slumber. They attempt to summon a tub of ice cream, staring hard at their palm. No power surges in their veins, and most importantly, no ice cream appears in their midst. They sigh heavily; disappointing but to be expected. They suppose they should just be thankful they’re still alive, and not ashes on the ground.

The king glances around before demanding, “Where’s Merlin?”

With glee, Djinn notes that they’re not compelled to provide an answer. But they proudly announce nonetheless, “I’ve granted your wish. Merlin is out of my lamp and somewhere where he can be safely by your side.”

In a split second, the sharp end of a sword presses into the soft skin of Djinn’s neck, and their back roughly meets the bark of a tree. Behind the king, the knights shout warnings and calls for him to stop.

“Ow!” They blink away the tears that sprung from their eyes. “So that’s pain, huh. I don’t like it.”

“Stop it with your lies, Djinn! Where is my manservant?” There’s a dangerous glint in King Arthur’s eyes, one that is poised to cut Djinn down into pieces.

With the sensation of pain, and the blatant loss of most of their powers, Djinn finds the threat much more effective. They swallow, and blood trickles from the shallow cut upon their throat. No, Djinn does not like pain at all.

“I told you!” Djinn yells, gathering their bravado and feeling rather irritated. They fulfilled the wish perfectly and this is what they get? “He’s somewhere where he can be safely by your side.”

“Clearly not!” The king growls, gesturing brusquely at the empty air beside him.

“Well, obviously, not you you.” Even in the face of death, Djinn can’t help but roll their eyes. “Merlin can’t be safely beside you.”

An astounded stupor falls upon the king, his darkened features going lax. He ceases pushing against the Djinn, and the Djinn takes the opportunity to take a deep sorely needed breath.

“What do you mean?” Confusion fills the king’s voice, making him sound rather like a young tween. “Merlin’s no danger from me.”

Djinn frowns, staring at King Arthur in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Of course he is.”

Lancelot lunges forward, ambling to halt the discussion as a horrible epiphany dawns on him. Before the knight can reach them, however, the Djinn speaks, tone tinged with utmost bewilderment.

“How could a powerful magic-user like him be safe beside the king who persecutes his kind?”

Chapter Text

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“Merlin!”

Merlin jerks awake at the shout.

King Arthur Pendragon, dressed haphazardly in cream-white shirt and rumpled trousers, furiously looks down on him with crossed arms. Merlin blinks squinted eyes up at him, utterly confused.

“You really are the worst servant in the kingdom. It’s nearly noon!” The king grabs ahold of the servant’s paper-thin blanket and hauls it away from him. His unkempt blonde locks humorously flop down his head at the aggressive movement. “I’ve had to dress myself.” Yeah, that’s clear as day.

Merlin yelps as cold seeps through his nightclothes. By the soft light streaming through his room’s window and the crisp smell in the air, Arthur is definitely exaggerating. It’s far from noon! But it is also far from dawn, past the time Merlin is supposed to wake.

“Get up, up, up!” Arthur flicks him on the forehead. Merlin scrunches his nose and rubs the assaulted area. The king strides towards the servant’s small cabinet, shoves it open, and ransacks it. “My schedule is full today. A council meeting. Have to perform an execution. Watch a lancing practice. Have to judge a garland competition again, if you can believe it. I can’t make do without a servant.”

Merlin sluggishly gets to his feet, head fuzzy from sleep. “I had the weirdest dream.” He doesn’t remember much of it now. It involved his father, a contest, and chickens somehow. He shakes his head, attempting to dislodge the fog around his mind.

Arthur roughly throws Merlin a worn red tunic and a pair of trousers. The clothes land on Merlin’s head, and he sputters.

“If it’s about going to the tavern, keep it a dream, Merlin,” Arthur replies. Disgust fills his features as he takes the entirety of the servant’s chambers. “Get dressed. And clean your room once in a while.”

Merlin snorts, removing the clothing from his head. “You clean your own room once in a while.”

“That is what I pay you for, isn’t it, Merlin? Besides, you just use magic to do your chores, anyway.”

Merlin stills, pausing in smoothing out the creases of the blue tunic in his hands. “What?” He asks around a laugh even as his heart skips a beat. Merlin lifts his head to find Arthur much closer than he expected the other man to be.

“Did you think I would never find out?” Arthur cocks his head to the side, azure eyes frosty and blank. The action chills Merlin to the core. He wants to take a step back, away from the slowly prowling king, but his feet won’t move. “Did you think your lies would save you forever, Merlin?”

“Arthur, I —” He swallows around the lump forming in his throat. Deny it, deny it! But the lump has blocked all the words from escaping his own mouth.

Arthur closes the gap between them, standing mere inches away. “Then, let’s see what you really are, shall we?” The king’s eyes are dark and deadened. “After all, I do have an execution to perform.”

A shlik, a thump, a revolting squish noise.

The warlock’s gaze drifts down to the dagger sticking out of his own chest, Arthur’s bloodied hand wrapped around its hilt.

Merlin sits up on the bed with a loud gasp, hand flying to claw at his chest. A soft thick blanket falls on his lap and his magic vibrates outwards like a tidal wave in the air.

The curtains of the room splayed open, abruptly bathing the room with harsh sunlight. The desks and cabinets rattle ominously, wood creaking and the hangers inside clacking together. The torches, which George has just extinguished, burst back to life with large flames. The said servant himself almost drops the plates in his arms in shock.

Theo yelps as he falls out of his bed, startled awake by the noises. He groans from the floor, pain spiking in his head. Mordred peeks out from under the covers, bleary eyes unamusedly taking in all the commotion.

Merlin frantically looks around, sweat sticking to his skin and mind whirling in panic. His eyes search for Arthur, needing to explain to the king that—that—

After several breaths, he comes back to himself, and only finds three sets of eyes staring at him.

Right. Djinns. Camelot filled with magic. Scary Queen Ygraine and an unfamiliar familiar Prince Arthur. The Apprentice Exam and its three gruesome tests. Balinor, his not-father, as Camelot’s Court Sorcerer. An amicable Mordred. A more amicable Morgana. Himself, accepted as Balinor’s apprentice and the talisman he received because of it.

He runs a shaky hand through his hair and stutters out a “S-Sorry” to the occupants of the room.

Theo picks himself up from the ground, glaring at the sun streaming from the outside. He pulls the curtains closed, blanketing the room in a much softer light. “It’s time for breakfast, anyway,” he says around a yawn. Mordred sits up, blue eyes alert and curly hair tousled in gravity-defying angles.

“Quite,” George replies with his usual aplomb, placing down platters of meat and fruits upon the desks in the room. With a gesture and muttered spell, he snuffs out the flame of the torch nearest him.

Embarrassed by his display, Merlin summarily smothers the flames from the other lit torches. It’s not his first nightmare, and definitely not the first time he woke up with his magic messing up his room. But he’s usually alone when it happens.

Merlin gets off the bed, approaching the food with enthusiasm and shoving the nightmare at the back of his mind where it will stay there with the others of its kind. His stomach grumbles at the appetizing smell wafting in the air, reminding him of his missed dinner the night before.

“Today is your first day in the castle so I have brought your breakfast in your room,” George says as the three apprentices gather around the dishes. “Starting tomorrow, however, you’ll have to get your breakfast from the kitchens and eat in the dining hall. I’ll be taking you to the kitchens later so you will know where it is.”

The servant pulls the curtains wide open once more, and Theo winces.

“Good Goddess.” Theo turns away from the light, eyes squinted and a hand massaging his temples. He looks to Mordred, frowning as the other man casually places food on his plate. “How are you not in pain? You drank as much as I did!”

“I don’t get headaches from drinking,” Mordred answers with a tiny shrug.

“Ah, to be young,” Theo laments before cramming a giant piece of cut beef into his mouth.

Merlin nods in sympathy with Theo; he always gets the worst headaches after a night of drinking. Thankfully, Gaius always has a foul-smelling foul-tasting cure prepared just for that occasion. 

They eat their breakfast as George cleans up the room. Merlin watches him fold the blankets by hand, and then sweeps dirt off the floor with a spell.

All in all, it’s not truly a terrible way to start the morning.

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Summary:

After being chosen as the Court Sorcerer’s apprentice, Merlin has to juggle multiple lessons from different fronts and discreetly research a way home. It doesn’t help that he and his fellow apprentices attract trouble on a weekly basis, endlessly exasperating their mentor.

A Camelot filled with magic-users provides a wealth of opportunities to hone the skills the warlock could use to protect a certain prat and his kingdom. But as Merlin uncovers past hurts and grows closer to the people he never expected to befriend, one niggling question blossoms in his mind. Its answer is one Merlin refuses to acknowledge.

Heinous plots, unlikely friendships, a plethora of shenanigans, an improbable confidant, and a mysterious phenomenon.

Merlin’s stay won’t be boring at least.

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Chapter Text

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“Here we are then.”

George leads Theo, Mordred, and Merlin into an isolated chamber in the east wing. The three apprentices immediately dodge a yard of frilly cloth that flaps by over their heads. The flying clothing is not the only unusual display in the room.

Bundles of fabric spread in the air, spools of colorful threads tangle together in beautiful patterns, dangerously pointed pins and needles pierce through fabrics without difficulty.

The servant and apprentices pause near the doorway, unwilling to traverse the chaotic area further.

“Sefa!” George calls out. “I’ve brought apprentices.”

A young brunette, adorned with fair skin and freckles on her face, pops out from under one of the desks on the far side of the room. She squints at them, “Already?” She stands up and dusts off the lines of threads clinging to her tight-fit trousers and dirty-white tunic.

“The Apprentice Exam was yesterday,” George informs her.

The woman looks taken aback. “It was?” She spins around, eyeing the parchment tacked onto the wall. From what Merlin can see, the tattered paper lists dates and events. “Huh. So it was,” the young woman says.

She skips towards the four of them, deftly avoiding the aggressively flapping cloths with the agility that Merlin envies. “Good morning, apprentices!” She greets with a demure smile. “Sefa of Camelot, seamstress of the castle, at your service. As George has probably explained, I am to take your measurements and make your court robes.” She unrolls a long and narrow strip of glossy paper marked with lines and numbers. “Who’re your mentors then?”

“Lord Balinor,” Merlin and Mordred reply in unison while Theo follows with “Lady Jayden.”

Sefa’s dark green eyes bulge. “Excuse me — I didn’t think I heard you correctly,” she splutters out. Her gaze remains steadily on Merlin and Mordred.

“We are Lord Balinor’s apprentices,” the druid repeats, a dash of pride slipping in his tone.

“You —" She sends a wide-eyed look to George, hands flitting in a gesture.

Merlin wonders why everyone seems so surprised to find Lord Balinor taking apprentices. While he may have had only one apprentice in the last fifteen years, surely, they should have expected that he will take a few more eventually.

George merely nods in confirmation. “There’s three of them. Lady Morgana will stop by shortly.”

“Three —? By the Goddess, have the rules changed since last time?” Sefa grows frantic. Stacks of papers and feathered quills come flying to her with a gesture and a word. “Why did no one tell me? I have to adjust the time! If each one picked three apprentices, the robes won’t be ready —” She furiously shuffles through her documents, muttering adjustments. The three apprentices witness her get more and more hysterical.

“Sefa, calm down,” George interjects seamlessly. “Lord Balinor has made an exception this year to choose three. The other lords and ladies have picked, at most, two. The rules have remained the same.”

The seamstress visibly deflates in relief. “Thank the Goddess for that.” Her attention drifts to the apprentices. “Lord Balinor’s, huh.” Melancholy lines the corners of her smile, and her eyes glimmer in the light. “Let’s take your measurements then, shall we?”

She swiftly does just that, a quill moved by an invisible hand scratching out her findings onto a floating piece of parchment. Within a couple of minutes, Sefa declares with a firm nod, “All done.” She tidily rolls back her measuring instrument. “Will Lord Balinor be making your robes himself, has he mentioned? Will decrease my workload by a lot if he will.”

Merlin blinks rapidly. “Lord—Lord Balinor sews?” The warlock cannot imagine that.

“Quite well, if I might say,” the seamstress says around a chuckle. “He told me it’s a tradition in his homeland; masters have to provide their apprentices clothing they have sown and bespelled themselves.”

The statement piques Merlin’s interest beyond measure. Homeland — where exactly is that? What other traditions does Balinor practice?

“I suppose I’ll just have to ask him myself,” Sefa thinks out loud, plucking the floating parchment and studying the written measurements to ensure its accuracy. “After all, he did make Li —” The words catch on her throat. She clears it. “Expect your robes within two weeks.” She tells the three of them, shooting them a friendly smile. Merlin notes the strained quality of it.

“I suppose we’re finished here,” George remarks, sending Sefa a meaningful look. He beckons the apprentices to the door before Merlin could give voice to his questions. “Let me show you the rest of the castle.”

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“— upstairs are the royal bedrooms. Unless you have business with them directly, you’re not allowed to be in those hallways. And here —"

Merlin tunes out George’s rather redundant explanations. The layout of the castle is more or less the same as that of the castle in his own Camelot. The royal chambers are high upstairs, placed at the least accessible side to decrease the risk of assassination. The servant’s quarters are located at the end of the north wing, the guests’ opposite that. The only major differences Merlin notes are the addition of the mages’ experiment rooms, the scrying chambers, and the sorcerers’ indoor training arena. For obvious reasons, those places don’t exist in his realm’s castle.

Two passing servants carrying freshly washed linens abruptly cease whispering when Merlin and his group walk in earshot. They give the apprentices not-so-subtle looks, and their whispers start anew as soon as the group is far enough away. Merlin hopes the gossip doesn't involve him.

“—entrance to the library, managed by Lord Geoffrey of Monmouth, is right here.”

Merlin immediately tunes back in at George’s words. George halts in front of and gestures at a closed ornate wooden door. The image of an open book carved at the forefront of the door blatantly declares its purpose.

“I know none of you will be spending much time in there but be warned that Lord Geoffrey has strict rules regarding the use of the books.”

Oh, don’t Merlin know it. The Lord Geoffrey of his world also has the same predilection; the lord’s very possessive of each and every tome.

“Read the instructions at the entrance and carefully follow them,” George finishes before resuming his walk. “Now, up ahead is the —”

“Um, can I stay here instead?” Merlin ventures, pointing at the library’s door. He wants to start on his research as soon as he can. With any luck, he’ll be able to find out a way home by the end of the day.

Theo and Mordred give him inquiring looks. George halts and frowns.

“My duty is to ensure you know all the rules of the castle and to ensure you will not unknowingly break them,” he informs them rather snobbily. “I’m afraid I cannot let you out of my sight unless I finish doing so.”

“I was a servant before. In a castle like this,” Merlin counters immediately. He grasps for information that George has not yet disclosed. “The rules are the same, aren’t they? Do not enter the throne room while the k—queen is having an audience. We get our wa— uh, allowance from the steward at the end of every week. Bring the plates and utensils from the dining halls back to the kitchens after using them. Always use servant hallways.” Not that Merlin ever does that last one. He needs to always be one step behind Arthur if not directly beside the king.

George looks slightly horrified. “Certainly not! No apprentice should be using the servant hallways.”

“Oh, right.”

“But other than that, you are correct on all accounts.” George stares at Merlin with narrow eyes, a pensive look upon his face. “I am to bring the three of you to your mentors’ chambers after lunch for your first lessons. If you are to stay here, I won’t have the time to fetch you. I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to in the afternoon.”

“I could go on my own by the afternoon,” Merlin offers hastily. “Just tell me where his rooms are. I can find my way there.”

George appears agreeable to the option. “Very well. I trust you know everything that’s important. It’ll be a waste of your time if you were to continue with us.” He nods to himself. “Lord Balinor’s rooms are on the second story, western wing. The third door from the western stairs.”

After Merlin acknowledges the information with a nod, George turns and continues leading the other two apprentices. Mordred waves Merlin goodbye while Theo looks in contemplation at the library’s door.

Before George and the others could even turn into the next hallway, Merlin hurries and opens the wooden door.

He gapes.

While the library in his realm spans at least ten royal rooms, this world’s library is twice as large. It has a bloody second floor, with shelves thrice as tall as Merlin himself. There is no dust or cobwebs, each surface uncannily and impossibly clean. The musty and stale smell is gone, replaced by clear well-ventilated air. Merlin even scents a hint of fruity perfume in the air, calming and soothing.

So this is what it would’ve looked like with the magic books unburned. The notion that so much knowledge about magic has been lost in his own world saddens Merlin quite a lot.

The warlock finds a lectern just by the entrance, and a crisp parchment lay atop it.

The Rules of the Great Camelot Library reads the first line in large bold letters. Merlin quickly skims through it, not wanting to do something that displeases Lord Geoffrey. Being banned from the library is the last thing he needs. No food or liquids allowed, no running, no performing offensive spells that may damage the books. One needs to get permission from the head librarian to take books out of the library. The east wing section is strictly forbidden to anyone without a written certificate.

All right, the rules seem simple and easy enough to follow. Merlin proceeds further into the vast chamber, gazing up and wondering where he should start.

Someone clears their throat, and Merlin jumps. Lord Geoffrey, sitting behind a desk and sporting fewer gray hairs, stares unimpressed. “How may I help you, young man?”

“Uh, yes. Where are the books on magical creatures, my lord?” Merlin asks eagerly.

Lord Geoffrey taps his lips and hums. “Airborne creatures? Water creatures? Earth ones?”

Merlin thinks it over. The Djinn can float; does that make it an airborne creature? To be certain, he says, “Um, it lives in a lamp . . .?”

“A lamp! A Djinn then?”

Merlin leans forward excitedly. “Yes, a Djinn!”

Lord Geoffrey stands up from his seat, chuckling. “Fascinating creatures, Djinns.” He gestures for Merlin to follow him, and Merlin walks a step behind. “Ah, I do remember obsessing over it myself when I was young. If only such a creature could exist, no?”

Merlin falters. “It — It doesn’t?”

Lord Geoffrey glances back at him. “I suppose it could. Although, we’ve no concrete records of anyone ever encountering it.” He halts in one of the indistinguishable aisles between shelves and enters it. “Here it is. It’s the only book we have regarding it.” He pulls out a tome with a deep maroon cover from one of the upper shelves.

Merlin swallows but tries not to feel discouraged as he accepts the book. “Th — Thank you so much, Lord Geoffrey.”

Lord Geoffrey nods. “Take care of the books, my boy,” he reminds sternly. With that, he leaves Merlin alone in the aisle and goes back to his desk.

The Legends of the Djinn are embossed on the tome’s cover.

The book in Merlin’s hands is light, containing fifty pages at best. He takes a deep breath, holds the book tightly to himself, and hopes it has the answer he seeks.

He claims a table and a chair near a window facing east with just the right amount of sunlight streaming in. He sits down, flips the book open, and settles in.

The first chapters lay out information Merlin has already learned from Gaius, providing vague descriptions of Djinn’s capabilities and purpose. The next ones depict crude and inaccurate illustrations of the Djinn. Merlin certainly doesn't recall the Djinn having a thousand pointy teeth or long claws. The drawings get the blue hair right but definitely not the blue skin. Detailed parables follow, narrating hypothetical scenarios of people meeting the Djinn and making at most three wishes. They read more like cautionary tales parents tell their children than actual encounters. While Merlin is quite entertained by the stories, he’s not inclined to treat them as truths.

An hour later, Merlin has finished the book with an exasperated sigh. There’s no information on where to find the Djinn or its lamp, just a bunch of stories that Merlin has no use for at all. Could it be that Djinns don’t truly exist in this world, unlike in his? Dread pools in his stomach, making him nauseous. Or perhaps the nausea is because it’s almost lunch time.

He returns the book to its previous spot and looks through the spines of the others of the same shelf. Surely, there must be something else here. Some other creature that can help? He knows little about creatures beyond what he had fought before.

The Eighteen Earth Creatures of North Bernicia, The Bestiary of Gwilym of Cambria, Beware of Goblins and Gold, Stinging Serkets of the Forest of Brechfa, Bespelled by the Songs of Sirens.

The titles go on and on, and nothing, in particular, catches Merlin’s eyes. His heart sinks further and further. It’s not that he expected the solution to come easy but it’s becoming clear that he may be staying in this world for quite a while.

He shakes off the pessimistic thoughts and begins grabbing books that seem relevant. He’ll stumble upon the right one soon enough as long as he keeps pushing forward.

He’ll get home to his own Camelot. He has to. The prat of the king there won’t survive long without him.

He returns to his claimed desk, arms filled with mountains of books. He gingerly places them down, careful not to make too much noise or drop a single book. After arranging the pile and sitting back down, he cracks another book open and begins his search anew.

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Drat it, drat it, drat it!

Merlin dashes through corridors after corridors. Servants smoothly swerve out of his way, and he shouts apologizes to the few he unluckily bumps into.

Then, he rounds a corner and promptly slams into a wall. He stumbles back, air escaping his lungs at the impact and feet tangling around each other. The ground rushes up to meet him, and he prepares himself to meet it quite painfully.

A hand shoots out, grabs his arm, and pulls him into proper balance. The warlock wobbles flat onto his heel.

“Careful,” the wall says.

Merlin bumps into Arthur by Schoernchen

Merlin’s head snaps up at the familiar voice. Prince Arthur Pendragon releases his grip upon Merlin and steps back. His expression is still as blank as ever, eerily reminding the warlock of his dream that very morning.

“Watch where you’re going!” From beside the prince, a boy clothed in extravagant clothing sneers.

Merlin glances at the boy and does a double-take. The boy is the splitting image of Clar with short blonde locks and thin lips; if the said girl herself isn’t standing next to the boy, Merlin would have thought it is Clar after a gendershifting spell. Clar glares at Merlin like he’s a speck of particularly stubborn dirt underneath her boot. Huh, there’s two of them.

“Um, sorry, Your Highness.” Merlin’s eyes widen as he remembers why he is in a hurry in the first place. He plows through the group and begins his sprint once more. “Drat, I’m late!”

“Hey!” The boy calls out, sounding absolutely furious. Merlin ignores him, much more scared of the consequences waiting for him in his mentor’s room than whatever a snotty noble boy thinks.

He runs up the stairs, skipping two steps in haste.

Second floor, third door. One, two —

Merlin shoves the third door open with his weight and finally halts.

“S — Sorry I’m late,” he pants out, doubled over, and trying to catch his breath.

He hasn't noticed how much time has passed, so focused on leafing through various texts of, frankly, fascinating creatures. Who knew that some species of serkets actually glow in darkness? Or that there exist earthworm-esque creatures the size of houses? Merlin certainly didn’t know these until only a few hours ago.

“And you didn’t even knock,” Balinor primly points out.

The warlock finally straightens from his crouch, lifts his head, and blinks rapidly at the sight that greets him. Morgana sends him an amused glance, and Mordred shoots him one of slight disapproval. Both are seated around a long dining table, grasping tiny crystals in their hands. 

Several feet away, behind a desk, seats Balinor. Or who Merlin assumes is Balinor anyway. Piles upon piles of parchments stand in towers on top of the desk, each half as tall as Merlin. About ten pieces of paper hover in the air, quills frenziedly scratching cursive scripts upon them. The whole bustle shields almost all of Balinor, who’s bent over another set of forms, from sight.

“I expect you all to be on time for the lessons. And to knock before entering another’s room.” The Court Sorcerer may have been giving Merlin a chastising look but the papers hindering his face diminish its effect. He places the parchment in his hands on top of the nearest stack before clutching another batch from another tower.

Merlin approaches the occupied desk, glancing around. 

Balinor’s chambers are roughly the same size as a king’s and even adorn more or less the same furniture. A large bed with thick comfortable covers and drapes, a long dining table surrounded by six ornate chairs, two sturdy desks, a huge wardrobe, a privacy screen . . . Various unfamiliar paraphernalia, however, also litter every corner. Colorful gems are fitted into silver rings and bracelets, crystals of motley sizes shine dully on top of tables, stones sculptured into strange shapes lay on top of the dresser, and plenty more bizarre articles are scattered throughout the chambers. Merlin even spies a wooden sculpture of a dragon mid-flight in an inconspicuous corner of Balinor’s desk, which causes him to grin a bit.

Merlin senses more than half of the knickknacks to be magical in nature. He feels awed by it all; so many magical items carelessly dispersed around every corner.

“Why do you have so much paperwork? My lord.” Merlin peers into the documents in one heap. Even Arthur didn’t have this much work in one day.

A feathered quill whizzes before Merlin and starts to prod him incessantly and unmercifully on the chest.

“Wha —" Merlin backs away lest it actually pokes a hole into his borrowed tunic. The quill still follows, jabbing and jabbing like Merlin himself irritates it. Finally, it relents when Merlin nears Morgana and Mordred, who are not even trying to hide their smiles. It hurtles back to the desk to abuse a piece of parchment instead.

“These are secret documents that are not for the eyes of just anyone,” Balinor informs him, tone dry.

Oh. That’s probably why Morgana and Mordred are a distance away from the paper pile. Merlin, used to working on a fourth of Arthur’s paperwork and freely reading what the king has recklessly left on his desk, belatedly recalls that most documents of the court should be hidden away from prying eyes.

The Court Sorcerer stares at Merlin with narrow eyes. His gaze then darts to Mordred and Morgana. After a moment, those same eyes roam the mountains of documents surrounding him.

The frenzied quills and parchment in the air summarily put themselves down on the desk as Balinor gets to his feet. He treads closer to the apprentices.

“Why were you late?” The Court Sorcerer asks of Merlin, lifting a brow. “I was under the assumption that George was accompanying you to ensure you didn’t get lost. Yet George only brought Mordred.”

“I was in the library. I lost track of time,” the warlock answers sheepishly.

The Court Sorcerer’s brows rise. “You were late for a lesson, with me, because you were so entranced by the information provided by the library.” 

Merlin reckons it’s a pretty good reason as any. He doesn’t know why Balinor sounds so sardonic or why Mordred looks utterly incredulous. Morgana, meanwhile, appears to be unsuccessfully stifling a laugh.

“I see,” the Court Sorcerer says after Merlin nods in confirmation. “Take a seat.”

The warlock complies, claiming the seat diagonally from Morgana and a chair away from Mordred. Hundreds of crystals the size and length of Merlin’s index finger, most transparent but a couple are colored opaque whites, pepper the varnished table’s surface. There are also three small boxes joining them in the chaos. One for each apprentice, Merlin assumes, as Morgana and Mordred are placing white crystals into their own boxes.

“Do you know of storage crystals?” When Merlin shakes his head, the Court Sorcerer explains. “They are crystals with the ability to store magical energy. Depending on the quality and size, the crystal can store such energy for a certain period of time. This one—” Balinor picks up one of the colorless crystals. “— can store only a tiny bit of magical energy and can only hold onto it for two weeks at most.” Before Merlin’s very eyes, pale white speedily saturates the crystal, the movement akin to milk being poured into a cup. “Just focus a tiny bit of magic into it and it will be absorbed. If you push more energy than it can handle, it will shatter.” Balinor places down the now white crystal and hands Merlin another colorless one, which the warlock accepts with wide interested eyes. “Your task is to fill up fifty of these with your magic. No spot in the crystal should be without hue. It should be filled up with the exact amount. Place the finish ones in this.” Balinor taps the only empty box, the one nearest to Merlin.

From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Mordred frowning at the teeny transparent section of the crystal in the druid’s fingers. Mordred draws it closer to his face, squinting. Morgana’s hand darts out to grab the druid’s wrist and hurriedly yanks the crystal away from his eyes. Morgana is just in time; a split second later, the said crystal cracks and bursts into three fragments, Mordred having sent a tad too much magic through it. The shards fall from the druid’s fingertips in large enough chunks not to stick to skin. Mordred attempts not to look too disheartened. Morgana pats him on the arm in comfort.

Balinor glances at the mess and says, “Be patient. You have a week to finish the task.” The fragments float in the air, twirl around and fuse themselves together. Whole and undamaged once more, the hueless crystal gently lays itself back on the table. “Gather the shards, and I’ll repair them by the end of each day.”

With that, the Court Sorcerer spins around and returns behind his desk. The hubbub begins anew, quills and papers prancing all around him.

Merlin turns his attention to his own assignment, staring at the crystal in his palm. A storage device for magic, huh? He doesn’t know the exact practical applications of such tools, but the possibilities intrigue him.

“Here, Merlin.” The warlock’s head snaps to Morgana, who’s offering him a bundle wrapped in cloth. “We didn’t see you in the dining hall. We figured you must have skipped lunch.”

“Oh, uh.” Merlin doesn’t know how to feel about the thoughtful gesture, especially coming from a not-enemy. He accepts the package with only the slightest hesitation. “Thank you.” He sends her a close-lipped smile.

Morgana smiles back before returning to her crystals. Three sandwiches, padded generously with meat, tomatoes, and cabbages, present themselves as Merlin unfolds the bundle. He helps himself to them when his stomach grumbles promptly in the face of the offering.

He rolls the crystal between fingers, chewing thoughtfully. Balinor may have made the task sound and look easy but the warlock has a feeling it is anything but.

He’s proven correct when, not even a full second after he sends the tiniest pulse of magic into the tiny crystal, it shatters without flourish. He carefully places the fragments off onto one side and plucks another unblemished crystal from the pile. The second attempt yields no success nor progress, having the same exact result as the first.

“Get it far from your face, Merlin,” Morgana reminds him without even looking when the warlock had unconsciously brought the fifth crystal closer. The said lady herself has shattered two crystals so far but her box speaks of at least fifteen successful attempts.

“Perhaps you should . . . send it more slowly, more gradually,” Mordred advises after Merlin has destroyed his twenty-first crystal.

The druid, Merlin observes, encounters trouble of his own. Mordred would release a minuscule amount of magic, enough to fill the crystal halfway. Then, he would send another pulse to fill the rest, but it would be too much this time. His crystal will meet the same fate as Merlin’s.

At the very least, four perfectly filled ones gather at the center of the druid’s box. Nothing but emptiness still lays within Merlin’s.

“I am doing it slowly,” the warlock replies, a thread of frustration underlining his words. He hasn’t succeeded even once, each crystal shattering as soon as he starts. He knows not what he’s doing wrong; the pulses of magic he’s releasing is just enough to gather a tiny flame in the palm of his hand. It shouldn’t be enough to destroy the crystal.

The chair between Merlin and Mordred scrapes the floor, and the Court Sorcerer seats himself in it. The apprentices startle, not having heard their mentor move from his desk.

“Morgana, what is magic to you? How do you visualize magic when you’re performing a spell?” Balinor asks.

Morgana, arranging the crystals in her box with an unnecessary flourish, answers mechanically without looking up. “A sixth sense, my lord. An intangible energy beneath my skin producing tangible results.” She looks up in thought. “I visualize it as something akin to threads of light, sparking out from me to accomplish my will.”

Balinor nods. He turns to Mordred. “And you, Mordred?”

The druid’s brows furrow in contemplation. “Magic is like an extra limb I can flex; I can use it to do things none of my physical limbs can. I see it as akin to soft clay; I can mold it, making it take the shape of whatever I want.” Casually, he glances at the Court Sorcerer. When Balinor nods in what seems to be approval, a beaming expression flashes by Mordred’s face so briefly that Merlin almost misses it.

“And you, Merlin?” Balinor addresses.

The warlock leans back on his chair and ponders on it. What is magic to him? Something that will get one’s head separated from one’s shoulders, an art that must be practiced in the shadows, and a skill that can be used to save a kingdom once a week. Other than that?

For Merlin, magic as a sixth sense or an extra limb would . . . not be inaccurate, per se. But the descriptions still feel a tad off. To describe it as such would mean magic is unnatural, separate from the everyday normal. A sixth sense and an extra limb is something mostly unnecessary — a tool useful beyond belief but one a person can live without.

Merlin does not use magic as often as the people in this realm obviously do. However, for him, he can’t imagine not feeling it under his skin, coursing through his veins and filling every inch of his being.

The warlock stares at the chaos of crystals at the table, still deep in thought. “Magic is . . . breathing, feeling your lungs expand, and savoring the air.” Merlin does just that. “It’s when your bones pop and creak when moving. When you speak, and your throat vibrates. It’s the sustenance that energizes you after a meal, the darkness you see when you close your eyes, the heartbeat pulsing in your wrist.” Merlin nods to himself and lifts his gaze to find three pairs of eyes staring bemusedly at him. Blood rushes to his cheeks, and he stutters out, “S-Sorry, I’m not making any sense, am I?”

The warlock scrambles to find a more eloquent answer, mortified. Before he could rephrase his words, the Court Sorcerer leans forward and asks him with an absolutely serious face, “Merlin, how long have you had magic?”

“I was born with it,” the warlock replies almost automatically. At the look of surprise they throw his way, he insists, “It’s true.” He remembers how Gaius initially reacted to his claim. “My mum told me I used to make things fly around our house when I was but a babe.” Oh, he hasn’t seen his mum for a while now, he recalls with a pang. When he gets back, he’ll force Arthur to give him some time off to visit her.

“That’s amazing,” Morgana says with awed eyes. Mordred appears similarly impressed. “My magic didn’t fully manifest until I was thirteen springs.”

Merlin casts her a cursory glance, abruptly recalling how the Morgana of his realm discovered her magic. Guilt arises from the memory; Merlin knows he could have handled that incident better.

The Court Sorcerer straightens. “I apologize, Merlin. It seems I’ve done you a disservice.”

The said warlock, blinks rapidly, bewildered at the sudden apology. “Er — It’s all right, my lord . . .?”

Balinor holds out a hand, palm open. “If you would allow me?”

Merlin gives his right arm, which seems to be what Balinor is asking for. The Court Sorcerer encircles his wrist in a firm grip, fingertips resting on the soft flesh of his pulse point.

“Do you feel that?” Balinor asks, amber eyes astutely on Merlin’s face.

Merlin stares at his wrist and then looks back up to Balinor. “Feel what?”

The Court Sorcerer hums thoughtfully. Then, “How about this?”

Again, Merlin isn’t certain what exactly Balinor is on about. He shakes his head.

After a beat, a spark of something akin to lightning flitters by his skin, producing gooseflesh upon his right arm. He flinches but forces himself to calm immediately; the energy does nothing but passes by.

“Well, I felt that,” Merlin says.

“Interesting.” The Court Sorcerer releases his hold. “People whose magic manifests before they could even remember usually have low sensitivity when it comes to detecting magic. They’re too used to certain amounts of magic that they’re incapable of sensing low volumes of it.” Balinor’s brows furrow. “In turn, releasing lower volumes of magic becomes a herculean task for them. But you . . . you have the lowest sensitivity I’ve ever encountered.”

“Truly?” Morgana’s eyes glimmer with intrigue.

Merlin tries not to feel like he has disappointed Balinor in some way. “That— That’s not quite a bad thing, is it? What do I have to do to increase my, uh, magic sensitivity?”

“No, not necessarily a bad thing. But this means some of your lessons may need to vary from the others.” He adopts a contemplative look. “Very well. Let’s try it this way for now.”

Balinor teaches Merlin the incantation for repairing the splintered storage crystals. The two other apprentices eagerly listen in, although Balinor warns them that the spell is for Merlin’s use alone for now.

“Like pieces of a puzzle, you have to rearrange the shards in a way that seamlessly fits together.” Balinor demonstrates the results of doing otherwise. The fixed crystal is misshapen, featuring minuscule unfilled holes. “Furthermore, if you restore it incorrectly, it’ll merely be a simple crystal, incapable of storing magic. On the other hand.” Here, Balinor untangles the shards once more and fuses them in a more proper manner. “The second it’s rebuilt correctly, it’ll start absorbing magic again. Repairing them usually is difficult because of this; you have to stop the spell at the exact moment lest you fill it up with your own magic.”

Balinor points to the pile of fragments by Merlin’s side. “But I want you to do exactly that, Merlin. Repair these crystals and stop the spell only after you’ve filled it up.”

Merlin fervently attempts it, isolating pieces of shards and casting the restoration spell on them. The first try doesn’t work too well, the revived crystal a chaos of shapes and still unable to do its purpose. The warlock glances at the Court Sorcerer, and the man merely gestures for him to try again.

The second attempt bears fruit; the crystal fixes itself appropriately and promptly absorbs the residual magic from the spell. Merlin cuts off the spell just in time; the crystal he holds has turned a pure opaque white, no hint of cracks in its facets. A grin climbs unrestrained on his face as he turns the crystal over.

“Well done, Merlin!” Morgana matches his grin, tone brimming with pride.

“And only on the second try.” Mordred offers a small smile of his own.

The Court Sorcerer nods, amber eyes glinting with approval. “As I thought. This exercise seems more suited to you.” He gets to his feet and addresses the three of them. “Proceed with your own task. Fifty crystals by the end of the week,” he reminds them. With that, he goes back to his paperwork.

The tailored task comes easier but no less of a challenge. Fixing the crystal before attempting to fill it up burns off the excess energy that caused the previous crystals to perish. However, like Mordred, Merlin encounters the problem of hueless spots when he stops the restoration spell a bit too early. Of course, attempting to send another pulse result in the crystal’s utter destruction.

Morgana and Mordred wordlessly put their own shattered pieces by the warlock’s side. The three of them work on their assignment in silence, all too concentrated on their own tasks to start a conversation. The beams of sunlight shift gradually, the room only laden by the sounds of quills scratching, papers crumpling and crystals clinking.

Hours later, Merlin startles as the torches in the chambers flare with fires and crackling noises. He blinks, lifting his head for the first time in a while and realizing that darkness has consumed their surroundings.

“That’s enough for today, I think.” The Court Sorcerer informs them, head still ducked into a document and hand still writing vigorously on it. “I shall be expecting you again tomorrow, two hours after dawn. Do not be late. The three of you may go.”

Merlin looks at his box; eight white crystals twinkle back at him. Meanwhile, fourteen sits innocently in Mordred’s while more than twenty clusters in Morgana’s. He feels disappointed that he’s so far behind.

“Go on then,” Balinor prompts, waving them away when they dither.

“Have a pleasant evening, my lord,” Morgana bids before heading for the door.

Mordred and Merlin follow her example, walking a step behind her. The Court Sorcerer casts them a brief glance and nods.

Merlin gingerly closes the door behind them. He releases a breath. Going in, he really had no expectations regarding these apprentice lessons. In fact, he gave no time at all to think about it at all, having much more pressing concerns at hand.

The lesson for that day was certainly interesting and informative; it’s definitely an exercise that Merlin will continue practicing even after he gets back home. He wonders where he can get storage crystals in his own realm. He reminds himself to ask Balinor the next day.

“Dinner?” Morgana invites them both with a guileless smile.

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Three breaths after the door to his chambers thudded close, Balinor places down the parchments from his grip. He approaches the long table and snatches one filled crystal from a box containing eight. He pockets the aforementioned crystal and grabs a colorless one. With a pulse of magic, the crystal flicks to white. Innocuously, he puts down the newly filled crystal into the box that numbers eight once more.

He returns to his desk and resumes his work.

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Chapter Text

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“Have we been promoted to some noble rank?” Merlin thinks out loud, still staring at the tray of meal in his arms. He eyes the large bowl of thick vegetable soup, two slices of steamed venison, three fried chicken legs, a bowl of out-of-season grapes, a tankard of sweet mead, and another tankard filled with water.

While it’s no king’s fare, it’s certainly a far cry from a servant’s. 

“Of a sort,” Mordred replies, an amused tilt to his lips.

“Just one of the many perks of being a Camelot Court Apprentice,” Morgana adds before opening the door to the dining hall with naught but a blink of her eyes.

Gilli waves them over, already started and, by the looks of it, almost finished with his own dinner. Theo scoots to make space for the three of them, and Elise barely looks up from her own food.

“How’s the first day of apprenticeship?” Mordred asks Gilli, handing the mage his bowl of soup.

Gilli accepts it. “A bit boring. Mage Gaius just went over the rules with us — what we’re not allowed to use, what we’re not allowed to do.” The mage slurps at the soup before taking a bite from the remaining venison on his plate. His tone holds a hint of irritation when he continues, “That prince just kept rolling his eyes through it all. Rolling his eyes at Mage Gaius! The nerve!”

Mordred tilts his head. “Prince?”

“Princess Clar’s brother,” Theo drawls out before popping a grape in his mouth. “Apparently, there’s two of them.”

Oh. Must be the boy Merlin met earlier. Gods, is this realm’s Arthur friends with brats again?

“Prince Clarence, huh.” Morgana takes a delicate and quiet sip of her soup, expression thoughtful. “Quite a character, I’ve heard.”

“What are they prince and princess of?” Merlin ventures, unable to curb his curiosity. He has travelled with Arthur to various kingdoms and helped the king study royal names and backgrounds in preparation for banquets. Yet, he has never heard or met Clar or her brother in his realm.

“The heirs of Mercia,” Morgana answers promptly.

Merlin’s eyes widen. “King Bayard’s children?” How — Merlin is certain the king of Mercia had no children; his wife died before she could bear him heirs.

Morgana nods in confirmation. The rest of the dinner goes more or less the same, the six of them gossiping like servants in laundry rooms. Merlin risks a few questions of his own, mostly honing his political knowledge of this realm. Thankfully, seeing as Morgana is the only nobility in the table, his ignorance isn’t at all unusual. Familiar names reach his ears; King Godwyn, King Cenred, King Odin, Princess Elena, Princess Vivenne, Princess Mithian. However, more unfamiliar names cross the conversation –crowned princes, highly influential queens, famous knights, and prominent sorcerers. Every kingdom allied with Camelot welcomes magic and all its uses. Every kingdom seems to be at peace, no blatantly tenuous relationship between them for now, even between Camelot and Mercia. Merlin hopes the peace is no facade.

He also hopes the sets of eyes boring holes on his back will find some other target. He glances over his shoulder. The apprentices seated on other tables, near and far, whip their heads away. Merlin sees them muttering amongst themselves, gazes drifting to the warlock and darting away when they realize he’s still looking.

With the events of the Apprentice Exam fresh on everyone’s minds, he should have guessed he is not escaping these intense perusals any time soon. Gods, he misses being able to melt back into the shadows as a servant.

“Don’t mind them.”

Merlin turns his attention to Morgana, questioning.

Morgana’s lips quirk up in a tight smile. “They’ll find some other muse for their gossip soon enough. Just don’t do anything overly interesting for a couple of weeks.”

Easier said than done, Merlin thinks. He thought he didn’t do anything particularly interesting during the tests, but he still garnered the attention of one malevolent figure and the unwelcome scrutiny of royalty and nobility.

Still, Morgana’s advice is sound. Lay low, Merlin asserts to himself for possibly the thousandth time. I’ll get home in no time at all. Hope that prat didn’t get himself into too much trouble.

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After dinner, Merlin bids farewell to the others and heads back to the library.

The lit torches are far and few inside the library itself, and Lord Geoffrey seems to have retired for the night. So Merlin grabs the books he left unfinished before, summons a “Léoht” upon his palm, and resumes his search for a creature that could help him go back to his Camelot.

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The knock on his door reverberates throughout the room.

The Court Sorcerer looks up from the documents, frowns, and says, “Enter.”

Prince Arthur gracefully slips into the chambers, face set in his usual expressionless mask. “You called for me?”

Balinor stares at him, blinking. “I asked you to come first thing in the morning tomorrow.”

Arthur lifts his shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs. “Why wait?” He strides towards Balinor and his desk. “What’s all this then?” The prince peeks into the heaps of papers scattered around the Court Sorcerer. Surprise and intrigue flit by his face. “This must be a week’s worth of paperwork.”

“The queen’s idea of punishment,” Balinor replies dryly. “I assume there will be the same amount tomorrow.” He supposes he should be grateful the punishment is not something more severe.

Arthur raises a brow. “I did advise you not to choose that Merlin.”

The Court Sorcerer pauses, noting the hint of anger present in Arthur’s tone. He wisely decides to proceed with another — but no less delicate — matter. “Have you brought your arm guard?”

The prince unclasps the straps of the leather band around his right arm. He holds it out to Balinor, inquiries written on his face. The Court Sorcerer gets to his feet as he accepts it, cradling it with both hands. Carefully, he runs an analyzing enchantment over it. Sorrow lances unbidden through his chest at the results.

“You’ll need to replenish the magic on it soon,” Balinor informs him quietly. “It’s nearly gone.”

Something in the prince’s features twists. “I suspected. No matter how sparsely I use it, it has been four years.”

The Court Sorcerer braces himself, knowing what he will say next would not be welcomed. “Know that I will not ask unless it’s of utmost import.” He releases a breath. “I wish to extract a tiny amount of magic from it.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpens. “You told me it’s almost gone and then ask this of me?”

“I would not ask you if I did not think it important,” Balinor repeats, keeping his tone mild.

The prince stares at him, face utterly blank but eyes chips of blue ice. After a tense beat, “Do what you must,” he responds, curt. “But I will join you in the experiment rooms.”

Balinor inhales sharply. “So you did see it. You saw their resemblance.”

“Yes,” the prince admits, chin lifting slightly. “But I’m no fool, Balinor.” Unlike you, the Court Sorcerer hears the unspoken words clearly. “Lily has made no mention of any sort of family. Cast a revealing spell upon that Merlin and all would be clear.”

“I did. Cast a revealing spell on him, that is,” Balinor says, and watches as Arthur’s eyes widen. “Earlier this morning, I cast it. The disguise didn’t unravel because there was none.”

The proclamation has left Arthur visibly shaken. After a quick moment, he composes himself and manages to quip, “I doubt he agreed to that. You performed a revealing spell on someone without their consent? I never thought I would be alive to see the day you go against your principles.”

“I did ask for permission,” the Court Sorcerer counters. “It’s no fault of mine if he didn’t ask for clarification.”

“You and your silver tongue.” Arthur lets out a breath that can be construed as an exasperated sigh. Then, blue eyes drift to the arm guard still in Balinor’s hands. “I suppose we should get this over with.”

The Court Sorcerer follows his gaze. “I concur. It is time for answers.”                                                                                         

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Daegal knocks three times, deftly balancing a tray of food in one hand.

The previously locked wooden door creaks open, the occupant of the room giving him permission. He pushes it further open with his shoulder and enters.

He glances and tiptoes around, squinting in the dark and hoping he doesn’t step onto the knickknacks he knows are scattered about in the room. Then, suddenly, the torches flare to life, lighting up the room. He breathes a sigh of relief.

The owner of the chambers places their hands down after the fire spell and resumes their task.

“Thank you, Lord Wracu,” Daegal says.

He approaches the long table at the center of the room, easily stepping over cloaks, daggers, totems. Upon reaching the table, he gingerly pushes aside empty and non-empty vials of colorful liquids and frees up enough space to put down the food. His gaze turns to the man sitting by the vanity desk a few feet away, uncloaked and adorning his nightwear. He catches Lord Wracu dripping drops of dark red liquid from a small bottle to one filled with a bright green viscous concoction.

Daegal stares at the dark red substance, the texture and color greatly reminding him of blood, which might be because it is. He absentmindedly arranges the various paraphernalia on the table into some semblance of order, eyes still watching Lord Wracu’s ministrations. He dares not speak up nor make any significantly loud noises. With the scolding Lord Wracu received from his own mother the night before, and their intense discussion just earlier in the morning, Daegal reckons he’s not quite in a patient mood.

Lord Wracu sets aside the now empty bottle still smeared with ominous red. He shakes the remaining bottle in his hand, murmuring a long string of spells. The red and green hues swirl inside the mixture in hypnotizing patterns. Finally, and impossibly, after a few moments, the concoction loses its color, emulating water from uncorrupted springs.

“Daegal,” Lord Wracu calls out.

Daegal, hands full of the cloaks that were once on the floor, pauses expectantly.

Lord Wracu lifts the bottle, showing it to him. “Tell me its color.”

Daegal blinks. “It has none, my lord.”

“None? Is it not at least cloudy? Look closer.”

Daegal complies, drawing nearer and squinting. “It’s not cloudy at all, my lord. As clear as freshwater, in fact.”

Lord Wracu stills. “I see.” He slowly places the bottle down on the vanity desk and leans back on his chair.

Daegal, as usual, can read nothing on his expression. Knowing little about magic and all its secrets, he ventures, “What does it mean, Lord Wracu?”

For several moments, Lord Wracu does not answer nor speak at all. Daegal resumes cleaning up the chambers, stowing away the enchanted daggers and throwing knives in their assigned cabinets.

“Something beyond my understanding,” Lord Wracu replies, finally, tone blank and cold. The admission startles Daegal immensely because Lord Wracu always knows. Suddenly, one of the black cloaks hanging by the open cabinets flies towards Lord Wracu’s open hands. “Call for an assembly, Daegal. I would find my answers.”

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The experiment rooms have always felt colder than the rest of the castle. Stored potions need lower temperatures to last long, and the presence of so many liquids in one enclosed place has caused a damp feeling in the air.

Prince Arthur and Balinor stride in, taking in bubbling potions, stoppered vials, empty bottles, and smoking cauldrons. Given the late hour, no one else but them occupied this particular chamber. They are indeed lucky; Balinor doubts he can find a viable excuse as to why the Court Sorcerer and the Crowned Prince are in the experiment rooms together.

Balinor heads to one of the numerous shelves nailed to the wall, amber eyes flicking open the labels on the bottles. After a short moment, he finds the desired potion and plucks out the bottle half-full of bright green substance.

He and Arthur claim one of the very few empty tables in the room, one free of any mage equipment.

From the pockets of his coat, Balinor extracts two storage crystals — one filled up by one unusual apprentice, and the other taken from the dwindling magic from Arthur’s arm guard.

Gingerly, Balinor coaxes the magic on both crystals unto the bottle. Glowing blue falls from the crystals like mists into the surface of the green liquid. The liquid ripples softly as if the smoke-like substance holds weight. Balinor and Arthur trade glances; the fact the magical energies from two different sources are of the same hue speaks volumes even before they start the test.

Immediately, the Court Sorcerer corks the bottle before any of the magic can escape. He utters a long string of spells, forcing the glowing blue to settle and mix into the liquid green. 

Both the prince and Court Sorcerer gaze fervently at the bottle, anticipating what it will show them. Balinor is expecting a lighter green shade at least, a cloudy white at best. He knows Arthur is expecting the color not to change at all, denoting no relation whatsoever between the two owners of the magic.

After several moments of the concoction swirling in dizzying patterns, the color promptly bleeds out from the mixture. All that remains in the bottle is a clear liquid.

The silence that followed is deafening and thick with tension.

“Did you do it wrong?” Arthur demands, the beginnings of a scowl tinting his face and a tinge of anger dripping in his tone. “What is this?”

“I did it correctly,” Balinor answers, eyes steadily on the bottle in his hands. 

No cloudiness nor any spec of color. Pure, transparent, not unlike water from untouched brooks, declaring no difference at all between the two magical signatures. As if the magic from the two crystals came from only one source.

Impossible. And yet.

He tightens his grip on the bottle, his fingers having slackened from the unbridled shock and disbelief going through his whole body. “This—This is the right result.”

“It can’t be,” Arthur voices out Balinor’s inner denial. “Do it again.”

At that, Balinor replies, as calmly as he can even though he doesn’t feel calm at all, “Your arm guard doesn’t have nearly enough magic for another test. And I doubt it would change the results.”

“What are you suggesting then?” Arthur shoots him an icy look, and his tone is no less cold. “That this Merlin is—” He cuts himself off, breathes out, continues, “Balinor, I saw Lily’s body myself. She was —" The prince swallows, and Balinor sees his facade cracking at the edges. “You carried her to the funeral pyre yourself,” he finishes, the words coming out as an accusation.

Balinor allows his eyes to close briefly at the prince’s words. “I know not what to make of it myself.” He glances at the cursed bottle that gave them more questions than answers. “I know of no recorded precedence regarding this—situation.” The Court Sorcerer violently squashes down the hope flaring between his ribs because he knows that there is another yet undiscovered solution to their conundrum. He will find it, and the answer would be far from the one his heart is set on insisting. “But I’ll consult a few books, and perhaps ask Gaius. Discreetly. Arthur . . . All of this must have a sensible explanation.” Don’t get your hopes up, he leaves unsaid.

Arthur hears it clearly. The prince nods, jaw visibly clenching. “Let me know if you find anything.” It’s more of an order than a request.

The prince storms out of the chambers without another word.

Balinor brings his stare back to the bottle and lets out a heavy breath.

Can anything involving Merlin of Ealdor ever be simple?

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Chapter Text

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"Unbelievable. Merlin. Wake up."

The warlock's eyes fly open, and quickly snap shut when they meet the harsh light of the morning sun. Wait, morning?

Merlin jerks up from the desk that served as his bed the night before, his back and neck creaking in protest. The piles of tomes around him shake precariously at his sudden movement. Fortunately, they remain in their places.

"Wha —?" Merlin rubs his eyes before his gaze blearily catches on to George, who's standing just beside his chair.

The servant appears utterly unimpressed. "Lord Balinor has asked the servants to look for you. Your lessons with him started more than half-an-hour ago."

The warlock curses up a storm, hurriedly reaching for the books.

"I shall return the books to their proper places," George intones, shooing him away. "I suggest you do not keep Lord Balinor waiting."

Merlin takes the servant up on his offer without hesitation. "Thank you!" He says, sheepish and grateful. Without further delay, Merlin heads out of the library and dashes once more towards his mentor's chambers.

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"Late. Again." Balinor looks up from another mountain of paperwork as Merlin barges into the room without knocking (again). There's no anger in the Court Sorcerer's expression but he does not look at all pleased.

"Sorry, sorry." Merlin rushes to his seat and almost bowls over the chair in his haste. Mordred's look of disapproval is even more blatant this morning. Morgana merely appears uninterested in the issue.

Balinor lifts a brow. "Should I expect your lack of punctuality to be a habit?"

"Er — Definitely not, my lord. Sorry, again. This will be the last time I'll be late; I promise." Merlin hopes he can keep said promise.

The Court Sorcerer shoots him a skeptical glance before directing his attention to his work. Likewise, Merlin starts on the crystals, shattering them before he can fill them up.

Again, much to Merlin's continued astonishment, Morgana has presented him a bundle containing sweet rolls and cut up fruits. Merlin stutters out his thanks and consumes the proffered with food in a couple of minutes. He's used to missing meals because of various kingdom-destroying or king-prat-related reasons but he truly prefers not to do so when he can.

The four of them proceed as such in silence for hours. Merlin, already accustomed to the amount of magic he needs to prevent the crystals from shattering for the second time, finds an easier time than the day before.

Given that, he lets his mind wander. He has found nothing of use during his research the night before. No creature, so far, has matched the Djinn's power and ability to bridge the gap between worlds. He has been focusing his search on earth creatures — pixies, faes, fairies. The Sidhe is mayhap the most promising he has seen, as the books depict them as guardians of Avalon, another entire world in and of itself. He shall have to look more into them later.

When knocks thunder from the doors of the chambers, Merlin startles badly and almost drops a crystal. As one, the three apprentices and the Court Sorcerer whirl to the source.

"Enter," Balinor responds, and the door squeals open not even a second later.

Merlin unconsciously grips the crystal tighter as the figure of one Morgause Le Fay determinedly strides in. He stares at the blank-faced sorceress who nearly brought the citadel to ruin using an undead army; he knows, of course, that Morgause may have been alive in this realm but to face the living breathing proof causes Merlin's magic to flare in alarm. He tamps it down before it could escape his skin. However, judging by the way Balinor's and Mordred's eyes flick to him, his slip doesn't go unnoticed.

Across Merlin, Morgana abruptly gets to her feet, a flabbergasted expression upon her face.

"Lady Morgause," Balinor greets, a hint of inquiry in his tone.

"Lord Balinor." Morgause offers a shallow bow. "With your permission, I would like to speak with my sister. It will take but a moment, my lord."

"Go ahead," Balinor says, waving dismissively before returning to his papers. Seeing as Morgana has nearly thirty filled crystals in her box, Merlin supposes that there's no fear of Morgana falling behind.

"I thank you, my lord," Morgause replies demurely before fully turning to the table of crystals and Morgana.

Her brown eyes dart to Merlin, and away. Then, a split second later, her wide-eyed gaze swivels back to the warlock. Recognition blazes bright and evident in her irises, and shock colors the rest of her features.

Merlin bristles. She recognizes me — how — what should I — For one hysterical moment, the warlock considers the possibility that he's not the only one from his realm that was transported to this one. None of the people of this world have recognized him so far, and, likely, he had not been born at all. Morgause was supposedly dead in his realm but Merlin had not seen the body. What if Morgause —

"Let us go somewhere private then," Morgana pipes up, breaking the staring competition Morgause and Merlin have startlingly fallen into.

Morgause tears her gaze away and replies, "Lead the way."

With that, the two sisters exit the chambers with nary a glance back. Merlin releases a quiet sigh of relief.

He returns to his crystals and attempts to regain his lost concentration.

Thinking about it clearly, Merlin disregards the possibility of the Morgause being transported to this world as well. A life sacrifice was needed to open the veil to the spirit world just as a sacrifice was needed to close it. Morgause was most certainly dead, offering her life in exchange for vengeance. Brave Sir Lamorak had ensured her sacrifice had been in vain when he dashed through the veil before Merlin or Arthur could offer themselves.

Revenge has truly destroyed many lives, hasn't it? Merlin finds it all exhaustingly endless.

He fervently hopes that, after he gets home, he and Arthur could end the bloody cycle soon.

An hour of meandering musings and filled crystals later, Morgana reenters the room. Merlin and Mordred immediately catch on to her dour mood, blatant in the pinch of her brows and the purse of her lips. She takes her seat and resumes her task in silence.

She consecutively shatters seven crystals. Mordred and Merlin trade glances. They wisely keep their questions to themselves.

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Balinor dismisses them for lunch, urging them to return not an hour later. He has barely looked up from the documents drowning him as he speaks.

Merlin's stomach grumbles in protest and excitement. The three of them summarily fetch their food from the kitchens. As they walk to the dining halls, a part of Merlin expects to glimpse upon Morgause lurking somewhere. Fortunately, the said sorceress is absent from any of the halls they passed by.

Very few people occupy the dining chambers, and none of them are people the three of them are acquainted with. Mordred curiously inquires the reason for Merlin's tardiness as they claim an empty table.

Several minutes later, Merlin finds himself entering a vehement debate with the druids regarding the merits of books and of reading them.

"What do books hold that a good mentor can't teach you?"

Merlin can't help but gape, putting down the fork full of pork back down on his plate. "While I'm sure it's better to have someone guide you, books are more reliable than the mere memory of a person, no matter how experienced they are."

Mordred frowns, looking like Merlin has personally insulted him. "Books offer too much unnecessary information, too many useless things that have no practical use. Having a mentor will ensure you focus on learning the most important aspects."

The two of them argue about it for the better part an hour as they eat, citing examples for their part of the argument and neither giving in. While Merlin knows Mordred brings up a few good points, the warlock, whose life those very informative tomes has saved against Camelot's enemy of the week, cannot simply let the druid stomp over their importance.

"We should ask Lord Balinor about it then."

"Lord Balinor's a mentor himself. He'll be biased!"

Mordred lets out a breath that could've been a stubborn huff. "He's Camelot's Court Sorcerer. He won't be biased."

"I think —" Both the druid's and the warlock's gazes whirl to Morgana, who has been silent throughout the meal and their discussions. "— you've both raised some good points." She gives them a patient smile, her sour mood seemingly lifted. "But you're all forgetting that the type of learning depends mostly on the person learning. Are they more comfortable interacting with someone rather than learning in solitude? Do they learn more by reading rather than acting it out?"

Merlin and Mordred mull this over and see her point.

Morgana deduces their silent agreement from their sheepish expression. "Well then, that's settled. If we don't get moving, Lord Balinor will think Merlin's tardiness is contagious."

Mordred puffs out an amused laugh, and Merlin lets out an indignant sound.

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Merlin would like to say that the rest of the afternoon is uneventful, but he would be lying.

Mordred, prompted by a question from Morgana, narrates the usual routine of people living in tents in a forest. He explicitly reveals himself as a druid. For a split second, Merlin forgets to act as surprised as Morgana. Right. The warlock shouldn't have known Mordred was a druid.

Mordred tells them how to forage for the best ingredients, the method in which one seemingly communicates with trees —

Balinor . . .

Merlin and Balinor straighten abruptly as a voice pierce their heads. Mordred and Morgana look between them, curious and confused.

Kilgharrah! Of course, that riddle-loving dragon is here. Merlin should have realized sooner. Surely the old dragon would and could help him in finding a way home, what with the old creature's obsession with Merlin and Arthur's destiny.

Meet with me . . . Now.

For a moment, the warlock assumes Kilgharrah is speaking to him.

Then, Balinor smoothly gets to his feet, dropping the documents in his hands. "Continue your task. I shall be back shortly." Without another word, Balinor leaves the chambers.

"What was that?" A frown pinches Morgana's brow. "Merlin?" She asks, knowing the warlock knows more than them, seeing as he reacted similarly.

Merlin needs to see Kilgharrah for himself, and perhaps figure out a way to meet with the dragon alone. While he still feels the power of the dragonlord coursing through his veins, he's uncertain whether this world lives by a different set of rules regarding it.

(Merlin has also never seen his father talk with dragons, the man's untimely death robbing him of such an opportunity. The notion of seeing him do so now sends strings of giddiness through his stomach)

The warlock stands up, too excited to properly listen to any of his fellow apprentices' questions. "Need to — Chamber pot," he says lamely before heading for the doors, unable to think of a better excuse.

It doesn't take him long to track down the Court Sorcerer. The various servants he asks unhesitatingly points him to the direction the man went. The midday sun beats down on Merlin's exposed skin as he dashes out of the castle and into the bustle of the markets outside. Dodging the crowds of haggling merchants and playing children, Merlin finally catches up with Balinor just as he's exiting through the eastern gate of the citadel. The warlock hides behind barrels and pillars, ensuring the Court Sorcerer has no clue to his presence.

Merlin goes to exit the citadel himself, forcing a casual air upon him because he's not at all following Camelot's very own Court Sorcerer.

Even so, one of the guards shouts, in his direction, a commanding, "Halt!"

Merlin adopts a guileless look as he complies and turns to the aforementioned guard. The soft rounded features and long dark hair of a woman greets Merlin from underneath the clunky helmet, astounding him a tad. He supposes, if women can be knights, guards can be too.

The guard's narrow dark eyes take in Merlin's form and face. "Are you Merlin of Ealdor?"

Merlin blinks, surprised that the guard knows his name. "Er— yes."

The guard crosses her arms. "You're not allowed out of the citadel."

"What?" Merlin boggles. "Why?"

The guard shrugs, armor clanking at the movement. She looks as if she couldn't care less. "We have our orders."

"From whom?"

Merlin's heart almost gives out as he spins around to face the speaker of the question. Morgana tilts her head at the guard. Mordred looks similarly interested in the answer. Was Merlin too focused on following Balinor that he failed to notice he was being followed himself?

"From the Court Sorcerer himself," the guard answers. She eyes the new arrivals. "Morgana Le Fay and Mordred of the Forest of Engred?"

Astonishment spills into Morgana and Mordred's features. "Yes?"

"You both are not allowed outside either."

"Interesting," Morgana remarks lightly. "We thank you for the information."

Morgana grasps Merlin's wrists and hauls him none-too-gently away before the warlock could think to protest. Mordred follows them not a step behind, furrowed brows and narrowing eyes lined with contemplation. Finally, Morgana leads them into an alleyway between two wooden homes.

"Wha — I need to—" Merlin attempts to relinquish Morgana's tight grip on him.

Morgana releases him. "We need an unnoticeable enchantment."

"A . . . what?"

"Isn't it strange that we're not allowed outside of the citadel?" Mordred says, perturbed.

"It is very very strange indeed," Morgana replies, a feral grin catching onto the corners of her mouth. "That's why we should confront our mentor about it immediately."

An unnoticeable enchantment, it turns out, is a spell that allows them to be practically invisible to anyone as long as they don't make a sound. Morgana casts it upon the three of them, and they're able to sneak out of the citadel with the guards none the wiser.

"There must be a reason why we're not allowed outside," Mordred says as they walk along the drawbridge, a hint of worry dripping in his tone. "We could get in trouble."

"They should have told us then," Morgana responds with a flippant wave.

Merlin, too focused on catching up to the Court Sorcerer to worry about anything else, decides that's a problem for the future him. They tread hastily towards the direction Morgana's tracking spell points them to.

Soon enough, they see their mentor striding just up ahead, swiftly avoiding the hindering foliage. The apprentices take to hiding behind wide trunks and thick bushes.

"Where is he going, you reckon?" Mordred asks, azure eyes darting to their mentor's back.

"Merlin? Care to enlighten us?" Morgana directs, cocking a brow.

Merlin shrugs, figuring he shouldn't act too knowledgeable in this situation. "Just got curious and wanted to follow him."

"Right." Mordred and Morgana trade glances.

The three of them move ahead before they could lose sight of the Court Sorcerer. Mordred flippantly pelts out another enchantment; this one seems to silence their treads. Now that, Merlin needs to learn.

At last, after a few more minutes, Balinor finds a big enough clearing and halts. The Court Sorcerer crosses his arms and waits. The three apprentices who stalked him crouch down the nearest bush.

"What's he waiting for?"

The answer to Mordred's question comes in the form of a giant shadow engulfing them. Whipping winds assault the four people near the clearing, the leaves of the closest trees shedding at the force. Morgana and Mordred look up, mouths agape. Merlin grins, taking in the enormous golden form of the Great Dragon Kilgharrah.

Kilgharrah gracefully lands in front of an unimpressed Balinor and folds his leather wings. "Balinor," his deep growly voice greets.

"A dragon?" Morgana whispers harshly. "How — Why —?"

Merlin shushes her, determined not to miss a word said.

"Why did you call for me?" Balinor asks, straight to the point.

"Tell me, young dragonlord, have you heard of Emrys?" the dragon asks, face solemn,

On second thought, maybe Merlin should have let Morgana keep talking to distract the two fellow apprentices from the oncoming discussion. He feels two sets of eyes boring into him. Merlin cannot believe Kilgharrah chose this moment to be less riddle-y.

Silence and stillness come upon the Court Sorcerer's form for a beat. With Balinor's back to them, the three apprentices have no clue as to what kind of expression he's making. "A popular name lately, this Emrys. Who is he?"

"Someone who should not exist," Kilgharrah declares with a frown. "His birth has thrown the creatures of the Old Religion into chaos."

Well, Kilgharrah is right about the first part. The second part concerns Merlin greatly, given his less than stellar experiences with such creatures.

"His birth?" Surprise colors the Court Sorcerer's tone.

"He came into existence five days ago. We sense him near Camelot," Kilgharrah says, tail flicking out and eyes narrowing in agitation.

Coincidentally, Merlin has also been in this world for five days.

The dragon leans his head down and closer to Balinor. "You must find him and bring him to me."

"And what on earth are you going to do with a days-old babe?" the Court Sorcerer asks, incredulity dripping from his tone.

Merlin leans forward himself, interests piqued.

"That is for me to decide. You just have to bring him to me, Balinor."

"I see." Balinor nods. "No."

Kilgharrah stills. "No?"

"Did you expect me to obey you without question or hesitation?" the Court Sorcerer drawls out. "We may be kin but I'm going to need more than that if you want me to rip away a babe from his parents without cause."

Kilgharrah's golden eyes narrow further. Then, his head snaps up, the slits in his eyes widening. His gaze flicks to the set of bushes the three apprentices hide behind. The three of them duck further down.

Emrys.

Merlin bristles as he hears Kilgharrah's voice directly in his head.

It is you. Merlin can feel the wonder and disbelief in the words.

"You three."

A burst of magic overflows around them, dispelling the enchantments cloaking them. The apprentices' heads snap up to find their mentor looming over them, absolute fury upon his face. Merlin supposes, as a fellow dragonlord, Balinor has heard Kilgharrah's none-too-subtle way of communicating.

"Lord Balinor, we can ex —"

"Stand up. Now," Balinor demands, cutting off Morgana's words.

They hurry to obey, scrambling to their feet. Balinor's angry expression does not at all abate.

"Bring Emrys to me," Kilgharrah says behind them.

Balinor shoots the dragon a completely venomous glare. "There's no one named Emrys among my apprentices. I bid you good day, dragon. Seek someone else to do your bidding."

"Balinor, this is a matter of—"

To his apprentices, the Court Sorcerer commands, "Start walking towards the citadel."

The apprentices, faced with their mentor's wrath, comply without question. Merlin glances back at the dragon, who's staring straight at him. He shouldn't waste an opportunity.

Careful to keep the words between them, he sends, Meet me here at the same, Kilgharrah. Five days from now. That should be the apprentices' day off.

Astonishment flashes by the dragon's face. Then, Kilgharrah nods and straightens. Merlin watches him flap his wings and take to the sky, leaving a boisterous whirlwind in his wake.

"Merlin. March. Forward," Balinor grits out.

Merlin hastily catches up to Morgana and Mordred, facing forward. The three of them stride in silence, exchanging nervous looks. Perhaps following their mentor has not been the best of ideas.

Behind them, Balinor stalks close behind. When Merlin glances back at him, he sees the Court Sorcerer gazing around, eyes darting everywhere, and shoulders tensed.

Merlin surreptitiously lets his own eyes wander. Are they about to be attacked? The Court Sorcerer seems to think so.

After several silent and strained minutes, they finally exit the forest and see the archway of the citadel's entrance. As they walk towards the gates, the guard who stopped the apprentices earlier stares.

"I-I'm sorry, sire," the guard stutters out, bowing to the Court Sorcerer. "I didn't notice them —"

Balinor waves a hand, interrupting the guard's apology. He says nothing in reply. Merlin notes that, at the very least, the tension in the Court Sorcerer's body seems to loosen somewhat as they all enter the citadel.

"To the castle," Balinor tells the three apprentices, tone more blank than angry this time.

Wow, they really are in deep trouble. Past me is an unthinking sod, Merlin thinks to himself. He swallows and lowers his head. He's not too sure what happens when one gets on the Court Sorcerer's bad side but he's about to find out.

The apprentices march through the city in several minutes of silence. With the Court Sorcerer behind, they attract a bit of attention from the townspeople, but none dare approach. Finally, they reach the castle and climb up to Balinor's chambers once more.

Once they're all inside the room, Balinor closes the door behind them.

Morgana clears her throat. However, to everyone's surprise, before she could speak, Mordred beats her to it.

"You're a dragonlord," the druid blurts out. Then, he looks as if he wants to put the words back in his throat and cover his mouth.

Balinor's jaw clenches. "It would be better if that information remains here with the four of us."

Merlin's head snaps up. "It's a secret? Why?" And how? Thrakon Isles, the place always included in Balinor's introduction, literally means Dragon Isles. On second thought, it is in dragonlord tongue so perhaps Merlin is the only one who could make the connection.

Three sets of eyes glance at with varying degrees of incredulity.

"Dragons are plentiful but dragonlords are rare on this side of the continent," Morgana answers somberly. "More than one kingdom would be willing to go to war to get a hold of one and have dragons under their control."

Huh. Good thing to know now before Merlin carelessly reveals his own status to anyone else.

Morgana's emerald eyes flick to Balinor. "Does Queen Ygraine know?"

"What the queen does and doesn't know is none of your business," Balinor replies. His tone turns icy. "I would, however, like to be informed as to why the three of you had the audacity to stalk me and sneak out of the citadel."

Mordred lowers his head and gaze. Morgana fixes the sleeve of her dress and smooths out the nonexistent creases of her skirt. Merlin scratches his head and pretends to look guiltless.

Balinor's glare steadies on Merlin, who has probably failed in his attempts at innocence.

"W-Well, what about you? How come you've ordered the guards not to let the three of us out of the citadel?" Merlin redirects.

The Court Sorcerer's eyebrow rises.

"I was about to ask that myself," Morgana supports, shoulders straightening. "Why are you forbidding us from going outside?"

Mordred remains silent but his expression indicates that he would like to know too. Balinor looks between the three of them. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I thought to tell you once you've settled longer in the citadel, but I suppose there really is no good time," Balinor begins. He folds his hands at his back. "Camelot's greatest enemy had disrupted the exam and singled out one of you." Balinor sends Merlin a meaningful look. "But we know not if they're the real target or merely a distraction to hide the real agenda. All of us in court have decided to be cautious on the matter. The citadel is protected by a network of enchantments; the three of you will be safer inside of it than out. I ask that you sneak out no more."

Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred absorb the information with grim faces. Merlin has been careless. Not long ago, a malevolent entity tried to kill him; he can't go gallivanting around with his guard down. On the other hand, he did get to meet someone who could help him get home (and witness his not-father talk back to Kilgharrah without care), so he can't bring himself to regret it.

"I've answered your questions. Now answer mine." The Court Sorcerer's countenance hardens. "Why did you follow me?"

"Technically, Mordred and I were following Merlin," Morgana admits with a beatific smile. Mordred nods repeatedly. "Who was following you, my lord."

Inwardly, Merlin curses. Each man on his own in the face of their mentor's fury, huh? Hastily, Merlin thinks of an excuse.

"I - uh — I just got curious when you left the room . . .?"

Balinor crosses his arms over his chest, hazel eyes flaming. His jaw visibly clenches once more. "Is this some kind of disorder then, Merlin? This constant need to lie?"

Merlin flinches back, hurt and guilt stabbing their way into his chest.

"The truth, for once, boy," Balinor demands. "Or so help me, I will throw you out of the citadel myself."

Merlin's heart pounds and sweat beads upon his brows, the threat hitting right at his fears. In the single moment, staring as Balinor vibrates with barely contained rage, Merlin comprehends how frightening Camelot's Court Sorcerer and very own dragonlord can be.

Lying about magic and what he knows of it has become almost second nature to Merlin. He doesn't even know why he's hiding the truth this time. There's nothing too incriminating about it.

"I heard him," Merlin confesses, voice unable to rise louder than a whisper. He swallows and tries to get rid of the lump in his throat. "Ki— The dragon. When he called for you, I heard him too."

The words steal every trace of ire in Balinor's demeanor. "What?"

Merlin breathes easier now that he's not faced with the full fury of his not-father. He shrugs in an attempt to look casual, but his shoulders are a bit too stiff for that. "I-I don't know why I heard him." Which is the truth truly. Is it because of his dragonlord powers? He assumes so. But given the apparent rarity of dragonlords, he doubts that's the first conclusion anyone else would draw. Let them think it's part of being . . . Emrys. "I was curious to see who it is. That's why I followed you."

"You heard him? The dragon?" Mordred cocks his head to the side. He adopts a thoughtful look. "I didn't hear anything."

Balinor appears thoughtful as well. It's a definite improvement to his earlier mood so Merlin's not complaining. The Court Sorcerer glances at Merlin and then, at the other two apprentices.

"Continue your task," Balinor says, shoulders straightening. "Eighty filled crystals by the end of the week." With that, he heads to his desk and to his paperwork.

"Eighty?" Mordred's eyes widen. "But —"

"If any of you fail to meet the quota." The quills at Balinor's desk spring to life in a frenzy. "Be sure to prepare your bags," Balinor ends, tone utterly apathetic. His eyes don't ever stray from the piece of parchment in his hands.

The apprentices exchange terrified glances. Then, they dash to their respective chairs and pick up their crystals.

Merlin gulps, staring at the twenty crystals inside his box. He has to achieve four times that within four days. Gods, they should never have been caught.

Sunlight wanes as the apprentices frantically fill up several crystals. Perspiration peppers their brows and their eyes redden with exhaustion. By the time Balinor lights up the torches with a wave of his hand, Merlin has placed down ten more in his own box.

"Mordred, Morgana, you are dismissed," Balinor informs them with a blank look as the sun fully sets on the window behind him. "Merlin, you stay."

Morgana and Mordred offer Merlin sympathetic looks. Merlin stares wide-eyed at Balinor, mind churning.

The two apprentices bow and leave the room without further fuss. The Court Sorcerer calms the quills and parchments. They clatter down and rustle back on the desk.

The Court Sorcerer stands and claims the seat across Merlin's. Merlin leans back on his chair, pretending he's not as nervous as he seems.

Balinor makes a gesture. The crystals and crystal shards sweep themselves to the side, emptying the space in front of the Court Sorcerer and Merlin. The cabinet at the corner flips open and a bottle of what looks like wine floats towards Balinor's waiting hand. Two empty silver chalices follow, and they settle themselves atop the dining table, glinting almost menacingly in the firelight. Balinor grabs the bottle by its neck and swivels it around as if to shake off the nonexistent dust around it.

"Merlin." Balinor's hard gaze pierces right through Merlin's being. "I think it's time we talk properly."

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Morgause Le Fay seethes as she marches her way through their stronghold, body vibrating. Her failure to convince Morgana to leave the citadel has soured her mood completely.

Morgause had cajoled, reasoned, yelled, and demanded. Morgana, as stubborn as her own sister, met each of Morgause's words with spiked words of her own. In the end, the argument that lasted less than an hour had left them both drained, weary and wary of one another. Morgause left before she could do something foolish, like strangle her sister.

They haven't had the best of relationships, true. They have always been pitted against each other since childhood, causing despise to line every little interaction they make. But Morgause only wants —

She passes by a closed door on her way to her rooms to sulk. It's an unremarkable wooden thing but the enchantments suffusing it can drown a fae. Another flash of anger lances through her.

Morgause steps closer to the door and knocks aggressively upon it.

A beat passes. Then, the door's locks click open, the enchantments loosening enough for Morgause to slip in.

Darkness shrouds the chambers, the faint moonlight filtering in from thin curtains the only source of light. Morgause remedies this with a wave of a hand. Torches alight with bright flames, abruptly drenching the chambers with flickering warmth.

Wracu sits on the bed that consumes almost half of the room, a thick tome upon his lap. His head doesn't even turn to Morgause's direction nor does he stop running the pads of his fingers through the pages of his book.

Morgause staggers back, momentarily forgetting her irritation. It's always so eerie and rare to see Wracu out of his customary dark cloak, face bared to the world wholly and without masks. Morgause feels disillusioned, as if discovering that a childhood terror had been nothing more than shadows under her bed. She closes the door behind her.

"I take it the talk with Morgana didn't go well," Wracu states rather than ask.

Morgause recalls the purpose of this visit, and her anger returns full force. "No. And I'm also here to inform you that your plan regarding Emrys fell apart completely."

"Oh?" Wracu sounds only mildly interested, and Morgause grits her teeth.

"It has been chosen as the Court Sorcerer's apprentice," she says, wanting to gloat at his failure and remove that stupid placid expression. "And do you want to know how I recognized who Emrys is?"

Wracu says nothing.

Morgause hates being taken by surprise, especially in enemy territory. When she arrived in the Court Sorcerer's room to talk to her sister, she had been confident in her act. Then, the ground was stolen under her feet as she met the eyes of one of the apprentices, and she nearly said something she shouldn't.

"You told me it could take a human shape. And oh, it does so very well, doesn't it?" Morgause stalks towards the bed and looms over Wracu's form. She snarls, "It certainly has Lily's eyes, doesn't it?"

"Does it now, Morgause." Magic crackles in the air, lightning poised to strike.

Morgause is not a person who cowers. She's not a woman who backs away from a fight with anyone, no matter their status. Amidst the scrutiny of the court she grew up in, she has stood tall and proud with no hint of faltering.

But Wracu's tone abruptly reminds Morgause exactly why böggel-mann is his epithet. Even sitting defenseless on a bed without a night-black cloak, Wracu emits a presence so singularly bone-chilling with his countenance and tone alone. Ice races down Morgause's spine and pumps through her veins. She breaks out in cold sweat.

Morgause cows, lowering her head and placing her hands behind her back in deference. Inwardly, she curses herself for being brought along by her emotions. No one mentions that name within Wracu's hearing and gets away unscathed. Morgause wanted to invoke a reaction and knock off that emotionless persona. And she did.

Wracu, who has not ceased reading his book throughout their whole interaction, pulls the threatening magic out of the atmosphere with naught but an exhale. When he speaks, his tone is less minacious and much milder. "The form it mimics is no cause for concern. Its magical signature is."

"M-Magical signature?"

"No creature should be able to emulate how another's magic feels, smells or looks." A frown mars Wracu's face, his expression changing for the first time since Morgause came into the room. "And yet, Emrys can."

The implications sink in. Morgause's eyes widen. "You mean —"

"No hint of difference. Completely and exactly the same."

"Impossible," Morgause breathes out. "No two beings can have the exact same magical signature." Blood relatives may have similar signatures but there certainly will be noticeable distinctions when put to test. To be exactly the same? Morgause has never heard of such a phenomenon.

"Clearly, this creature can imitate someone's signature completely," Wracu replies. "I would really like to get my hands on that Emrys and crack it open. It's a pity we won't be able to get it while it's in the citadel. I doubt Balinor will grow careless with it sometime soon." He taps the tome. "For now, however, I'll settle on finding other sources of information."

Morgause opens her mouth, about to ask the exact nature of the information he needs, when a knock interrupts her. Daegal opens the door and startles slightly to see the room has two occupants.

He clears his throat. "Lord Wracu, Urvel has returned. She said she found something."

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Chapter Text

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Balinor pours a hearty amount of dark liquid from the bottle into one of the goblets. After, he nudges the goblet towards a fidgeting Merlin.

Merlin takes it, not really knowing what else to do. “This doesn’t contain some sort of truth serum, does it?” The wine is a deep dark red, gleaming like blood in the lights of the fires.

Balinor arches a brow and fills up his own goblet. “Truth serums or anything of ilk are illegal to use on anyone without a proper trial. I’ll assume you didn’t know that and were not actually accusing me of a heinous crime.”

“I — I definitely didn’t know that, my lord.” Merlin brings the cup to his lips to prevent himself from saying anything more.

Cold saccharine tang bursts at the tip of Merlin’s tongue, the wine sweeter than anything he has ever drunk. It barely tastes like wine, the customary sourness overwhelmed by candied sweetness. It’s undoubtedly alcohol though because it burns down his throat almost painfully. He covers his mouth and coughs.

Balinor watches him hack out a lung for several moments. “You seem to be getting along with Morgana and Mordred,” he points out before taking a long drag of his own drink. He appears unbothered by the wine’s utterly unusual taste. “Seeing as you worked together to cause a commotion.”

A rather troubling epiphany dawns on Merlin then. Morgana has drenched the three of them in unnoticeable enchantments while Mordred has offered his own silencing spells. Merlin has felt their magic graze his skin, although they never entangled with his own. His magic failed to react at all to those spells cast on him by his not-enemies. Is it because he had been too distracted to properly notice? Or —

Merlin blinks rapidly, another realization sinking its teeth in him. For the past two days, the three of them have been in this same room filling up storage crystals. Their magic mingles in the air because of the crystals each of them had shattered. Merlin has bathed in the remnants of Morgana and Mordred’s magic but had never registered them as a threat because of its minuscule amount.

His eyes widen. “Is this first lesson meant to make me get used to their magic?” Merlin recalls confessing to Balinor during the examinations that the magic of those two causes his own to react unpredictably.

The Court Sorcerer lets out a sound that may have been a snort. “Not everything is about you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s cheeks heat even as he scowls. He turns his attention to his cup and notes that Balinor did not even attempt to directly deny the warlock’s claim.

The Court Sorcerer gazes at the warlock, something unidentifiable flashing behind his eyes. Then, he places his cup down and casually says, “Oἷon sύ eἰmi drakonlars.”

Merlin splutters, nearly choking on his drink once more. He stutters out, “W-What language is that then?”

“Krύstallos ἐn soe thrix,” Balinor says next before taking another drink from his goblet.

Without much thought, Merlin’s hand comes up to ruffle his hair and remove said crystal shards. Then, he freezes and curses himself.

“You are a dragonlord,” Balinor repeats, in common language this time. He leans forward. “Which parent has the lineage?”

Merlin grimaces, mind debating whether to deny, admit, or attempt to change the subject completely. He figures there’s no worming his way out, seeing as he has shown his understanding of dragon-speak. “My — uh, my father, I think.” Merlin doesn’t exist in this realm. Balinor won’t be arriving at the correct assumption. Hopefully. Surely there are other dragonlords in the area that could have potentially sired Merlin. Even though dragonlords are apparently rare in Camelot and its allied kingdoms. Drat, if he knew it was a possibility, Merlin should have claimed the lineage is from his mother’s side instead.

“You think?” Balinor’s skeptical inquiry draws Merlin out of his swirling thoughts.

“He l-left my mother and me before he knew I existed.”

Astonishment crosses Balinor’s face. Then, he looks thoughtful. “Do you know his name?”

“Er — My mother didn’t talk much about him,” Merlin says carefully, keenly aware of the dangerous territory he’s treading. He takes another nervous swallow of the saccharine wine. The drink is truly an acquired taste. He’s beginning to like it because it serves as a reason to delay answering questions.

“So you’ve never been taught or guided about the ways of a dragonlord?” Balinor asks, lips pursed in a thin line. Merlin almost shrinks at the disapproval marring his tone.

Merlin shakes his head and looks down at the dark liquid in his goblet. He swallows and decides to confess, “I heard my father’s voice though, one time. When I commanded my first dragon. He guided me then.” Of course, in the past few days, the warlock hears the sound of his father’s voice much more often. He hides a humorless smile behind his goblet.

When Merlin glances up, an inscrutable expression paints Balinor’s face. They grow silent for several breaths, drinking overly sweet wine and shooting each other measured glances.

“Tell me about the Questing Beast.” Balinor breaks the silence with the demand.

Merlin blinks. “The one I saw during the apprentice test?” When Balinor nods, the warlock frowns. “I saw one, once, a few years ago.”

“Where did you see it?”

Merlin opens his mouth. Then, he closes it with a snap, recalling that they perhaps won’t find a trace of said Questing Beast in Camelot. “Er—I don’t remember exactly. It may not even be there anymore, really.” None would be able to support Merlin’s assertions anyways.

“Inside Camelot borders perhaps?”

“N-No.”

“Southern, eastern, wes — Eastern then,” Balinor concludes, eyes sharply on Merlin’s face. “Mountain? Woods, desert, cave — A cave in the eastern woods. Hmm.”

“What — How are you —" Merlin covers his face with one hand, shocked and a little bit terrified.

“You’re very easy to read, Merlin,” Balinor replies, his own expression aloof. “The potion helps too.”

“Wha —" Merlin’s head snaps to the almost empty goblet. Betrayal swiftly courses through him, along with simmering rage. “You said truth potions were illegal!”

“They are. I dosed you and I with an empath-spiller,” Balinor admits without a hint of apology.

Indignation flares in Merlin’s breast. “What’s an empath-spiller?”

“It allows anyone within five feet of you to feel any large shift of your emotions or surface thoughts,” Balinor answers before taking the last dregs from his goblet. “It’s a mild dose. Very easy to counteract for those who know how to do so.” The Court Sorcerer meaningfully at his own empty cup.

Merlin’s hands curl into fists, and the warlock grits his teeth. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. The duplicity hurts like a stab wound but he only has himself to blame. Merlin has witnessed Balinor’s cunningness in the past few days; he shouldn’t have let his guard down. He’s furious at himself for thinking he can relax around someone far from an ally.

He heads for the door, unable to stand being in the room for much longer.

“Sit down, Merlin, or I’ll tear up your apprentice contract here and now,” Balinor says, voice cold. “After today, I can no longer give you the benefit of the doubt and overlook whatever it is you’re scheming. Sit down.”

The warlock bristles, steps faltering. He considers walking away anyway because he loathes being threatened, being told what to do.

He recalls Arthur’s voice ordering him not to be stupid. Gaius telling him to think carefully. Gwen and Leon determined to find a compromise. Gwaine and Elyan encouraging him to throw a punch. Lancelot and Perceival whispering that he stays his hand.

Kilgharrah may know how to get Merlin home but the warlock has no doubt that he will need resources inside the castle to do so. The best chance he has of getting home to them lies in the castle. He can’t throw it away just like that because Balinor is an infuriating prat. So, Merlin breathes out, attempting to dissipate his anger. He sits back down and crosses his arms, not even trying to hide how unhappy and displeased he is.

Balinor nods in approval, and Merlin curbs the urge to tip Balinor’s chair down with a blast of magic.

“Tell me about Emrys.”

“It’s just a name some people call me,” Merlin replies curtly.

“And why does an ancient dragon know it?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Merlin offers a smile as saccharin as the dosed wine.

Balinor arches a brow and waits, expectant. Merlin sighs heavily. The warlock should definitely not be telling anyone about any prophecies that may or may not exist in this realm. But he needs to be as truthful as possible if he hopes to get out of this interrogation without revealing he does not at all belong in this world.

So he says, “It is what the druids call me.”

Balinor blinks rapidly. “The druids? They have a special name for you, do they?”

Heat suffuses Merlin’s cheeks and ears. When put that way, the warlock can’t help but feel mortified.

“What does it mean?” Balinor asks next.

Merlin drums his fingers on his inner arm. “I don’t —" Balinor interrupts him with a look, reminding Merlin that he should give away at least some semblance of the truth. “It means—uh.” The most powerful magic-user to have lived and will ever live? Merlin would prefer a less embarrassing and pompous description. “That they recognize my power. And they sort of know me because of it.”

“So you have them give you a name in reverence and recognition of you?”

“What? No!” Merlin denies hotly, uncrossing his arms and flailing them for emphasis. “Why would I — They named me themselves! I haven’t the faintest why they did! They just started calling me that without warning. I didn’t even get a thorough explanation until years later and even then, I— It wasn’t even the druids who told me!” Merlin cuts himself off, coming to his senses.

Balinor makes an encouraging gesture. “Go on.”

Merlin shoots Balinor a glare and leans back on his chair, mouth pointedly shut.

The Court Sorcerer waits with an expectant air but Merlin refuses to break this time. He has nothing more to say about this Emrys thing and its ridiculousness anyway.

After several moments of silence, Balinor hums. “Tell me why you applied as Camelot’s apprentice.”

“Coin,” Merlin impatiently repeats his excuse because it’s partly the truth.

“And what else?”

Merlin’s lips purse in a thin line.

“You needed to get into the castle,” Balinor assumes. Correctly, that is. “To assassinate someone?” Before Merlin could spew out his indignant protests to that, Balinor continues, “No, that’s not it. To spy for Camelot’s enemy? To spy and sell the information to Camelot’s enemy?”

“Perhaps I just want to learn under one of the best sorcerers in Albion?” Merlin suggests, plastering on an extremely fake grin.

An epiphany flash by Balinor’s eyes. “The library. You want access to Camelot’s library.”

Merlin’s grin drops. He shifts in his seat, utterly uncomfortable to be read so easily. This empath-spiller is quite a troublesome potion.

“Why?”

“I’ve owned one tome of magic my entire life,” spills out of Merlin’s mouth almost without his bidding. “Camelot’s library is huge. Shelves upon shelves about magical creatures, spells and enchantments, and various other fantastical stories I’ve never even imagined, much less heard of.” Merlin doesn’t need to feign the yearning in his tone. He could only wish he could take some of those books with him when he gets home. “Who doesn’t want access to it?”

Balinor looks thoughtful, staring at Merlin with another inscrutable expression. Merlin stares back, challenging Balinor for another bout if the man so desires.

Balinor takes a deep breath and releases it. “Tell me of Lily of Veelin.”

Merlin blinks rapidly. “She’s your previous apprentice . . .?”

“And what is your relation to her?”

Merlin frowns. “We . . . share the same mentor?” The warlock makes a puzzled gesture towards Balinor. The Court Sorcerer’s stone-hewn face belies nothing. “I haven’t met her, if that’s what you’re asking.” Did Merlin mention something that may have indicated that? He knows little of this Lily to form a guess.

“I see.” Stiffly, Balinor leans back on his chair and pours another cup of wine into his goblet.

Several beats of silence drench the air around them. Balinor appears lost in thought, and Merlin attempts not to pull him out of it lest harder questions present themselves. The warlock glares at the table, at the dratted cup that he never should have accepted. Was the sweetness part of the potion? He should have guessed. No proper wine would have been that honeyed.

Finally, Balinor’s eyes focus. He steadily meets Merlin’s gaze. “Very well then. Apprentice lessons in the afternoon. Dragonlord lessons in the evening.”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Apprentice lessons in the afternoon. Dragonlord lessons in the evening,” Balinor repeats before taking a long gulp of his drink.

“I heard you but . . . Dragonlord lessons?” Merlin shoots the Court Sorcerer a disbelieving look.

“Since you’ve no one, as your elder, it’s my duty to help you hone your skills and knowledge as a dragonlord,” Balinor explains solemnly.

Try as he might, Merlin can’t fight down the note of excitement singing in his veins at the notion. He leans forward, unable to hide his interest. “Is—Is it one of the traditions of your homeland?”

“I suppose.” Balinor rolls the half-empty goblet around his palm. He seems a tad more relaxed now that he isn’t grilling Merlin for answers. “A dragonlord’s power is not to be taken lightly, and it’s dangerous to let someone such as yourself go untrained.”

“But I’ve got a handle on it though,” Merlin says. As desperate as he is to learn under his not-father, he would rather not waste Balinor’s time. Merlin has been a dragonlord for almost five years now after all.

“I doubt it,” Balinor says with confidence, and Merlin scowls. “While a lot of it is instinctive, you won’t be able to use the full extent of your powers without guidance. There are also etiquettes to be followed, unspoken rules that you’re clearly not aware of.”

It makes sense. Dragonlords are people with their own practices, separate from the practices of the Old Religion. The impossible chance to learn said traditions here in this realm present itself so enticingly in front of the warlock. In Merlin’s world, the knowledge died with his father. As the last dragonlord, Merlin has the duty to learn them and ensure the knowledge will never be lost again.

“Th - Thank you, my lord,” Merlin breathes out, the full enormity of the opportunity sinking into him. He can’t fight down the delighted grin from climbing his face. “I’ll be more than happy to learn whatever you can teach me.”

Balinor concedes with a nod, and Merlin belatedly hopes he’s not agreeing to anything troublesome.

Merlin holds up a finger, frowning. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten that you’ve drugged me. You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“And hear more of your lies?” Balinor counters, arching a brow. Merlin stifles a wince. “I’m not after your secrets, Merlin, and, despite everything that has happened, I still believe you mean no harm to Camelot.” Well, good to know Merlin has presented himself accurately on that end. “But you have to tell me the truth if you have any desire to remain in the castle.” The Court Sorcerer’s eyes narrow. “Wracu has singled you out. Do you know what that means?”

“Er — that a maniac wants to kill me?”

“It means that, had I not taken you as my apprentice, no one else in the citadel would be willing to put you under their employ. Or their inns,” Balinor informs the warlock, face grave.

Merlin startle. “What? Why?”

“You’ve been targeted by the böggel-mann himself. People in the citadel won’t invite an ill omen such as yourself into their homes,” Balinor says as he corks the bottle of wine.

Merlin’s jaw works as he contemplates it. This Wracu holds such great power over Camelot’s citizens, and Merlin doesn’t think the people even realize it. The warlock shudders.

“I believe that’s all for tonight, Merlin,” Balinor says, pulling Merlin out of his musings. The Court Sorcerer waves a flippant hand. “You may leave.”

Irritation blooms in Merlin’s chest because he still has questions of his own. But he reckons the empath-spiller hasn’t worn off yet, and the warlock can’t risk Balinor inquiring deeper.

“My lord,” Merlin bids as he stands and heads for the door, tone far from respectful.

He understands why Balinor did it. The Court Sorcerer is merely concerned and rightfully wary of Merlin’s intentions. The warlock has been nothing but suspicious throughout his whole stay, if his failure to keep a low profile is any indication. Merlin would have admittedly done the same in Balinor’s position.

One thing’s for sure though; Merlin won’t be accepting any more drinks from Balinor any time soon.

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Merlin stares and blinks at the bundle of clothes folded neatly atop his bed, having returned to his room after hours in the library.

“A servant came and placed that there,” Theo answers Merlin’s unspoken question. The man doesn’t even look up from the parchment he’s studying on his desk. “They said the clothes are yours.”

“Mine?” The fabrics feel cool and smooth on the pads of Merlin’s fingers, and their colors are deep reds, blues, and browns. While some of the tunics’ hems wear frayed edges and the colors depict faded versions of themselves, the clothes are no commoner’s. “It can’t be. They’re of noble-make.”

Theo shrugs before painstakingly scratching a few more words unto the parchment. “That’s what they told me.”

Merlin owns no clothes except the ones upon his back. Actually, he owns no other articles in this realm except what he has on him now. His brown overcoat has probably long been burned by now. And that dratted Wracu has stolen his neckerchief.

Merlin accepts the clothes without further questions, if only to be practical. They’ll be getting their allowance at the end of the week, and he’ll buy what he needs after that.

Merlin asks a servant where to get water for a bath, and the servant helpfully helps him carry buckets of it to his room’s tub. Merlin is amazed to experience three filled buckets weighing no more than three sheets of paper.

As he sinks into the soapy and cheerfully bubbly bath, Merlin sighs in relief.

It’s been a long eventful day. He can’t wait to sleep and get it over with.

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The böggel-mann is a mythical creature used by parents to get their children to behave. Merida herself has once been frightened into cleaning their whole house lest the böggel-mann comes and takes her away.

Merida is seventeen summers now: she’s far too old for such nonsense. The böggel-mann doesn’t exist, no matter how much people older than her insist that he does. She may still be far too clueless about the ways of the new world she finds herself in, but she knows when people are pulling her leg.

But as she sits in their tiny home surrounded by figures cloaked in browns and less than a foot away from an entity close to the image of Death himself, Merida feels like a helpless and scared child once more. Her mother, sitting close beside her with a sweat-soaked and trembling visage, squeezes her hand to the point of pain. Merida weakly squeezes back, unable to tear her gaze away from the threat right in front of her lest it lunges forward and consumes her. She uses her other hand to shakily scratch the itchy spot at the back of her neck.

The böggel-mann tilts his head to the side like a predator observing prey. The face shrouded by the shadows of his hood greets Merida head-on. Merida stifles the urge to scream and run away because she won’t get very far.

“Merida, is it?” The voices of a thousand ghosts screeching emit the words. Merida shudders, dread curdling in her stomach. “I merely desire answers to a few questions.”

Merida nods even before the böggel-mann finishes his sentence. She knows not what will happen if she refuses, and she has no plans of finding out.

“You should be dead,” the böggel-mann says, tone casual as if stating a fact. Merida’s heart almost explodes out of her chest. Her mother releases a strangled gasp, gripping Merida’s hand with white knuckles. “Or so I’ve heard,” the böggel-mann continues calmly. “Over a year ago, your mother found that you died in your sleep. Your body was burned.” The böggel-mann leans forward, inhumane voice lilting with interest. “And yet here you are. How?”

Merida glances to her side and catches her mother’s expression crumpling with sorrow. Merida swallows and scratches her throat. The villagers have tried to keep it a secret — have attempted to hide the fact that a dead woman has arrived in their village just a month prior. Necromancy is strictly forbidden magic or so Merida hears. But none of them wants to deny a grieving mother a second chance with her daughter.

Thankfully, no necromancy is used in this case. Something far stranger explains Merida's continued presence.

“I — I am not of this world,” Merida begins, gazing down and rubbing the red spots running along one of her fingers. “I’m not certain how it—it’s possible. I grew up with King Uther on the throne instead of Queen Ygraine. The queen died in childbirth in my world. A-And King Uther banned all kinds of magic in the land after that. The—The Merida of this world really did die.”

Merida has been too young to remember the Purge but not too ignorant to notice its effects on her village. The difference is stark as soon as she arrived in this land full of magic; their shoulders are less tense, their visage less stressed. People who rarely smiled in her old village do so freely here. Even now, Merida half-fears a legion of red-caped knights will march into their village and burn it down to the ground for their casual use of magic.

“Another world . . .” The böggel-mann sounds slightly incredulous.

Merida scrambles to elaborate, knowing how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. Even now, most of the villagers barely believe her. “A Djinn. A creature that can grant wishes. I wished—I wished for my mother to accept me as a woman.”

Merida stares down at her dainty hands and at the pair of assets she didn’t have a month ago. She glances at her mother, who gives her a small smile. Merida returns it. When Merida has confessed her desire to have a woman’s body instead of the one she was born with, her mother has immediately bought the potions needed. There is no disgust, no resistance, no denial from her mother’s counterpart. The Merida of this realm herself has been drinking the brew herself only two months before her untimely death. Her mother has not been surprised by Merida’s admission.

The villagers don't bat an eyelid either. They see a young man one day then a young woman the next, and they merely nod. No ‘Milda, that son of yours truly is odd, isn’t he?’ or ‘Milda didn’t raise that boy right, I tell you’.

With a cup of specifically brewed potion a day, Merida can shed her false skin and gain the one she feels most comfortable with. The acceptance of her mother and the feel of her real self — Merida cannot wish for anything more. “I didn’t expect the Djinn to send me to another world for that to happen but—I’m not complaining now.”

The böggel-mann hums, bringing Merida back to her current situation. She sobers up and shakes away his meandering thoughts. Merida dabs the sweat beading around her forehead with the sleeve of her dress. She scratches at a tender spot in her hairline, awaiting salvation. Will she and her mother be killed after the böggel-mann is done getting answers? Merida’s heart thumps a quick beat in her chest at the notion.

“Emrys. Have you heard the name?” the böggel-mann asks next, gloved hands folding atop their rickety table and head leaning forward.

Merida’s brows furrow, attempting to recall anything. Then, she shakes her head. A stray hair tickles her cheek at the movement, and she scratches at the spot. “I’m not familiar with it.”

“What about Merlin of Ealdor?”

The next name sparks an immediate memory. “The king’s personal manservant was named Merlin. I know not if he’s of Ealdor though.”

The king arrived in Merida’s village just a few months ago on a campaign to survey the lands, bringing with him an entourage of knights and servants. His arrival had been the most exciting event in their village for more than a decade, so Merida won’t be forgetting it soon. Nor will she be forgetting the moment when she accidentally witnessed the king’s manservant subtly and fearlessly tease the king. The king had turned red in the face and screamed the servant’s name in frustrated anger. The manservant dashed away into the crowd, laughing like a loon, before the king could catch him.

“King Uther’s manservant?” A tint of shock colors the böggel-mann’s inhumane voice.

“King Arthur’s,” Merida corrects.

“King Arthur.” The böggel-mann sits back, processing the information with another thoughtful and inhumane hum. “Tell me of this King Arthur. And his reign.”

Merida speaks all that she knows, although she doesn’t know much. King Arthur maintains the ban on magic that his father started but he doesn’t actively seek out magic-users. She briefly delves into the Purge, of how thousands of magic-users were burned and hunted down. Merida tells the böggel-mann of how the current king elevates commoners to knights and the rumors of him courting a servant. Just in case, Merida also details her brief encounters with the king and his manservant during their visit to her village — how they tease and roughhouse like blood-brothers.

The böggel-mann listens quietly, unmoving. The rest of his men emulate his posture, standing as still as statues and unnerving Merida to no end. When Merida trails off and runs out of words, almost an hour later, the böggel-mann speaks once more.

“Do you wish to go back?”

The question throws Merida but not because it’s unfamiliar. She can admit that it’s a question she has been asking herself ever since she travelled to this world. She has left behind two childhood friends and a mother who doesn’t understand her. She has attained a magic-filled village who loves her as she is and a mother who supports her completely. She weighs what she gained and what she lost every single day of her stay.

“I think— I would not mind staying,” she confesses, staring at her hands. The admission feels like a betrayal to all the people she has known all her life, but it is the truth, nonetheless. The Djinn may have granted her wish in an unconventional manner, but it granted the wish all the same.

The böggel-mann remains silent for several strained moments. Then, he reaches into the folds of his night-black cloak. Merida and her mother tenses, holding on to each other and bracing for an attack.

He pulls out a glass bottle the size of his palm and puts it down the table with a resounding thunk. A light pink liquid fills three-fourths of the ornate bottle, almost glowing as the moon beams hit the facets.

“What — What is that then?” Merida’s mother ventures out, voice trembling.

“An incentive to keep all that information and my presence here tonight a secret,” the böggel-mann replies. “If someone other than me comes looking for answers, you are to tell them lies and never what you’ve told me now.”

Merida breathes a little easier. That means böggel-mann is going to let them live, albeit under his control. It’s not ideal but Merida will take that over dying any day.

Then, the böggel-mann says, “You’re allergic to flax seeds.”

Merida blinks rapidly. “What?”

“Flax seeds are common ingredients of low-level gendershifting potions,” the böggel-mann says. He gestures to Merida. “You’re allergic to it. You have itchy red spots all over your arms, hands, and face. A couple of weeks more and the effects would be deadly.”

Merida touches said spots and winces. Her mother looks at her with concern, her eyes darting on every exposed skin. Something akin to an epiphany flash by her horrified face. She glances at the böggel-mann with wide eyes.

The böggel-mann says nothing in reply to the unasked question. But Merida and her mother know the answer anyway.

The böggel-mann cuts through their whirling thoughts. “A high-level potion—” The böggel-mann slides the bottle to the middle of the table, nearer to Merida. “—contains no trace of flax seeds. A drop or two on your tongue a year shall allow you to keep your current form.”

Merida’s jaw drops. “A drop a year?”

She stares at the bottle that contains miracles. Low-level potions may be inexpensive, but the long-term cost would burden them greatly. If this high-level potion truly is potent enough to keep Merida in her desired form from merely a drop, then the bottle in front of her must cost at least a thousand gold coins. Furthermore, the bottle must at least contain seventy drops or more — enough to last a lifetime. Merida will never have to buy a single gendershifting potion again.

“A-And you’re going to give this to us?” Her mother sounds wary and rightly so. Both of them wait for the catch.

“As an incentive,” the böggel-mann repeats. “Make no mistake: if I hear whispers of other worlds outside of your little village, I’ll know where to go to ensure no other information gets out.”

Merida shivers, gooseflesh prickling her skin.

“Take the potion and keep quiet.” The böggel-mann rises to his feet. “Do we have an agreement?”

Merida and her mother nod vigorously. No other choice can be made.

“Good.” With a flare of his cloak, the böggel-mann exits their dingy home. His men follow behind him like shadows, quiet and quick.

In five breaths, Merida and her mother are alone again, alive, and unharmed after an encounter with the böggel-mann himself. 

Merida reaches out and encloses the wondrous bottle in her palm. Given this and the discovery of her sickness, Merida can’t help but think that the böggel-mann’s visit is a bit of a blessing in disguise.

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“Another world? Are you really falling for this?”

“Of course not. Necromancy may cause such detailed delusion. It is an unpredictable art.”

“. . . But why did you give her—”

“I need the delusion to remain and end with her. We never know what Camelot, or any other kingdom would do if they believe that Djinns truly exist. The last thing we need is a conflict of such caliber.”

“Shouldn’t we do something about her then? No good comes from a living undead.”

“No. Let them deal with the consequences of their own hubris.”

“Then, what now?”

“We wait.”

“We . . . wait?” A noise of disbelief.

“I’ve wasted far too much effort on gathering information and all I have is a nonsensical fantasy. I doubt we’re going to get anything else. So we wait until Emrys is out of the citadel and out of Camelot’s protection.”

“Shall we guard the citadel’s exits?”

A shake of the head. “Too risky and wasteful. I shall take care of everything myself.”

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Chapter Text

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Merlin cracks an eye open, glancing at the crouched form of Balinor scribbling at his desk.

“Merlin,” Balinor says without removing his attention from his documents. “Keep meditating.”

Merlin closes the eye and huffs. He shifts on his position on the carpeted floor, folded legs nearly numb from being in the same position for an hour.

“I’ve been meditating for three days!”

When Merlin had been offered dragonlord lessons, he expected going out to the fields and calling forth dragons. He gets hours of meditating lessons instead. Moreover, he has to give up his nightly research in the process. Balinor insists on keeping him as late as possible. Although seeing he is to meet with Kilgharrah in two days’ time, said research may not be necessary.

“Perhaps, if you've been meditating properly, we would have proceeded onwards by now,” Balinor replies wryly, finishing the last pile of paperwork for the day. Then, he sighs. “It takes time, Merlin. Be patient.”

Merlin frowns but complies, albeit begrudgingly. He’s truly envious of Morgana and Mordred who have been dismissed for the day. They have all been dismissed at the same time, of course. To prevent the discovery of Merlin’s secret lessons, he joins Mordred and Morgana in exiting the chambers. Before they reach the kitchen, Merlin makes some excuse about going to the library and skulks back into their mentor’s room for dragonlord lessons.

All those sneaking around for hours of mind-numbing meditation?

In a manner, Merlin does understand the need for meditation. Balinor explains that the magic of the Old Religion and the powers of a dragonlord comes from two different sources that cannot intrinsically mesh.

“The Goddess has women as their stewards while dragonlords have men,” Balinor has said to an avidly listening Merlin. “Although, with the invention of gendershifting magic, none of that matters much in terms of hierarchy and inheritance.”

As such, Old Religion magic usually overwhelms and blocks more than half of a dragonlord’s capabilities. Had Merlin not been born with the Goddess’ favor, Balinor reckons that the opposite would be true—that his dragonlord power would hinder his magic.

Meditation contributes greatly to reconciling the two separate sources or so Balinor says. Something about meditation relaxing the body and mind, more so than sleeping, and allowing both sources to flow into a natural state. Merlin can admit the concepts are still far too foreign for him.

Merlin has never meditated a single minute of his life before all this. Apparently, emptying one’s mind and staying as still as possible for long periods of time can be difficult when one has a million problems at hand.

Merlin attempts again anyway, clearing his thoughts and breathing out. What’s supposed to happen anyway? He feels no different in the past three days. His magic is as it always has been. The part of him that is dragonlord feels unchanged. What happens if he reconciles the two sources? Merlin is already capable of commanding dragons, hatching a dragon egg, and speaking to them as kin; what else is there?

“Merlin,” Balinor calls again, a hint of chastisement in his tone. “Meditate properly.”

Merlin bites down a sassy response and empties his mind. He forces everything to fall away.

After an eternity of blankness and darkness, something deep inside him shifts. For a brief bewildering moment, Merlin feels no ground under him and the heavy thing in his chest hauls him down to the depth of the earth.

Merlin gasps, eyes flying open. 

Balinor, suddenly in front of him in a flurry of deep blue robes, catches his flailing limbs and steadies him. “Breathe slowly, Merlin.”

Something is still fluctuating in the area of Merlin’s chest like large sinuous snakes wiggling between his ribs. Numbness prickles the tips of his fingers and toes. “There’s —" Merlin swallows and inhales deeply.

“You’ve broken the barrier. Your magic is adjusting.” Balinor places a palm flat on Merlin’s chest. His eyes flare gold.

Merlin sighs as the unpleasantness eases slightly. “Ho - How long is this going to last?”

“Just a few minutes.” Balinor’s gaze slides to Merlin’s neck before hurriedly flicking away.

Merlin’s nape prickles sharply. He unthinkingly scratches his neck to relieve the sensation. His fingertips brush against smooth and rigid textures.

A fingernail-sized glossy obsidian scale plunks down to the carpeted floor with a dull clunk.

Chapter Text

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As soon as the door of the chamber closes behind Merlin, Arthur spins to favor Balinor a wry look.

“Explain to me what’s going on,” he demands, letting his demeanor show his displeasure.

Balinor unnecessarily fixes the lapels of his cerulean coat, hands flitting by the triple-moon etchings. “I thought it was rather obvious. I’m teaching a young dragonlord proper traditions that he has not the chance to learn.” He lifts a delicate brow at the prince before striding towards an oaken wardrobe in the far end of the room.

Arthur walks half-a-step behind. “Don’t play coy with me. Tell me why you’re getting cozy with someone we know isn’t even remotely trustworthy.”

Balinor cracks the dresser open, and Arthur swiftly dodges the wood that nearly hits his face. “I’ve done no cozying up. Unless we find concrete evidence proving any type of guilt or malice, I am his mentor first and foremost, both in magic and as a dragonlord.” Cloths whisper and parchment crackles as Balinor rummage through the cupboard, his face, and actions hidden from Arthur’s sight.

Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside the wardrobe, most of his weight on his right leg. “How did you even find out he’s a dragonlord? Did he tell you?” It isn’t like the lesson Arthur observed showcased any of this Merlin’s alleged dragonlord abilities.

“I had to pull the truth out of his gritted teeth.” Balinor closes the dresser door with a brief push of magic, hands full.

Arthur straightens abruptly, gaze honing on the items bundled in the Court Sorcerer’s grasp. Pale sapphire fabrics, golden-bronze threads, and a palm-sized wooden box lay gathered in Balinor’s arms. The Court Sorcerer himself strides towards his bed with the articles, mien pointedly casual.

Arthur follows behind him, throat unexpectedly tight. “You’re — You’re making their robes.”

“Yes,” the Court Sorcerer simply says as if he is not weaving the threads of a seen future himself.

Arthur’s gaze lingers on the sapphire color of the fabric, and at the half-formed symbols hemmed with golden fibers. Something in the area of his chest clenches at the familiar hue and runes. The last time he saw them was on a body on a pyre. He stomps down the waves of grief threatening to consume him at the notion. He has no time for it. He won’t make time for it.

Balinor carefully spreads out the fabrics on the satin sheets of the bed, smoothing out wrinkles and revealing the still unstitched edges. He puts the wooden box in the far-right corner, out of the way. With a gesture, a parchment-lined with numbers straightens itself in the air in front of him.

Arthur claims the red cushy armchair mere feet away from the bed. He seats himself on it with a sigh, settles his left leg over his right knee, and proceeds to massage the spasming muscles of the lower leg. Sitting on the hard floor for hours has done him no favors.

“Do you need a salve?” Balinor asks, squinting on the writings on the hovering parchment.

“I’m fine,” Arthur replies tersely. Swiftly, to prevent any further well-meaning fussing and to distract himself from what Balinor is doing, he badgers, “Tell me how you found out that he’s a dragonlord.”

A needle and a glinting azure spool bounce out of the wooden box. With a wiggle of Balinor’s fingers, a yard of thread unspools itself and journeys through the needle’s eye. “Kilgharrah—do you recall the name?”

Arthur frowns in thought. The light of recollection causes him to lift his brows. “The batty old dragon who’ll spit fire at me if I don’t think before I speak?” The prince has no clue as to why a childhood story is relevant in their conversation.

Balinor looks up, blinking rapidly. Beside him, the needle-thread partner aggressively fights to attach a sleeve into an armhole. “Did I use Kilgharrah’s name for that?”

“You did,” Arthur says slowly, putting his leg down and leaning back on his chair. “I thought those dragon names were things you made up for bedtime stories. I’m supposing that isn’t the case?”

“Kilgharrah is a real and rather irritating acquaintance of mine that happens to be a dragon, yes.” The Court Sorcerer summons a pair of scissors and uses it to even the edges of the ragged sleeve currently battling the needle-thread. “He called for me a few days ago.”

Balinor narrates the whole incident as he binds a narrow strip of smoothened cloth over the hems of the sleeve. Balinor isn’t at all fond of this Kilgharrah, if the way the man sardonically describes the encounter is any indication. Arthur wonders how exactly a dragon and a dragonlord’s relationship could be strained. He refrains from inquiring now but promises himself to do so another day.

Then, Balinor recounts how he drags Merlin into an inescapable interrogation.

“You drugged him?” Arthur almost shouts in naked surprise. He stares, appalled, at the Court Sorcerer’s placid expression, feeling a lot like he’s seeing the man for the first time in his entire life. “What in Goddess’ name? Do you know what will happen when people find out that you drugged your own apprentice? With only the two of you in your own chambers?” Arthur stands up, unable to take the news while sitting still. “I have to report you. Wait, why didn’t he report you? This happened three days ago, you said?”

The needle-thread proudly shows its work on the armscye. Balinor furrows his thick brows at the ugly stitching, clearly displeased. He undoes the seams with a flash of gold eyes and the needle-thread cuts itself off from the mess. “Because Merlin is woefully ignorant of many important laws in Camelot. That or he doesn’t think anyone would believe him over me.” Balinor pauses, considering that. Then, he continues blithely, “Of course I didn’t drug him. But Merlin seems to believe I am the kind of man who does such a heinous deed, so I let him think it. Told him I dosed him with an empath-spiller.”

Arthur, who has read and studied several potion books, incredulously asks, “What on earth is an empath-spiller?”

Balinor shrugs, a smirk dancing by the corners of his mouth. “I know not.” Another needle is summoned, this time partnering with a yard of glinting golden thread. They work on embroidering symbols at the hem of the still detached sleeve. “Admittedly, I was merely aiming to get him a tad drunk and maybe loosen his tongue. But he wondered if I placed something in his drink. I merely went along with it.”

Arthur sits back down, relief flooding through him. For a moment, he thought he had to rethink his whole life. “You gave him one of your candied wines, didn’t you? Even I would believe there was something nasty in it.”

The Court Sorcerer turns to Arthur, offense evident in the moue of his mouth. “It is a delicacy.”

Arthur nearly snorts in an un-prince-like manner. “It’s wine mixed with a ghastly amount of honey. I know you have an absurd taste for sweets but candied wine? Temper yourself occasionally, Balinor.”

The Court Sorcerer concedes with a small tilt of his head. He observes the new stitches of the armhole and nods in approval. He snips the excess threads.

“Did you even tell him you didn’t actually put anything in his drink?”

Dismissively, Balinor says, “He’ll find out soon enough. But it was useful to let him believe I am a man who would do underhanded things to get what he wants.” The Court Sorcerer handlessly guides the golden threads to embroider symbols from inside the sleeve. “By believing he drank a potion, Merlin was akin to an open book. He would have figured out there was no potion if he tried to outright lie. But he didn’t. Because he believed I truly drugged him. It allowed me to garner a few truths on some matters.”

Arthur leans in, not even attempting to hide his interest. “Such as?”

“Emrys is a title, not a name.” The Court Sorcerer cuts the excess golden threads as soon as it darns the last details of the runes. “A title the druids have bestowed upon him.”

Instantly, Arthur deduces the implications. “Prophecies? This Merlin is involved in prophecies?” The prince supposes it’s possible. The apprentice is certainly powerful enough to be involved in a fate-driven plot.

“If it’s a devastating one or not remains to be seen. The Spymaster is reaching out to relevant people as we speak.” Balinor puts down the robe with the newly attached sleeve and begins a similar work on another robe. “I’m not quite surprised, given what we witnessed earlier.”

“Do you really believe that Merlin just carelessly performed a mythical enchantment right before our eyes?” Arthur very much doubts it.

“Do you think he was lying?” Balinor offers the prince a skeptical look. “I’ll know more in future lessons with him.”

Arthur shrugs and relents on the matter. He gesticulates for Balinor to resume his retelling.

The Court Sorcerer spills the whole interaction to the prince, detailing every wording and gesture this Merlin used. Arthur absorbs every bit of information presented, mind churning and attempting to make sense of the pieces of the puzzle. None of them quite fit, no matter how much he tries. This Merlin continues to mystify him beyond measure.

Finishing the narration half-an-hour later, Balinor glances at Arthur and too casually prompts, “Thoughts?”

Arthur’s mouth twists and throws out a lofty suggestion. “A shade?”

Balinor shakes his head. “The castle is protected against it. He wouldn’t have been able to enter if that’s the case. Besides, his personality is much too complex to be a simple shade.”

“A twin brother?” Arthur recommends next, knowing that it’s just as unlikely.

“With exactly the same magical signature?” Balinor counters. “No two people can have the exact same magical signature, no matter how closely related they are.”

“A mimic.”

Balinor factually lists off, attention on the three robes dancing around him, “I already performed a revealing spell on him. Mimics copy their victim’s appearance down to the last strand of hair. They can neither change their gender or their age. They’re incapable of emulating magical signatures. And . . . their victims have to be currently alive for them to mimic.”

Arthur shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant even though he knows Balinor will see right through him. “Shot in the dark, anyway.” He slumps down in his chair, dropping his head back and eyes steadying on the stoned ceiling. His voice is low and almost quiet when he asks, tentatively, “Altered memories?”

Cloths shuffle aggressively before silencing completely. Arthur can feel the Court Sorcerer's complete attention on him.

“How difficult is it to fake a death anyway?” the prince mumbles, heart growing heavy with every word that comes out of his mouth.

 An isolated part of the surrounding forest, a cloudy gloomy day.

“— the queen would think I’ve kidnapped you —"

“— get out of the citadel once in a while without knights dogging my steps —”

“— course, I want to spend my day babysitting the crowned prince—”

A visible scowl, a hidden smirk, sapphire earrings glinting in the meager light of the dark skies.

“— my very own best friend, unhappy to spend time with me —!”

“— thur, stop pouting. You look like you’ve eaten a toad —”

“— ly, stop scowling. Your pretty face will get stuck like that and your suitors —"

— A splutter, a rough shove —

“— murder the heir —”

“— treason! I’ll tell your mentor of your devious plans —"

A sudden quiet. An unusual gust of wind. A lack of footfalls behind.

“Lily?”

Arthur opens the eyes he didn’t realize he closed just as Balinor quietly replies, “Inborn magical capacity cannot be changed without a temporary enchantment. She was a White Level, but she certainly wasn’t capable of shattering scinncræfte crystals. We’ve proven that Merlin drank no potion nor owned any charms that increased his magical capability during his registration.” Slowly, Balinor resumes sewing, an eye gauging the prince’s reaction.

Arthur breathes out. A throb spikes in his temples, threatening to be a full-blown headache. He won’t admit that his hopes had been raised for a while. “That leaves advanced necromancy.”

“Necromancy is an unpredictable art,” Balinor adds on, tone pointedly blank and careful. “The intended target may come back vastly different. Physically. Magically. They could have a confusing set of memories thrust upon them, delusions of things that are in no way true. It is a viable explanation given the evidence.”

Arthur straightens out of his slump, wide eyes on the Court Sorcerer, who wears such an utterly nonchalant facade. “But?”

Balinor’s lips thinned. “No product of necromancy could ever claim the power of a dragonlord.”

Contradictions. Paradoxes. Unexplainable nonsensical pieces of a puzzle Arthur could not see the end of. Frustration blossoms upon his breast and he lets out a sound halfway between a growl and a huff. “What then? What in Goddess’ name is he?”

A perturbed expression ripples upon the Court Sorcerer’s face, no answer forthcoming from him. He runs callused fingers over the length of a robe’s sleeve, pondering.

“Are you truly certain he’s a dragonlord?” Arthur is unable to completely remove the irritation in his tone. “You said your kind rarely leaves the isles of your homeland.”

“It is uncommon for my people to leave the isles but there are more than a handful of us out there in various continents.” Balinor cuts a yard of blue fabric and curves it to resemble a hood. Three needles-thread partners eagerly work on permanently shaping it.

Arthur scoffs. “Do you believe that another dragonlord could have settled near Camelot or wherever this Ealdor is and had a son?” Not impossible but highly unlikely, Arthur thinks. According to Arthur’s studies, rarely do dragonlords involve themselves with practitioners of the Old Religion and would therefore avoid Camelot and its allies. Balinor, of course, is possibly the only exception. As a jest, the prince throws out, “He’s not yours, is he?”

For several silent moments, the Court Sorcerer’s focus remains on the swirling cloths and twirling threads.

Arthur’s eyes widen, and tension runs through the lines of his shoulders. “Balinor.”

“He’s not mine.”

“You’re sure, right?”

Balinor shoots the prince a rueful glance. “As I am certain Merlin’s father is most likely dead, I am sure.”

Arthur frowns. “I assumed he inherited his abilities through blood trial. Merlin inherited it through the death of his father?”

“Merlin implied he never met his father, so I concluded that is the case.”

“Did you know him then? Merlin’s father?”

A thoughtful frown briefly crosses Balinor’s face. “I know of no one settling nearby. I shall have to talk to the chiefs to find out.” Balinor grasps one of the robes and brusquely dusts it off. “Stand up. You should be about Morgana’s size.”

“You are hilarious, Balinor,” Arthur deadpans. He gets to his feet, nonetheless.

The Court Sorcerer throws out the robe in his hand and the prince catches it. Arthur shrugs on the blue cloak over his tunic and extends the sleeves over his wrist. The fabric presses into him with comfortable warmth and undeniable softness. Balinor is yet to enchant the robe with protective and defensive spells but even so, the quality of the work alone would fetch a hefty price. He fingers the embroidered cuff of a sleeve. For a split second, a pang of longing bubbles in his chest, a shadow of a dream long burned to dust clouding his mind. Swiftly, he blows the ashes away.

The robe is definitely not Morgana’s. Perhaps it is that third apprentice’s — Mordred, if he’s remembering correctly. The Court Sorcerer’s eyes rove over him, observing the fit of the clothing.

Arthur fixes the low collar over his neck, fingertips brushing over the detailed golden darning of a specific figure. “I never noticed before but for as long as I can remember, you always wear the symbol of the triple moon on your person.” Arthur lets his tone lilt in an inquiry. The prince has no memory of any tale that may have explained Balinor’s semi-obsession with it.

The prince has always prided himself in keenly interpreting every microexpression that crosses Balinor’s face. He has known the man his whole life after all. But at that moment, something even Arthur could not identify flits by Balinor’s features. Arthur pauses all movements and blinks.

The Court Sorcerer approaches the prince and silently fusses over the creases of the adorned robe. He pinches portions of the fabric, tightening and loosening areas around Arthur’s torso.

Just as Arthur thinks he’s not about to get an answer, Balinor speaks with a monotonous voice. “The Old Religion doesn’t truly exist in the isles, and none of us is blessed by the Goddess at birth. I only studied Old Religion magic when I traveled to this continent. The triple moon is the first symbol I saw and learned of.”

Evidently, there is more to it than that. On any other day, Arthur would needle for more information, unable to tamp down his curiosity. Tonight, however, there has been enough hurt and sorrow uncovered. He shall pry another day, he reminds himself.

Balinor gestures for Arthur to return the robe. The prince removes it from his person and hands it back. As Balinor goes back to making adjustments, Arthur sits back down with another sigh.

Both settle in comfortable quiet for long moments. Only the sounds of fabrics shifting and swishing fill the chambers.

Then, Arthur, after rerunning their previous conversation in his head, realizes he has forgotten to ask a particularly important question. “Tell me your best guess,” Arthur says. “About whom or what this Merlin is. I have laid out my theories and I wish to know yours.”

Balinor remains silent for a good while. The prince waits, letting the man gather his thoughts.

Then, Balinor opens his mouth and says, “I cannot tell you.”

“What?” Arthur almost exclaims, indignation flaring in his chest.

“I cannot tell you directly,” Balinor amends, casting a surreptitious glance at the prince. “It involves a tightly kept secret that you cannot know until you are king.”

“I’m the crowned prince now. What state secret can be kept from me?” Arthur demands, glaring at the Court Sorcerer.

“A state secret that can endanger the whole of Camelot. Just skirting the topic with you like this can be tantamount to treason,” Balinor shoots back, eyes hard. Then, he softens and releases a sigh. “But I loathe to leave you in the dark. It is, after all, the most likely explanation we have right now.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, rather irritated with the circling conversation. “Tell me what you can.”

“I can only tell you one thing, and I won’t answer any of your questions regarding the matter,” Balinor says, gaze drifting back to the robes and fabric prancing around him. With a gesture from the Court Sorcerer, they, and their tools all gently settle down on the bed. Then, he turns to Arthur and releases a name.

“Find out what you can about Cornelius Sigan.”

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Chapter Text

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“And done!”

Merlin laughs and holds up his eightieth filled crystal in the air.

Morgana and Mordred, done with theirs more than an hour ago, clap politely. The warlock rolls his eyes and drops the last crystal in his box.

“I wasn’t that far behind,” Merlin grumbles and replaces the lid of the box.

“You weren’t,” Mordred assures him with a small smile.

“It is quite strange though.” Morgana’s brows furrow. “You seem to have a harder time filling the crystals today than yesterday. Are you feeling all right, Merlin?”

Merlin freezes for a split second before proceeding to drag his box in the middle of the table, accompanying the two other filled boxes. “I was nervous that I won’t be able to meet the quota.”

Morgana and Mordred nod in assent and understanding.

“I thought I wasn’t capable of it too,” Mordred confesses somberly. Then, he grins, wide and unrestrained. “Eighty crystals!”

The Court Sorcerer, standing by the window behind his desk and basking in the midafternoon sun, hums. The three apprentices shift to face him, expectant. Balinor’s amber gaze, however, remains firmly outside. His eyes trace something below and his brows furrow.

After a moment, the Court Sorcerer glances behind him and locks eyes with Merlin. There is a certain meaning behind his demeanor. Merlin bristles, wondering if Balinor is trying to send him a silent message. If he is, Merlin does not receive it at all.

Balinor breaks his stare and stalks towards the three of them. “Let us see then.”

The Court Sorcerer opens each box, scrutinizing the crystals within. The apprentices watch him with bated breath, hoping he finds no fault in their work. After several minutes of crystals clinking and boxes thumping close, their mentor finally looks up. He sends them a nod of approval, to which they reply with bright smiles.

“Bring your boxes to the steward’s room,’” Balinor says before closing the last box. “Ask a servant to accompany you. After that, you are dismissed for the rest of the day. Tell the steward such and you’ll be given your allowance for the week.” The Court Sorcerer returns to his previous spot near the window, gaze straying down once more.

Merlin’s smile widens as soon as he hears the word ‘allowance’. It has been far too long since he has gotten his hands on some coin.

“I urge you to rest up,” Balinor adds, folding his hands behind his back. “I have been told that next week’s lessons would be grueling at the very least.”

Morgana, Mordred, and Merlin trade apprehensive glances at the ominous remark. The week’s lesson has been exhausting and stressful at best. Next week’s lesson would be worse then. They bid farewell to their mentor with that in mind, carrying boxes full of crystals in their arms.

“Merlin,” Balinor calls out. Merlin pauses, nearly at the doorway. “Líhtinge,” he reminds the warlock.

“Oh, right.” Merlin gives a rapid nod. Honestly, he has forgotten to do so last night.

With a look tinged with exasperation, Balinor gives a dismissive wave. Merlin leaves the room with a sheepish expression.

Mordred, having remembered the way to the steward’s room based on the castle tour, leads the way. They arrive at the steward’s chamber not long after. Shelves of crisp scrolls and thick tomes fill the room, and several desks take up more than half the space. Merlin recalls the steward’s room in his world appearing much the same. The official who had taken care of Merlin’s registration in the Apprentice Exam sits behind the largest of the desks. Tina, if Merlin is remembering correctly, lifts her head upon their arrival.

“We are to deliver these crystals to the steward,” Mordred announces, gesturing at their boxes.

Tina’s nose wrinkles. She points at the space empty of paraphernalia on her desk. “What’s inside?”

Mordred, Morgana, and Merlin carefully put down the boxes at the area indicated. “Storage crystals filled with our magic.”

Tina’s face brightens. “Oh. About time, I say.” She opens one box and favors the contents with an appreciative glance. “How many are there in total?”

“Two hundred and forty. What are they going to be used for?” Morgana asks, curious now at the hint that Tina has been expecting the crystals.

“A drought has been plaguing a great portion of the east,” Tina says, lifting one crystal and inspecting it with squinted eyes. “Lady Jayden and her apprentices will journey there and use these to invoke rain that will span a couple of days.”

Surprise flits by Merlin’s being. He didn’t think they would be used at all. He is glad that he’ll be indirectly helping, and that their crystals won’t go to waste after all.

Tina hauls one of the boxes up into an empty spot on the shelf behind her. “Is there anything else?” She cocks a brow at their continued presence.

“Lord Balinor said we’re dismissed for the day,” Merlin says, diffidently, but unable to hide his excitement.

“Oh, the allowance then.” Tina rummages through the drawers of her desk.

She produces twenty-one silvers and hands each of the apprentices seven. Merlin accepts his with relief and summarily pockets the coins, owning no coin pouch. With the coin, Merlin can finally pay back Tom and buy whatever he needs for the duration of his stay. He’s been far too dependent on everyone’s kindness and charity.

“Any plans?” Morgana asks them with a beatific smile as they leave the steward’s workroom. “It’s far too early for dinner. We can go outside and explore the markets.”

Mordred shrugs. “Gilli’s lessons won’t finish for another couple of hours. I am amenable to getting some fresh air.”

Merlin sees no harm in joining them. “Why not. I haven’t left the castle since—uh. Well.”

The three of them wince simultaneously, recalling their foolish plan to follow their mentor out of the citadel and the subsequent scolding they received.

After shaking off the horrible memory, the apprentices head out. Just as they turn the corner of the hallway on their way to the exit, they nearly stumble into the three people heading in the opposite direction.

Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan halt in their steps, preventing a rather mortifying ordeal. Their companion, a middle-aged man sporting slick black hair and dark clothes, pauses with them.

“Your Majesty, my lord.” All present apprentices lower their heads and greet demurely. All except Merlin whose wide eyes lock with the curious brown ones of the third companion in the queen’s entourage.

Merlin’s heart thumps a quick dreadful beat as ice runs through his veins. You have magic. So, it’s you. You’re Emrys. You’ve been at court, all this time. At Arthur’s side. How you managed to deceive him. I am impressed, Merlin. Perhaps we’re more alike than you think.

His magic surges in remembrance of a quickly drawn sword aiming for his throat and no, that’s not good at all.

Mordred’s eyes widen, and he none-too-gently elbows Merlin. The pain the action caused snaps the warlock back to his senses. He immediately emulates Morgana and Mordred, lowering his gaze in the presence of royalty and nobility. He knows his misstep has not been missed by anyone present.

“Lady Morgana. Mordred. Merlin,” the queen acknowledges with naught a twitch in her expression. Lord Tristan’s face holds the same cold nonchalance.

“My son!” Agravaine De Bois, looking exactly as Merlin remembers him, beams like a child. He steps forward with open arms. “I’ve barely recognized you. How you’ve grown!”

Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan bristles, jaws clenching. Morgana’s and Mordred’s heads whip up, unbridled shock spilling in their demeanor. Merlin himself freezes, mind blanking as Agravaine firmly clasps his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“What,” Merlin blurts out, sending the crazed noble a bewildered look.

“Agravaine,” Queen Ygraine warns with a hint of a growl, azure eyes darting around for onlookers. She spies two guards standing unusually still and three laundresses slowing their paces. The passers-by badly hide their interest in the proceedings. The queen pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Shocked to see your old man?” Amusement glimmers in Agravaine’s brown eyes. “I suppose I didn’t leave a good impression the last time we saw each other.”

Merlin attempts to extricate himself from Agravaine’s hold, gooseflesh running down the length of his arms. “I’m - I’m not— What are you—”

Agravaine’s grasp tightens to the point of pain. Irritation pierces through the absolute confusion simmering in Merlin’s chest. He barely tamps down the compulsion to blast away a ghost of another not-enemy.

“Have your reunion somewhere private,” Lord Tristan seethes, glaring at both Agravaine and Merlin.

The glower is wholly undeserved in Merlin’s case; he isn’t the one causing a commotion this time. In fact, he has not a clue as to why he has fallen into such a strange circumstance. Morgana and Mordred have passed the shocked phase and have fallen into numb disbelief at the scene. Well, those two are no help at all.

“My lord, you’ve made a mistake —” The warlock tries again, briefly entertaining the idea of elbowing the lord to create distance.

“Come now, Merlin. No need to deny it anymore. My siblings have already figured it out.” Agravaine gestures, with an unnecessary flourish, at the smoldering mien of both Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan. Merlin swallows nervously and shoots Agravaine a glare of his own. The action seems to amuse Agravaine further instead of discouraging him. “But Tristan is right. Perhaps we should talk in private. We have a lot of catching up to do!”

Agravaine hauls Merlin into a one-armed hug, laughing in delight. The warlock nearly shoves the lord away, skin crawling. However, Agravaine looks at Merlin straight in the eye and wiggles his brows. Play along, Merlin receives the intended message clearly. Merlin blinks rapidly before sending a narrow-eyed gaze in response.

What on earth is this Agravaine planning? In a split second, Merlin decides on the proper course of action. Whatever this counterpart of his enemy is scheming, the warlock plans to figure it out and stop it. He doubts it’s anything less than sinister. “Do you have a place in mind where we can talk privately, Lord Agravaine?” Merlin asks, plastering on a timid countenance, no longer denying anything but neither confirming any of Agravaine’s ridiculous claims. The notion of the lord being his father provokes a deep-seated disgust in him.

Agravaine grins. “To my rooms, then!” To his sister and brother, he bids, “I shall talk to you later, Ygraine, Tristan. My son must be very confused right now, seeing as I acknowledged him now when I didn’t before.”

Agravaine’s voice is unnecessarily loud, bringing quite unnecessary attention to the whole endeavor. Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan seem to think so too because their gazes could burn their brother to ashes.

Thankfully, Agravaine speaks nothing more. He drags Merlin away without any more fuss. Merlin glances back at Mordred and Morgana, who still stands frozen in their spots. They stare at the warlock like he has transformed into a jester before their eyes. Gods, Merlin hopes no one believes the nonsense Agravaine has been spouting. They did see his clothes during the Apprentice Exam — the worn-out patched clothing that no noble would be seen wearing. Merlin could not be the son of anyone but a commoner.

Agravaine leads Merlin into one of the royal rooms. Merlin spies luggage still unpacked, the large room wholly undisturbed. Agravaine must have arrived just recently, which is no surprise. Merlin has seen Agravaine nowhere in the castle until today, so the warlock guesses that the lord does not permanently reside here.

The lock clicks boisterously from the chamber’s doors, and Merlin spins around to face the room’s other occupant.

Agravaine leans against the wood of the doors and crosses his arms, further blocking Merlin’s only exit. The lord tilts his head to the side, an amused smile still flitting by the curve of his lips.

“Merlin, is it? I apologize for my forward behavior earlier.” He does not sound apologetic at all. “It’s not often that I get to prank my uptight siblings.”

Merlin’s brows rise. “You did all that—for a prank?” The warlock’s voice similarly rises in incredulity.

Agravaine waves a flippant hand. “Mostly for a prank. Did you see their faces?” He guffaws uproariously, eyes tearing up. “It’s as if they want to skin me alive! Goddess, what I wouldn’t give to set that moment in a painting.”

Merlin gawks at the lord for a long while, the image of a stern conniving uncle of a king shattering like glass. For all that they look the same, this Agravaine’s carefree and rather mischievous personality momentarily catches the warlock off-guard.

When Agravaine finally composes himself, he turns to Merlin with a curious glint in his eyes. “Let’s see it then.”

“See what?” Merlin eyes the lord dubiously.

“Your De Bois sigil.” Agravaine treads closer to the warlock.

Merlin plants his feet to prevent himself from taking a step back as the lord draws close. “I—” He can’t deny having one. Queen Ygraine has clearly informed Agravaine of it. It makes sense that all De Bois siblings should be made aware of a De Bois seal of unknown origins.

Thinking he can get out of this situation quickly and get some answers as to Agravaine’s motives, Merlin lifts the leather cord from underneath his tunic but does not remove it from around his neck. The silver brooch clangs with the bronze triquetra castle talisman. Merlin, tired of lugging two cords around his nape, has simply tied the two of them in one leather string.

“May I?” Agravaine gestures at the sigil with wagging fingers. Merlin sighs and lets the lord take it in his hand. “Oh.” Agravaine leans in closer, observing the brooch with great interest. The warlock once again resists the urge to back away. “That isn’t fake at all. No wonder my sister came to certain conclusions.”

“How could you tell? That it’s real?” Merlin asks with a frown, possessively snatching the brooch back. Agravaine lets him take it without protest. The warlock shifts the sigil in his palm, wondering how people keep recognizing it’s authentic when Merlin had claimed it is anything but.

Agravaine leans back, finally giving Merlin the space he desires. “The weight and details of the sigil must be set specifically. Of course, I cannot tell you what those specifics are. But those of De Bois and a few of our allies can recognize a real seal. Fewer still know how to instruct a jeweler to create another one.” The lord cups his chin, pondering. “Only Ygraine, Tristan, and I should have such knowledge. My sister and brother seem quite convinced I was the one who gave it to you.” His shrewd gaze pins Merlin with a leveled look. “You and I both know that isn’t true. So, tell me, Merlin, where did you really get it?”

Gods, why do people in this castle keep dragging Merlin into interrogations like these? Merlin grows weary of it. “A friend of mine gave it to me. I don’t know where he got it, as I told the queen,” he bites out. He slips the sigil and talisman underneath his tunic once more.

“And this friend of yours?”

Merlin smiles, close-lipped. “None of your concern, my lord.”

Agravaine’s eyes gleam. “That means you suspect how he came about the seal. And that you know he’ll get in trouble if anyone finds out.”

That’s not inaccurate. But Merlin has no sensible name to give Agravaine or anyone else in this realm. If he had, he would spit it out just to stop all this fuss for a simple token of friendship. “Perhaps, my lord.”

Agravaine waits, expectant, obviously thinking that the warlock will reveal more. Merlin cocks a brow and not another word passes by his lips. They hold the stalemate for several uncomfortable minutes.

Agravaine is the first to break. He sighs. “I am indubitably curious, Merlin. Indubitably. But I’ll pry no longer regarding your friend. Instead, let me make you a deal.”

“A deal?” Merlin let his tone express how skeptical he is of it.

“You are Lord Balinor’s apprentice, right?” Merlin nods without thinking it through, startled by the unexpected question. Agravaine continues in a completely different vein, “I shall tell the queen fully and without a doubt that I gave you the seal, saving your dear friend from punishment.”

And saving Merlin from further suspicion. If the brooch Merlin owns can be traced back to a reliable source, questions on that end will dissipate. He needn’t watch his words regarding the sigil, and that’s one less problem for the remainder of his short stay. “In exchange for what?” Merlin knows there’s always a catch.

Agravaine grins, quite manically. “I shall claim you as my blood-borne son.”

The notion sends shudders running along the warlock’s spine. “Er—I don’t think everyone will believe that.” Balinor and Prince Arthur certainly won’t, seeing as Merlin has revealed his dragonlord status to them. “And I can’t act as your s-son. I don’t even know how to!”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ll say we just met once when you were a child, and I refused to acknowledge you then. You grew up as a commoner,” Agravaine elaborates with a dismissive tone.

Belatedly, Merlin realizes what being Agravaine’s son would imply. “I don’t want to be mistaken as a noble!” Merlin has far too many problems already without involving himself in this world’s politics.

Agravaine frowns, a ripple of confusion upon his face. He opens his mouth. Then, he shuts it with a click. Something akin to intrigue flits by the lord’s eyes. “You won’t be mistaken as a noble, I assure you, Merlin.” Before the warlock could express his doubts regarding the validity of that statement, Agravaine plows on with a sweetened offer. “And you don’t have to pretend to be anything. I’ve ensured that the rumor mill will take care of things.” Right. With the way Agravaine was loudly declaring potentially juicy gossip, half of the castle residents have probably come to their own ridiculous speculations. ”When people ask, just don’t deny my claims. Tell them that you have nothing more to say on the subject if you wish. Easy, right?”

When put that way, Merlin sees that he must practically do nothing. “And what do you stand to gain in all this, my lord?” Merlin asks with narrow eyes. He knows a too-good-to-be-true arrangement when presented with one. In his experience, such transactions always spell trouble for him in the end.

“The chance to have fun at my siblings' expense!” Agravaine laughs out, eyes wrinkling.

The warlock can’t help but stare with befuddled eyes. Is this the kind of person Agravaine would have been had his sister not died? Had the ban on magic not been implemented? For all that they look the same, this Agravaine and the one Merlin knew couldn’t have been more different in personalities. Even so, the warlock knows better than to let his guard down no matter what.

The lord says thoughtfully, “I did think to proclaim you as my catamite but—”

This time, Merlin backs away from the utterly deranged lord, disgust and alarm rising in him in nauseating waves.

“Well, that’s quite a blow to my self-esteem, I’ll have you know, Merlin.” Instead of looking offended, Agravaine grins like a child presented with sweets. “No matter. I suppose you’re glad I went with ‘illegitimate child’ instead.”

“I’m not glad you’ve involved me at all,” Merlin mutters.

The lord’s brows rise with unbridled amusement. “You’ve got quite a tongue on you for a commoner.”

Merlin ignores that. ”And if I refuse, my lord?”

Surprise crosses Agravaine’s demeanor as if the thought hasn’t occurred to him. “Then, I’m afraid I will have no choice but to inform my dear sister that I have no idea where you got the seal. I presume that wouldn’t be good for your friend now, would it?”

For moments, Merlin takes the time to weigh the benefits and the downsides of Agravaine’s offer. Balinor and Prince Arthur won’t believe him to be the lord’s son, of course. Will they tell the queen? No, that would mean telling the queen Merlin’s dragonlord status and they’ve both tightly kept that secret until now. On the other hand, Merlin really won’t be claiming to be someone he’s not. It isn’t his fault that the queen and some others arrived at some erroneous conclusions. If he neither denies nor affirms it, he won’t be lying really. Let people think what they want. Merlin doubts he’ll be staying long enough for the imposed noble status to be a problem. It would be more of a problem if the queen discovers that Merlin isn’t what she thinks he is. Merlin foresees far more annoying interrogations in the near future were that to happen.

“All right.” This time, Merlin sees that the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. “It is a deal, my lord. I’ll not deny being your son, but I won’t lie either. I’ll not confirm it to anyone, not even the queen if she asks directly.”

“Splendid! That’s all I ask!” Agravaine exclaims. He reaches out to shake Merlin’s hand and to seal their agreement. Merlin pointedly backs away from his touch. Just because he agreed does not mean he is in any way warming up to the lord. “Ah.” Agravaine takes a few steps back, hands folding behind his back. “Well then. I suppose I’ll see you around, Merlin.”

Carefully, Merlin nods. Without anything more to discuss, Agravaine gracefully allows him to take his leave. Merlin exits the chambers, relief loosening the band around his chest.

That’s one problem solved. A few more to go, Merlin thinks ruefully.

So great is Merlin’s desire to leave the rooms as quickly as possible that he fails to notice the smug look overcoming the lord’s affable expression.

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With no way to know where Mordred and Morgana went, Merlin decides to loiter in the library instead. With him meeting Kilgharrah on the morrow, he’ll probably figure out a way home shortly after. Merlin wishes to read through most of the books in Balinor’s list before he gets home. They don’t really have those in his Camelot, and it isn’t like Merlin, with his three separate duties, will have the time to read them if they do.

He hands Lord Geoffrey the list with the Court Sorcerer’s signature. The head librarian delightfully leads him to the proper aisle.

“Dragonlords! People with the most interesting of abilities, I must say,” Lord Geoffrey remarks with a chuckle, combing his white beard with his fingers. “Here we are then.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Merlin says with a small bow.

“No thanks necessary.” Lord Geoffrey waves off. “You haven’t been in the library for days now. I was concerned that you’ve lost interest.”

Merlin blinks rapidly. “Lost interest?”

“Rarely do apprentices ever make use of our great library,” Lord Geoffrey informs him, affront evident in his stance and huff. “‘Tis a pity. Look at all these books!” The lord makes a grand sweeping gesture. “All this knowledge that those mentors of theirs won’t be able to teach them fully!”

Merlin lets his gaze linger at the two-storied establishment and sees the same thing Lord Geoffrey does. All this knowledge is lost in Merlin’s world. Thousands of books burned — purged — and those who may have had the chance to rewrite them either long dead or in hiding.

“They are taking it for granted,” Merlin accedes, chest tightening and eyes prickling. “I certainly won’t, my lord.”

“See, you understand, young man.” Lord Geoffrey sends him an earnest and appreciative smile. “Well, I’ll not keep you. Go ahead and enjoy.”

And Merlin does. He enthusiastically plucks the books from their shelves; some are half-as thick as his arm, others as thin as his nail. With half of the listed books in his arms, he happily strides towards his customary reading desk.

He startles to find it already occupied by a familiar figure, with more than twenty books piled on either side of them.

Prince Arthur looks up from his rather intense reading, sensing Merlin’s approach. His already expressionless face turns even more blank.

“Y-Your Highness.” What is the prince of Camelot doing in the library in the middle of the day? Didn’t he have duties?

“Merlin.” His tone contains a mild note of amicability. Merlin considers that as progress. The prince takes in the items in the warlock’s hands and raises a brow. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he comments, “The table’s big enough for both of us.”

Merlin takes on the prince the silent offer, albeit hesitantly. Prince Arthur’s presence will likely distract him again; if Merlin’s not careful, he’ll end up spending his time comparing Arthurs instead of consuming the books he fetched. However, this is the best spot in the entire library, especially since the sunlight perfectly beams through the window and to the pages of the books. Furthermore, Merlin rather not garner suspicion by blatantly avoiding the prince.

Prince Arthur turns back to his reading as Merlin gingerly claims the seat across from him. Merlin arranges his own selections so as not to mix it with Prince Arthur’s considerable collection. Then, determined to pretend that he is by himself, the warlock cracks open a book titled A Study of Dragons and Dragonlords, Volume I.

The Old Religion claims ownership of the creation of dragons, one of the most powerful creatures in existence. Some scholars, however, believe this to be false. They argue that the existence of dragonlords disproves the fact that dragons are creatures of the Old Religion.

Dragonlords are people with the ability to command dragons and their cousins. Others speculate that they are capable of much more: that they can hatch dragons, control dragonfire, spawn wings, breathe fire from their lungs, and the like. As dragonlords are a secretive race, none of these other abilities can be fully confirmed. The author wishes not to join in giving voice to baseless claims.

Dragonlords are not of the Old Religion. The story of their origins has been recounted by Taruk, a dragonlord that this author encountered himself. Taruk had been allowed by his chiefs to share the following tale in the hopes of providing clarity regarding the dragonlords’ separate beliefs.

A thousand years ago, dragons targeted the isles where the ancestors of the now dragonlords lived. Dragons aimed to hunt for food, which is plentiful in the isles. The islanders’ crops burned, their sheep stolen, and their houses ruined beyond repair. In vengeance, Taruk’s ancestors trained themselves to fight back and invented ingenious traps to kill the very dragons that targeted them. For several generations, man and creature fought relentlessly. No one knew exactly how many people and dragons fell at this period of their history but Taruk assumed it would number millions.

Unlike in the continent of Albion, Taruk’s isles, which he had refused to name, have chiefs instead of kings. It is the son of the Great Chief that brought about the end of the bloody feud. Hurdul the Blameless Archer had struck an unlikely friendship with a dragon whose wings were damaged during a fight. Hurdul named the dragon Tafiel, which meant ‘the wingless’ in the ancient language of the isles. Hurdul nursed Tafiel back to health; this was not without challenge, given that both had been sworn enemies. It is uncertain why Hurdul chose to —

A book closes none-too-gently nearby, snapping Merlin out of the rather immersive legend. The warlock lifts his head to find Prince Arthur frowning at a closed tome as if it had done the prince a great insult. Merlin peeks at the title embossed on the cover out of curiosity.

“Cornelius Sigan?” He blurts out loud.

Blue eyes dart to Merlin, unamused, before returning to the book. Then, Prince Arthur sets it aside and grabs another tome from his pile.

Has Cornelius Sigan’s tomb been uncovered in this realm? Do they know what that one enchanted jewel contains? Do they have the means to suppress Sigan once worse comes to worst? Worry simmers at the base of Merlin’s stomach, his reading forgotten amidst the possible threat. He restlessly runs his fingers over the crackling parchment of the book. He should warn them, shouldn’t he? Lives could be lost, and citizens could be hurt. There are plenty of capable sorcerers here to possess, plenty of the power Sigan could use to bring ruin.

Finally, unable to handle the notion of any of the people he already knows getting injured, Merlin ventures, “Ha—Has Sigan’s tomb been discovered?”

Prince Arthur’s head snaps up. “What did you say?”

“Um, Cornelius Sigan’s tomb, Your Highness.” Merlin gestures at the similarly titled books in the prince’s section. “I - I just wondered why you would be interested in him,” he tacks on awkwardly.

“His tomb?” Prince Arthur adopts a contemplative look. “There are accounts claiming Sigan helped build Camelot — that his spells built the foundations of the castle itself. It’s not so far-fetched to think he would be buried somewhere around here.”

So, the tomb hasn’t been discovered then. They’ll be caught off-guard.

The memory of Sigan’s soul trying to possess him pops up, and Merlin wrinkles his nose. That hasn’t been the most pleasant of experiences.

Sigan’s soul felt like oozing tar at the back of Merlin’s throat. The warlock’s nostril had been filled with the smell of rotten eggs for days afterward. Merlin doesn’t remember much of it now, his mind too foggy at that moment to think clearly. He recalls thinking GET OUT GET OUT OUT and the impression of slamming a wooden coffin closed over a screaming struggling black smoke.

The warlock shivers.

Merlin would have to warn them without letting on to the fact that he knows something he shouldn’t. Can he use the books as an excuse for his unexpected knowledge? Merlin can’t let the people of this realm remain ignorant of Cornelius Sigan’s insidious capabilities.

“It would be an interesting find indeed, Your Highness.” Merlin returns his gaze to his book but has no intention to read it. He puts upon an air of someone who’s having an intriguing discussion that does not personally affect them. “Sigan died wealthy and not a single ingot of his treasure was found. They’re all probably hidden away in his tomb.” Please let that be the case too in this realm.

“That’s true enough, I suppose,” Prince Arthur answers slowly, brows furrowing.

Merlin releases an inaudible sigh, glad that fact remains the same. “It must have enchantments in place then. To still have the location hidden after so long.”

Prince Arthur’s eyes widen a fraction, a brief flash of something unidentifiable flitting by his bearing. “Perhaps.” The prince turns to the stack of books on his left, studying the titles on the spine. He murmurs, “What was inside the tomb? Why would he mention . . .” Gracefully, he slides out the deep-blue covered tome near the bottom. He skims through the contents of its first page.

Merlin looks at the prince and wonders if his subtle hint would be enough to ensure a certain wariness if the tomb ever be found. He should drop more hints to be sure. Leaning forward, he whispers conspiratorially, “I heard that Sigan was trying to cheat death until his very last breath. Do you think he succeeded, Your Highness?”

Prince Arthur stills, the slightest movements halting in an incredibly abrupt manner. With the blankest tone imaginable, he repeats, “Cheat death?” The prince lifts his head slightly, looking at Merlin from under his lashes. “There were several witnesses to his beheading. His remains were burned. How would he have succeeded?”

Merlin leans back slightly, unable to decipher the stare that the prince is favoring him with. It’s not quite a glare but it’s far from approving. “W—Well. His body died but what of his soul?”

“His . . . soul?”

Merlin nods and pretends to go back to the open book in front of him. “If he managed to . . . keep his soul alive. Maybe store it somewhere that does not die, unlike his body . . . He would have cheated death in a manner, right? Or so - so speculated the book I read.” The warlock worries the edge of a page with restless fingers before remembering himself. He smooths out the crinkled portion of the parchment, hoping Lord Geoffrey won’t notice the imperfection. “I guess it isn’t really living though. Not until he could find a real living body to possess,” Merlin adds absent-mindedly.

He ponders on what Sigan feels right now, locked in a cold beautiful jewel. Alive and aware but capable only of raging inside a pretty cage — no friends to talk to, nothing but yourself for company for years and years. Merlin stifles a horrified shudder. Such a terrifying fate, even for a heartless enemy.

Belatedly, the warlock notices the prince’s long silence. He raises his head, curious.

The sight of Prince Arthur’s utterly stunned gaze greets him. The royalty’s lips are parted in what might be awe or terror or maybe a little bit of both. Several emotions flicker by his face, each flicking far too fast for the warlock to completely decipher.

Merlin glances behind him, making sure nothing alarming is happening out of his sight. But no, nothing but books and shelves fill his vision. And Prince Arthur is still staring straight at him.

“Your Highness?”

Then, without a word of warning, Prince Arthur pushes himself to his feet. The chair screeches against the stone floor at the abrupt movement. The prince swiftly strides away without nary a second look. Merlin is left blinking at the prince departing back, deathly confused as to what exactly happened in the past few seconds.

After several minutes, with the prince obviously not planning to return, Merlin eventually resumes his reading. He has warned the prince enough, he thinks. Cornelius Sigan, should his tomb be discovered, will cause as little harm as possible to this Camelot.

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Chapter Text

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“Who else knows?” Arthur demands, entering Balinor’s chambers without so much as a knock. “That the tomb has been discovered?”

The Court Sorcerer, who has been sewing the finishing touches upon the apprentice robes, spins around in alarm. He casts an anti-eavesdropping spell on the entire room.

“Arthur,” he hisses, tone chastising.

The prince claims the same armchair from their discussion the night before. “I mentioned no name.”

“It’s not difficult to figure out whose tomb you are referring,” Balinor retorts with a slight huff. “The queen had nearly forgotten my recent transgression. My paperwork has finally been reduced to its usual. I’d rather not invoke her fury again so soon.”

Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgment of that. And yet, he repeats, “So who else knows about it?”

“We have all sworn an oath, Arthur,” the Court Sorcerer replies, letting his words and tone impress upon the gravity of the situation. “I told you I would not answer any of your inquiries.”

Cornelius Sigan had been one of the most powerful sorcerers to have ever lived. It goes without saying that, even now, fanatics have clamored for every bit of information about him. If said fanatics learn of the existence of the tomb, it would be no laughing matter. Moreover, if they discover what those of court found inside the tomb itself . . .

The prince’s eyes transform into two chips of ice, coolly peering at Balinor. “One of those people has perhaps broken the oath.”

Balinor stills, a drop of dread rolling down his spine. He ceases his sewing activities, laying down fabric and tools on his bed with a sweep of his hand. When all has settled, he seats himself on the precipice of the said bed, facing the prince with a somber expression. “That is a grave conjecture, Your Highness.”

Minutes pass and tensed silence swirl thickly in the air between them. Balinor resists the compulsion to demand an answer, knowing Arthur will give it in his own time. Arthur taps his fingers on the arm of his seat.

Finally, Arthur stills and says, “Let us speak of hypotheticals then. Hypothetically, there exists an enchantment that allows the soul of a being to separate from their physical bodies.”

Balinor inhales sharply. The prince has tracked the correct trail after all.

“This enchantment, which may or may not exist, allows the soul to be sealed inside an inanimate object. A crystal, a necklace, jewel, a sigil, or some such,” Arthur’s eyes boring into Balinor’s, gauging his demeanor. “The soul is then capable of possessing a living body, taking it as their own.”

The Court Sorcerer stifles any type of reaction he might have shown.

Arthur’s gaze narrows. “If this enchantment—again, in a hypothetical manner—has been done once, a long time ago, by a powerful sorcerer, can it be replicated in the present time?”

Balinor takes a moment to organize his words. “It will certainly be a complex spell, but I believe it can be replicated. In theory.”

“And this body— this body that this soul would possess, it would match their magical signature should they perform magic?”

Balinor sees Arthur holding his breath. “It would.”

The prince exhales. “And their memories?”

“It would be intact. Supposedly.”

“Would the body mold to look like their original body?”

“Possibly. This hypothetical enchantment is as unpredictable as advanced necromancy.”

Arthur grows silent then.

“What of your conjecture then?” Balinor prods solemnly, crossing his arms. “Why do you allege that there is an oathbreaker?”

“How else did this enchantment fall into the hands of our enemy?” Arthur shoots back, venom dripping from his words as he drops their pretense completely. “For it is Wracu, is it not, that did this to Lily?”

For a moment, the air is punched out of Balinor’s lungs at the unminced words. “We do not know for certain, Arthur. This is all supposition. Theories.”

“I got as good as a confession from the subject himself,” Arthur says calmly, for all the words shake Balinor to the core.

It takes the entirety of Balinor’s composure not to gape. “Tell me.”

“How do you think I quickly come by the information that I have right now?” Arthur points out. “I just encountered Merlin in the library. When he saw what I was researching, he told me of the possible existence of the tomb and of the enchantment.”

“That’s —“ Balinor has theorized it but he never hoped to get confirmation so soon. “Did he tell you directly? That he has Lily’s soul?”

Arthur’s lips purse into a thin line. “No.”

“Why wouldn’t he then? If he truly has Lily’s soul and memory?” Balinor counters calmly.

“I don’t know!” Anger cracks the prince’s visage. “Can it be another enchantment that prevents him from speaking the truth? Or perhaps he doesn’t have Lily’s memories but just her magic? You said it yourself; this enchantment is unpre—”

Two knocks suddenly fill the air, cutting through Arthur’s tirade. Arthur presses his lips together, displeased by the interruption. Balinor opens his mouth to ask for the identity of the individual on the other side of the door.

The knocks are followed by another light but audible tap just below the door’s handle. Balinor swallows his words, ears alert. Arthur’s eyes widen in similar realization.

Three separate sounds made by a palm instead of a fist resounds on the wood and then another four almost simultaneous rappings.

After a few seconds, nothing but silence greets them. The message is complete.

Arthur’s brows furrow. “Wasn’t that a bit careless? If anyone other than me was in here . . .”

“You underestimate the Spymaster. He knew you and I were the only occupants,” Balinor says distractedly, still deciphering the coded message.

Suddenly, exhaustion grips Balinor in its painful grasp, making his head ache. Sometimes, he truly wishes to leave all this political double-speak and head back home where everyone makes their intentions clear.

“I think . . .” Balinor glances at the door then at Arthur. As loathe as he is to admit it, “This has gotten to the point where we must tell the queen or risk being accused of treasonous conspiracies.”

Arthur stiffens. “You know what the queen will do, Balinor. She’ll likely banish Merlin from the kingdom. We won’t get a chance to solve this mystery if we tell her.”

“I’m not suggesting we tell her now. But soon.” Moreover, Balinor has no doubt the Spymaster has found something of use already. Keeping information from the queen herself will only make things worse in the long run.

Arthur stands up, unhappiness edging his features. “Very well. Keep me informed regarding the results of the Spymaster’s investigations. Goddess knows my mother will try to keep me out of it.” The prince exhales, running the pads of his fingers over his arm guard. “If nothing else, at least my encounter with Merlin has made me realize something very important.”

The Court Sorcerer arches a brow. “And that is?”

A hint of a smirk hovers over Arthur’s lips. “With me, Merlin is certainly more than willing to volunteer information.”

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Half-an-hour after the sun sets, Merlin leaves the library and heads for the kitchens.

Glances filled with intrigue and unsubtly murmured conversations heavily pave his way. Merlin tunes them out; he knows Agravaine’s claims have reached every ear in the castle. The tale has most assuredly been twisted, as is the nature of gossip. Merlin would rather remain blissfully unaware as to how.

The kitchen boy, when he hands over Merlin’s food, lowers his head and gaze. “Your f-food, Sire. My lord. Your Highness,” the boy stutters out.

Torn between laughter and sputtering, Merlin gracelessly accepts the tray. The boy must not know how to properly address a noble’s supposed son. Your Highness? Merlin fights down a snort.

Merlin brings his food to the dining hall, still amused.

Every boisterous discussion dies a painful death as he enters the doors. Merlin shifts uncomfortably as every eye swivel to him. Then, after taking a deep breath, he strides with faux confidence towards the table Mordred, Gilli Morgana, and Elise already claimed.

Mordred scoots to make space for him. The four people at the table stare as he takes his seat. Merlin looks between them and cocks a brow, daring them to break the silence.

It’s Gilli who takes the bait. The mage pushes Mordred aside so he could lean forward with wide awed eyes. “Merlin, I can’t believe you would let us think you were a simple commoner.”

Merlin starts on his meal, composed of sauteed vegetables, pumpkin soup, and almost a whole chicken. He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Didn’t think it was relevant . . .” Gilli repeats numbly, looking at Merlin as if the warlock suffers from another concussion.

Mordred nudges Gilli back, invoking an indignant squawk from the mage. “I’m sure Merlin has his reasons as to why he would want to keep his status a secret.” His azure eyes dart to Merlin, considering. “I suppose it does make sense in retrospect. You’ve let on so many hints that you are no mere commoner.”

Merlin blinks. “I have?”

“Your forgetfulness to tack on titles when addressing those of higher position,” Elise pipes up in between bites.

“Your unexpected knowledge of castle build,” Mordred follows, two fingers raised.

Gilli rubs his chin. “The fact that bandits would target you on your way to Camelot when you appear to wear nothing but ragged clothes. You must have had a treasure-load on you, didn’t you?”

“You are very well-learned for a commoner,” Morgana adds with an indulgent smile. “You’re much too fair-skinned to have worked under the sun. The calluses in your hands would be more pronounced had you been employed in hard labor.”

“Er—” They’re truly misinterpreting a lot of the warlock’s actions.

Merlin forgets to tack on proper titles because of a certain prat. He knows the castle well enough because he has been working in one for seven years. He has nothing on him as he entered this Camelot because he certainly didn’t expect to be sent out so far from home. Merlin gains no calluses upon his hands because he does occasionally use magic for his chores. Merlin is well-learned for a commoner because . . . well, because his mother is well-learned too. Now that Merlin thinks of it, his mother is a tad too educated for a simple woman living in a simple village.                                         

Before Merlin could debate whether he could correct the misconceptions, loud squabbling grabs all their attention.

“Step back. Stay exactly two feet from me!” a shrill voice demands.

“I am two feet away from you, you bloody princess!” a deep and equally irritated voice snarks back.

“Must you two make a scene?” another voice says wryly with a posh and condescending tone.

Theo and Clar stomp towards Merlin’s table, food in hand and expressions fuming. Clarence, the unmistakable prince of Mercia and twin brother of Clar, follows behind them. His face denotes he rather be anywhere than a dining hall filled with nobles and commoners alike.

Theo slides into the empty seat beside Elise. To the surprise of everyone around to witness it, Clar sidles beside him. Her brother huffily and carefully seats himself next to her.

“Peasants,” Clar and Clarence greet as one with the same patronizing tone. Theo rolls his eyes so hard that Merlin is surprised not to find them on the floor.

Then, simultaneously, the royal siblings turn to Merlin, who nearly drops his fork in astonishment. Clar — with gritted teeth — and Clarence — with a blatant note of disinterest — address, “Your Highness.”

Merlin chokes on his spit. Surely these royal siblings know how to properly address a noble’s son. ‘Your Highness’ is not at all proper because “I’m no royalty.” And he’s not masquerading as one.

Clar sends him a look one would give a village idiot. Clarence mirrors her, although he peppers in a healthy dose of distaste in his expression. Merlin favors them with a challenging look in return. Oh, he loathes these prattish brats.

At the back of his mind, a dark and hysterical suspicion blooms. It simply can’t be. “I’m—I’m not royalty, am I? Agravaine is— the queen’s brother. Only those of Pendragon blood can be called as such.”

All heads in their table whip unequivocally to him, incredulity and disbelief marring their countenance. Merlin’s stomach drops to his boots, his heart thumping a nervous beat.

“Oh,” Mordred says feebly, his face that of a man who has been slapped by a fish. He visibly steels himself and slowly informs the warlock, “Merlin, you’re a prince, second-in-line on the throne of Camelot.”

“I’m a what!?” Utensils clatter, and the table rumbles. Outsiders, who were just beginning to settle into their own conversations, find their attention once again stolen by Merlin’s entourage. The warlock takes a deep breath, attempts to call his magic back to himself, and tries to ignore the piercing stares.

“Oh dear.” Morgana brings up a hand over her mouth. Whether she’s hiding a shocked visage of a smiling one, Merlin knows not. “You had no clue, had you?” Amusement shakes her voice. Yes, she’s definitely covering up a smile.

“How can I be a prince?” Merlin hisses, looking for some sort of jest in his companions’ face. He finds none. “The line for the throne begins with the king’s bloodline!” The warlock carefully does not let his gaze linger on the heiress of the said bloodline.

“Queen Ygraine overturned that law twenty-five years ago. She has seized Camelot for herself and her bloodline,” Morgana explains patiently, oblivious to Merlin’s thoughts. “Hence, she is still queen even though the prince has long been of age. While the queen kept the Pendragon surname, the house of De Bois holds the power to Camelot’s throne.”

You won’t be mistaken as a noble, I assure you, Merlin. Agravaine has told the truth indeed. Because Merlin will be mistaken for royalty.

A shot of anger pierces Merlin’s chest. He should not have been fooled by that smarmy lord’s carefree act. Underneath all that, Agravaine truly is still the scheming sod that Merlin is acquainted with.

But what purpose does this farce serve? What had Agravaine hoped to gain by claiming Merlin, a commoner who just entered the citadel, as his son? Prince Arthur is still the crowned prince and main heir to the throne. A sneaking suspicion creeps at the back of Merlin’s mind. While the game of politics is largely untrodden for the warlock, his role as the king’s manservant has made it a slightly familiar one. If Agravaine’s plans involve whatever Merlin suspects, then utter disappointment will beat the lord over head soon enough.

“All right. I’ll confess now,” Merlin says decisively. He’s glad to be no longer playing the lord’s game. “I’m not actually Lord Agravaine’s son.”

Clar pauses halfway into sipping a spoonful of soup, staring at Merlin with incredulity. “You find out you’re a prince and now you’re denying your lineage?” Based on the others’ faces, they share the princess’ sentiments.

“Lord Agravaine wanted to prank the queen and dragged me into it.” Merlin scowls into his half-eaten chicken. “I didn’t realize that it involved impersonating royalty. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

“I . . . see.” Morgana looks up in thought. “That makes a certain amount of sense. Lord Agravaine is not above faking an heir for a laugh at his sibling’s expense.”

“Truly?” Mordred, Gilli, Theo, and Elise appear to be reconsidering their views about nobility and royalty.

Clar levels Merlin with a measured glance. “I should be glad, I suppose, to find that you weren’t a genuine heir. My father might get it in his head to forcibly engage me again after I just broke off my previous engagement.”

“You and Prince Arthur are no longer betrothed?” Morgana asks, intrigued and astonished.

“Prince Arthur?” Merlin nearly squeaks out. He knows he shouldn’t be so surprised to find two royalty engaged. Still, Clar looks to be seventeen summers at the very oldest. Arthur is twenty-seven years, which puts him almost ten years older.

The princess puffs out her chest in pride. “Took a lot of effort but I managed to convince the people involved that it was for the best. Princess Vivienne is certainly a better match for me.” Judging by Clar’s expression, she is more than pleased with the new arrangement.

“Princess Vivienne!?” Merlin cannot keep getting surprised like this. It isn’t good for his heart. “You’re betrothed to another woman?”

“And not just any woman.” A dreamy look paints itself on Clar’s youthful face. “But the most beautiful woman in the land.” Then, her expression sours, and she scowls at Theo. “So, don’t you go getting any ideas, peasant! I prefer the company of gorgeous and noble ladies.”

Merlin has never heard of anyone casually admitting something akin to it in his realm.

Theo sputters, horror painting his stubbled face. “You’re ten years younger than me!”

A woman liking another woman and being free to marry her? Merlin knows knights take comfort in each other during long campaigns, but they certainly don’t talk about it in the open.

This world truly has some strange customs, Merlin thinks to himself, looking down at his half-finished food in bemusement.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Elise pipes up after finishing her soup. She turns to Theo, resting her chin upon an open palm. “Why on earth are Princess Clarisse and her brother accompanying you to dinner tonight?”

Both Theo’s and Clar’s expression crumples with displeasure.

“I am accompanying my sister and no one else, certainly no peasant,” Clarence hisses, throwing out a glare. Elise visibly cuts off an eye roll.

Clar sneers. “This is all the madman’s fault.” She points a fork at Theo’s face.

Theo slams his utensils on the table and spits out, “My fault? How could it be my fault when you were the one insulting me—”

“I was merely stating facts—”

“Oh-hoh! Stating facts! You bloody three-copper sorceress—”

Clar’s eyes flare gold. “You incorrigible nitwit—”

Theo’s irises respond in kind. “Bigoted narrow-minded rascal!”

Merlin, Mordred, Morgana, Gilli and Elise watch the fervid volley, aghast. Bewilderingly, Clarence calmly sips from the mug of ale, uncaring of the shouting match occurring inches away. The commotion draws stares from the other tables as well, their expressions varying degrees of nosy curiosity and displeased annoyance. Well, at least Theo and Clar are taking Merlin away from the unwanted attention.

Clar raises an arm in preparation for a spell while Theo points a palm at her with a growl.

“All right, enough!” Morgana commands, once again coming between them. With a sharp gesture of Morgana’s arms, she aims to put a greater distance between them. Gold fades from her eyes when nothing of the sort happened. She blinks rapidly in bewilderment. “Why—Why are you two shackled with a Bonding Cuffs enchantment?”

Morgana’s statement seems to at least halt Theo and Clar’s incoming attacks to one another. They glare at one another before crossing their arms, comically at the exact same time and in the exact same manner.

“What’s a Bonding Cuffs enchantment?” Merlin asks of Mordred, keeping his voice low so as not to let the others know of his obliviousness.

“It’s an enchantment that prevents two or more people from physically separating for more than a set distance,” Mordred, used to the questions by now, answers quickly. His eyes are still on the two co-apprentices. Amusement and intrigue dance in the corner of his expression.

Merlin blinks rapidly. “What would—Why does a spell like that exist?”

Mordred shrugs. “Bounty hunters use it to bind their bounty to themselves, so they won’t escape. Nowadays, however, lovers commonly use it among themselves to prove their devotion.”

Oh. Merlin now knows why everyone looks so giddy at the notion.

Theo sighs, tensed shoulders dropping. “Lady Jayden grew tired of us sniping at one another during lessons. She shackled us to force us to spend the day off together and ‘be the best of friends by next week’.” The gray-haired man clearly does not think this a good tactic, judging by the annoyed snarl upon his face.

“I can easily break the Cuffs, of course,” Clar interjects, a growl in her throat. She glares at her pumpkin soup as if it has spat on her. “But that stupid mentor told us that if she found the enchantment broken two days from now, she won’t bring us with her on the journey to heal the drought.”

“Don’t call Lady Jayden stupid.”

“Oh, then I suppose this —“ Clar gesticulates at Theo, herself, and the minutiae space between them. “— is a very splendid idea, isn’t it?”

Theo’s lips purse into a thin line. “Well, Lady Jayden seems to be feeling a little unwell lately.” He has no other retort to offer.

“How is this supposed to work anyway?” Clar whines in frustration, pulling at her blonde hair. “How am I to bathe with you in the room? We can’t sleep with only a bloody two-feet distance. And where are we supposed to sleep anyway? We both occupy different apprentice quarters.”

Theo blinks owlishly as if the problems presented have not occurred to him before.

“I don’t mind if Theo sleeps in our chambers,” Elise offers with a smirk, clearly only speaking to prod Clar deeper into irritation.

“Well, of course, you wouldn’t mind. You’re a peasant,” Clar replies viciously without missing a beat, causing Elise to scowl. “Us of noble and royal bearing find it inappropriate to share rooms with someone of the opposite gender.”

Clarence nods in agreement, delicately sipping at his soup.

“You can’t sleep in our chambers,” Mordred points out. Without looking, he slaps away Gilli’s hand when the mage attempts to filch a large piece of the chicken from the druid’s plate. The mage rubs the assaulted hand, lower lip jutting out as he stares at his own empty plate. Mordred sighs and drops the almost stolen piece onto Gilli’s plate. Gilli smirks and gobbles it up.

“Perhaps you can ask for another room for two nights?” Morgana recommends. With an indulgent smile, she holds out her untouched pumpkin soup to Gilli, who enthusiastically accepts it. “You’ll still need a chaperone though.”

“I am their chaperone.” Clarence does not appear at all pleased with his role. “Have to make sure my sister’s virtue is intact for her new betrothed.”

Clar digs her elbows into her brother’s ribs on her way to pick up her dropped fork. Clarence rubs the abused spot with a wince.

Their dinner continues with a lot more quibbling and activity. Just watching them exhausts Merlin to no end. At many points, Theo and Clar seem to be on the verge of coming to blows. Luckily, Merlin and the others manage to de-escalate the quarrel every time. Eventually, after much debate, Theo and Clar run out of energy for the night. They reluctantly decide to speak to the steward and get a shared room for the next two days, a displeased Clarence in tow.

After separating from the others, Merlin heads immediately to Agravaine’s chambers to give the sly lord an awful time.

Unfortunately, a passing servant informs Merlin that “If you’re looking for your father, Your Highness, he is currently dining with the queen and Lord Tristan.” Their confrontation will have to wait.

The warlock stalks to his apprentice chambers, body still vibrating with restless energy and wrath that has nowhere to go. Thankfully, he knows of one activity to settle him. He sits on his bed, crosses his legs, and begins meditating.

There you go, Balinor. I know how to follow instructions is Merlin’s last thought before he empties his mind. His eyes flutter close, his muscles relax, and his lungs take on a regular pattern of breathing.

It may have been hours, or it may have been mere minutes but eventually, Merlin calms himself enough. His magic languidly swirls inside him like fallen leaves on a windy day, applying a balm to his stressed nerves. Ever since the lesson the night before, his magic feels . . . different. It’s subtle but Merlin knows something has changed. Before, his magic has been tightly coiled rope threatening to snap at the slightest provocation. Now, however, it has loosened and spread itself evenly throughout his whole body, flowing like a mollified stream. But this sort of equilibrium is evident only when he meditates. He has yet to replicate it outside of that.

Merlin’s eyes flutter open, his meditating session done. He almost jumps when the sight of Mordred’s very blue eyes greets him.

Mordred, seated on his own bed and facing the warlock, has clearly been staring at Merlin for some time. Merlin sends the druid a dubious look as he rearranges his limbs to get more comfortable.

“I thought you would be with Gilli,” Merlin says slowly when Mordred continued observing him in silence and without much expression.

“He wanted to turn in early,” Mordred replies, eyes still unnervingly on the warlock. “What were you doing just now?”

“Er — meditating?”

Mordred cocks his head to the side. “Why?”

Merlin shrugs. “Lord Balinor told me to. Half-an-hour every day.”

“Why do you need to meditate?”

“To better control my magic, I suppose.” Merlin rubs the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed to admit his lack of command over something that should be instinctive.

A contemplative look crosses the druid’s face. “When you were meditating, your aura was . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.” Something akin to awe  drips in his tone.

Interest piqued; Merlin leans forward. “What did it look like?”

The druid lifts a hand, palm up. “I’m not certain I can recreate the colors properly but—” After a flash of gold eyes, something incredible swirls into existence right above Mordred’s fingers.

Whorls of lights, hues ranging from the deep color of a rainbow to a deep and rich gold, shifts in the air. The colors twist and seamlessly blend, lazily chasing one another. They’re texturized like beams of sunlight, ethereal in the air.

“Usually, an aura or a magical signature depicts a unique color.” Mordred’s softly spoken words snaps Merlin out of his reverence of the floating lights. “I can see now that your aura is a lightning blue tint. Earlier, however, something like this surrounded you.”

“Truly?” Merlin stares in amazement at the spectacle the druid is still producing. He feels kind of proud that the materialization of his magic looks so fascinating. Then, “Can you teach me how to do that spell?”

Merlin knows that magic can exhibit beauty beyond his own imagination, but he has never seen such a perfect example up until now. He’ll be more than willing to learn it.

Mordred blinks rapidly at question. Then, he smiles ever so slightly. “Certainly. It’s quite easy.”

For the next half-an-hour, the druid patiently guides the warlock through the enchantment. It is not difficult to learn, as Mordred said, but for Merlin, it takes a lot of effort to prevent it from exploding into sparkles of colors.

Within an hour, Merlin successfully creates the same swirling colors. It’s not as smooth or as pretty as the one Mordred did but it’s close enough. He grins and laughs a bit as he manipulates the colorful beams of lights. It is truly a beautiful spell.

A gratified smile hovers over Mordred’s lips at Merlin’s delight.

“Can I use this to líhtinge?” Merlin asks. He has been gathering up a list of possible spells he can use.

“It’s not a strong enough spell,” the druid tells him, head tilting to the side. “Because you’re White Level, you need something complicated enough to expel more energy.” Mordred does another spell. The fires on the torches of their room flare stronger, adopting a strange purple hue. “My weakest elemental affinity is for fire, so I use fire spells to líhtinge. It causes me to release more magic in my efforts.” The torches flicker back to their normal state after a moment.

“Affinity, huh?” Merlin taps his fingers on his thigh, thinking. What type of magic is he the weakest in? Healing magic, but Merlin can’t exactly do those spells often without anyone injured. As a dragonlord, his affinity for fire is probably the strongest, as Balinor mentioned. “I don’t know many spells involving earth, I suppose.”

Mordred sends Merlin an amused look. “With the ability to grow plants in seconds, I don’t think earth spells are your weakest affinity, Merlin.” Mordred pauses and hums. “You also produced that impressive whirlwind, so wind magic probably won’t give you a tough time. How about spells involving water or ice?”

“Ice?”

With a gesture, Mordred fetches the pitcher of water by one of the desks in the room. He smirks. “Oh, ice is fun.”

The druid then begins teaching the warlock various enchantments — from hovering small globs of liquid to creating ice sculptures using only a cup of water. The control needed to perform the spells without making a mess is enormous, and Mordred does it all so effortlessly. Merlin is again envious of the druid’s mastery over his own magic. The warlock attempts to replicate Mordred and knows he’s doing so with a lot less finesse. The druid doesn’t seem to mind, serenely and helpfully offering advice to hone the spellwork.

The hours pass by with spell after spell and a puddle of water growing between their beds. At one point, a sphere of floating water exploded between them, soaking their faces and the fronts of their tunics.

“Drat, sorry!” Merlin hastily says, swiping away the wet hair plastered to his forehead.

Mordred wipes away the liquid out of his eyes and chuckles. “I did the same when I was starting out with this spell. It’s a bit pleasing to see you do something normal once in a while, Merlin.”

Merlin sniffs in mock offense. “I resent that.”

Eventually, they decide that is their cue to cease the lessons for the night. They clean themselves up, replacing their damp tunics and drying their hair with muttered enchantments. They suffocate the fires of the torches and turn in for the night.

“Mordred,” Merlin calls out as they both lie in their respective beds.

Mordred shifts to face him, expression inquiring. Under the soft moonlight streaming from the gaps of the curtains, Mordred looks unbearably young and so much like the child Merlin found in the markets an eternity ago. Something in the area of Merlin’s chest pangs, recalling the brief hours where he did not see the druid child as a future enemy.

“Thank you. For tonight,” Merlin says, his voice a whisper.

Mordred smiles, wide and pleased. “Not a problem, Merlin. We’re fellow apprentices after all.”

Merlin finds himself returning the smile.

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Merlin wakes up with the sun still touching the horizon.

He stretches his limbs and yawns widely. His mind automatically plans out the rest of his day.

Breakfast. Pay back Tom, the inn-owner who sheltered and fed him, with his newly received allowance. Buy a cloak. Sneak out of the citadel and meet with Kilgharrah. Figure out a way to get home. Give Agravaine a piece of his mind before he leaves this realm.

“Busy day,” Merlin mutters.

He gives a slumbering Mordred a cursory glance before getting to his feet. He scratches his disheveled hair and sighs.

“Better get started then.”

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Chapter Text

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“Hey, could you —Oh.”

Merlin pauses and turns to the owner of the voice.

Having just finished breakfast while bathing in the not-so-discreet scrutiny of servants and other apprentices, he longs to get out of the castle and lose himself in the early morning crowd. Hopefully, people will stare at him less outside. The fact that Agravaine, who has accompanied his siblings for breakfast, has eluded his grasp again only contributes to his need for fresh air.

Fi, Lord Mavin’s apprentice, shuffles in the entrance of the armory. He clearly has not been expecting Merlin to be the one walking nearby.

“Do you need help with something?” Merlin asks. He’s in no real hurry after all. His meeting with Kilgharrah won’t be for another couple of hours.

“Ah, uh.” A flush of red paints the brunet’s freckled cheeks. “I apologize, Your Highness. I didn’t know it was you. Please never mind me.”

Merlin almost scowls and opens his mouth to explain. Then, he decides that it’ll be redundant because he’ll be fixing this little misunderstanding soon. “It’s all right. If you need help or—” Merlin hears metal clanking boisterously inside the armory, behind Fi. “—an extra hand, I can help.”

“Um.” Fi dithers, clearly not wanting to ask someone he thinks is royalty. His brown eyes dart everywhere, looking for anyone else. Seeing as it’s early in the morning and the armory is nowhere near any guest rooms, there is no one else. Fi sighs and decides to forge on. “We need to carry some armor and weapons to the blacksmith, Your Highness. Of course, we can just do two trips if, uh..”

Merlin pads towards the armory, offering a disarming smile. “I can help. I’ll be going outside the castle anyway. And please, drop the titles.” Merlin tries not to beg, skin prickling whenever he hears a deferent ‘Your Highness’.  “Just call me Merlin.”

“If-If that is your wish, Your — Merlin,” Fi stutters out.

Merlin is near enough to see inside the armory. The sight that greets him causes a ripple of astonishment.

The chamber is half the size of what Merlin is used to, making the room more compact and cluttered. Shiny shields, elongated spears, sharpened longswords, heavy broadswords, meticulously crafted bows, frightening maces, and a motley of throwing daggers decorate most of the space. Vambraces, helmets, gauntlets, and other armor parts fill in the rest. The number of armaments is a lot less than Merlin expected because the armory in his realm contained a hundred more than this. Potent enchantments soak every inch of the articles in the room, excusing their lack of quantity.

“Oh. Um, you’re going to help us? Y-Your Highness.” a female voice squeaks out.

Merlin’s eyes swivel to the two occupants of the chamber, belatedly noticing their presence. Cava, the dark-skinned girl taken in as one of Lord Dalion’s apprentice, gives Merlin a bewildered look. Her hands are filled with damaged and dirty metal parts. Beside her, Sir Lancelot, arms equally brimming with impaired weapons, lifts his chin and frowns at Merlin. He says nothing.

Merlin, unable to resist, gives Sir Lancelot a wide grin edging on manic. Sir Lancelot glares, clearly not amused.

“Just call me Merlin,” the warlock repeats. His eyes rove the remaining parts by their feet. “All right. Let’s give this to the blacksmith for repairs, shall we?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Sir Lancelot grumbles.

“Sir Lancelot!” Cava gasps, sounding scandalized. She elbows Lancelot in chastisement, hands otherwise occupied. Sir Lancelot does not look the least bit chastised.

Merlin notes, with surprise and a bit of envy, the familiarity with which Cava interacts with the disgruntled knight. 

Cava clears her throat before offering Merlin an amiable smile. “We’re glad to have your help, Merlin.”

In no time at all, the four of them march out of the confines of the castle, hauling a mountain-worth of armaments. Merlin easily arranges the items in his arms, and it seems his companions are similarly used to handling armor. The articles, however, are quite heavier than Merlin expected.

Merlin blinks, a realization coming to him. “Why don’t we use a featherweight enchantment?”

“These are bespelled against such spells,” Cava answers cheerfully.

“Lest the enemy can just incant and render the armor useless,” Sir Lancelot adds ruefully.

Oh, Merlin must learn the spells soaking these weapons. Protecting Arthur and his knights against magical threats will be less difficult. Maybe he can needle Sir Lancelot into telling him the types of enchantments on the armaments.

The sound of wind whistling and a loud thump steal Merlin’s attention. His head shifts to the source of the sound. In the near distance, surrounded by training dummies, stands a lone figure clad in crimson and brown. The flaxen hair and the unmistakable bow instantly indicate the figure’s identity.

Merlin watches as Prince Arthur nocks another arrow in his foldable bow and shoots. The training dummy, placed almost half-a-click away, gains another accessory upon its already arrow-field head. Merlin is properly impressed; not even his own Arthur can accurately hit something that far.

Prince Arthur limps towards another set of feathered arrows by the side and bends down to fetch three.

“Prince Arthur seems to have that leg injury for more than a week now. Shouldn’t the mages have healed it already?” Merlin asks, concern furrowing his brows. He asks it more to himself than anyone else.

Three sets of eyes swivel to him, all painted with varying degrees of disbelief. Merlin feels like he said something he shouldn’t again and wracks his mind for a way to take it back.

“By the gods, I know he’s your cousin, but I hoped you didn’t say that to the prince’s face,” Fi says with horror, nearly dropping his share of the load.

Merlin wrinkles his nose at the ‘cousin’ part.

Sir Lancelot’s face crumples like he has eaten something sour. His dark blue eyes practically stab Merlin with glares. “The prince’s injury is one he gained as he was born, and I’ll not have you speak of it so lightly.”

Merlin boggles, shock exploding in his chest. “He was . . . He was born with it?”

“In a way,” Cava says carefully. Discomfort paints every line of her body, and she clearly wishes to switch to another topic. “It’s no secret, of course, but . . .”

“People don’t really want to talk about it. It’s highly discouraged, even,” Fi finishes. “It’s a mystery why you don’t know, Merlin. It’s a cautionary tale spread far and wide even outside of Camelot.”

Cautionary tale? Merlin walks even closer to them, curiosity overwhelming him. “How did it happen?”

“Well.” Cava wets her lips. “As the exchange of life happened between King Uther and the newly born Prince Arthur, the king was holding his son in his arms. When the king died, it was so sudden and unexpected. No one was quick enough to act. Prince Arthur was dropped to the ground, and his left leg shattered. The healers managed to save the leg. But a babe’s bones are fragile, especially one who’s only minutes old. They were unable to fully reconstruct the broken bones. Hence, the limp.”

“Magic can’t do everything,” Lancelot adds, tone bitter.

As the whole story spills out of Cava’s hesitant lips, blow after blow of shock encompasses Merlin’s whole being. As the astonishment ebbs away, a visceral mesh of feelings replaces it.

Relief. That explains Uther's absence then. Merlin doesn’t know what he’ll do if faced with the counterpart of the man who massacred his kind. He’s glad he doesn’t have to find out.

Bewilderment. The fact that Arthur is a child born from a dangerous enchantment is common knowledge in this realm? It’s clearly why the tale is a cautionary one. Was Queen Ygraine unable to suppress the rumors that spawned? How and why did such a story spread far and wide, and not cause dissent?

Rueful. It’s Uther who died instead of Ygraine. And how different the years have been between the two realms because of it. A band clenches around Merlin’s chest, leaving him a tad breathless. One twist of fate has sealed the deaths of hundreds and the sufferings of thousands. The notion sickens Merlin to the core.

Sorrow. Merlin glances at the prince once more. What does Prince Arthur think of all this? Arthur, up until now, has remained blissfully unaware of the origins of his birth and his mother’s death. Prince Arthur has no such luxury. Furthermore, the business of their family seems to reach the ears of people even outside the borders of Camelot. Merlin does not know Prince Arthur well enough to deduce his thoughts about the circumstances, but he doubts the whole thing feels good. 

Prince Arthur, feeling scrutiny on him, pauses his training. His head whips to Merlin, and their eyes lock for a long minute. After a moment of stillness, the strangest thing happens.

Prince Arthur lifts one of his hands in a wave and adorns a smile visible enough from a distance.

Merlin fumbles in surprise. A hauberk hits the ground due to his carelessness.

Sir Lancelot, who has witnessed the interaction, similarly falters in his tread. “What the f—“

“You should be more careful, Merlin,” Cava says, concerned but oblivious to the whole thing. She carefully bends down, picks up the hauberk, and places it back in Merlin’s arms.

Fi splutters. “Cava, didn’t you see that? The prince just smiled!”

“What?” Cava’s head snaps to the prince. Unfortunately, Prince Arthur has resumed his training and no longer faces them. “Are you sure?”

“Bloody sure,” Sir Lancelot replies. His wide brown eyes hone in on Merlin, who’s still recovering from the unexpected happenstance. The knight’s slack expression greatly reminds Merlin of his own friend, of his realm’s Lancelot, even with all the scarring.

Merlin knows not what caused the prince’s sudden turnabout, but he’s pleased by it. He’s certainly not missing the cool and indifferent demeanor. 

The four of them turn a corner, removing the prince and the castle entrance from their sight. Up ahead, a row of wooden homes and stalls lines the streets, just beginning to come to life. Cava suggests that they may have been mistaken while Fi voices out his doubts regarding the whole thing too. Sir Lancelot, however, insists that they saw true.

“Do you really think he would smile today of all days?” Cava asks, the corners of her lips downturned.

Something unidentifiable flash by Sir Lancelot’s and Fi’s features, too quick for Merlin to accurately describe.

“What’s—What’s the importance of today?” Merlin asks, ensuring his voice is as soft as Cava’s. He has a suspicion that the answer is anything but delightful.

“The prince’s closest friend died four years ago today,” Fi replies in a whisper.

“Oh.” Merlin has nothing else to say about that.

“He was the last person who saw her alive, rumors say,” Cava shares somberly, head bumping close to Merlin’s. “Well, that we know of. Of course, her kill—“

“Cava,” Sir Lancelot growls. The said girl jumps. “Even if it is you, I’ll not tolerate any crass gossip about the prince.”

Chastisement lines the corners of Cava’s features. “Sorry.”

Merlin winces, guilty at the part he played. He has always loathed it when people gossip and spread false information about Arthur. And yet, here he is, participating shamelessly.

After that, they walk in relative silence towards the blacksmith’s workshop. 

The city is just beginning to come alive, merchants and vendors dragging out their wares with noisy wheelbarrows and floating spells. Some do so with energetic fervor while others’ sluggish demeanors indicate their preference for their soft beds. It isn’t long until the four of them reach a semi-large structure where heat emanates in waves. From above its doors, a sign with a crossed hammer and sword indicates what kind of establishment it is.

Cava cheerfully leads them all inside. “More work incoming!”

Sweat immediately dots Merlin’s brows as intense heat wafts over him the moment he steps in. The strong smell of burning iron fills Merlin’s nose; he almost tastes the metal at the back of his throat. Various metalworks pile up in every corner of the room, from a high-quality sword to a lowly cooking pot. In the center of the initial chamber, a lit forge burns merrily and hotly, producing dark spots in Merlin’s vision as his gaze turns to it.

Just a few feet away from the flames, a man sits upon a small chair, his long dark curls gathered in the tightest bun Merlin has ever seen. A sledgehammer occupies his gloved right hand while the other holds a set of tongs that keeps a pliant metal still upon his anvil. His head adorns a thick bronze mask, protecting his whole face from the heat. As he slams the huge hammer down upon the glowing steel, the considerable biceps of his sleeveless dark-skinned arms ripple firmly.

All in all, he makes the perfect portrait of an ideal blacksmith. Merlin is slightly in awe.

Seeing as time is of the essence and lack of attention may prove fatal, the blacksmith can do little but nod at them in acknowledgment. He doesn’t remove his focus from his work.

Cava puts the damaged armors and weapons next to a mountain of dull longswords. Sir Lancelot, Fi, and Merlin follow her example, gingerly placing down their heavy bundles.

Just as they finish rearranging the new pile into some sort of cleanliness, the blacksmith soaks the now shaped steel into a bucket of water. He carefully drops his tools by the ground and gets to his feet.

With surprise, Merlin notes that he is noticeably taller than the blacksmith. With the blacksmith being made of pure muscle, he now only notices the height difference.

The blacksmith turns to them and raises his mask out of his face.

Merlin’s jaw almost drops to the floor, unbridled shock numbing his entire being.

The blacksmith is no man.

“Sir Lancelot!” From underneath the mask, the features of Guinevere beams. Her face is firmer, more angular than round, but it is unmistakably her. “How delightful of you to come by.”

Sir Lancelot nods solemnly as if a counterpart of Gwen did not just enthusiastically greet him. The reaction, or lack thereof, further exacerbates Merlin’s stupefied state.

“Fi and I are here too, by the way,” Cava pipes up.

Dark red sweeps across Gwen’s grimy cheeks. Her expressive brown eyes slide to Cava, who smiles guilelessly at her. “Yes, of course, how could I forget my dear little sister who always forgets that castle weaponry goes to the left side pile,” Gwen says pointedly.

“S-Sister?” Merlin whips to Cava with new eyes, finally seeing the resemblance from the curve of her nose and the shape of her chin.

Gwen blinks at Merlin as if noticing him for the first time. Her skin is darker, a small burn scar lines the corner of one cheek, and her whole body is one big mass of muscle, but it is Gwen. As his stupor abates, Merlin is hit with the sudden longing to hug her and tell her how he has missed her. 

“Hullo. I don’t think we’ve met,” Gwen says, curious.

The words punch Merlin like a waylaid mace. He will never get used to his friends’ lack of recognition.

“This is Merlin,” Fi introduces, coming up beside the warlock. “Son of Lord Agravaine, the second prince of Camelot. And Lord Balinor’s apprentice.”

“Prince!?” Gwen shouts, backing away, a touch of fear hinting her countenance. She hurriedly smooths out the creases of her dirty leather apron. “You—Your Highness, I apologize—“

“No, no, no, please.” Drat it, Merlin should have corrected them earlier. “It’s all—a misunderstanding. I’m not actually a prince. I’m just Merlin.”

“What?” Four sets of voices echo, tones in varying degrees of bewilderment.

Merlin blows out a breath, silently cursing Agravaine’s sly little plot. “Look, Lord Agravaine wanted to prank his siblings, and I was just swept along with it. He’s not my actual father, and I’ll be correcting the misunderstanding soon.” But not soon enough for Merlin’s taste.

“That . . . sounds like a lie,” Gwen blurts out. Instantly, she slaps her gloved hands over her mouth. “That is to say — I’m not calling you a liar or anything. It just seems an unbelievable and ridiculous circumstance. Not that I think you’re ridiculous —“

Merlin’s eyes prickle the longer the blacksmith babbles on; oh, he misses his own Gwen dearly.

“Breathe, my lady,” he says around a wet chuckle. “‘Tis true, though. I’m no prince.”

Gwen clamps her mouth shut, biting her lower lip, and blushing fiercely. “And I am no lady. My name is Guinevere, but most people just call me Gwen.”

“Well met, Gwen,” the warlock greets, unable to curb his grin.

Gwen returns the smile with the same intensity, and Merlin nearly hugs her again. It’s nice to see at least one of his friends acting much the same as their counterpart in his realm.

Sir Lancelot grunts, as if on cue. “Don’t you have other things to be doing?” he asks Merlin again. If the knight didn’t look absolutely deadpan, Merlin would have claimed he sounds jealous.

Cava and Fi badly stifle their giggles.

“Not really,” Merlin responds, insolence emanating from in waves in response to the challenge the knight is presenting. Sir Lancelot appears to wish nothing more than to strangle Merlin. To Gwen, the warlock cheerfully offers, “I have time to help if you need any.”

Gwen’s eyes gleam with approval. “No further help needed, Merlin.” She glances around her workshop, one gloved hand tightening her bun further. “Thank you for lending a hand with the castle equipment.” Gwen claps a friendly hand upon Merlin's shoulder and nearly sends him down to the ground. “Oh, sorry! I don’t know my own strength sometimes.” Mortification overcomes her previously jubilant face.

“It’s—It’s all right.” Wow, that will bruise. Merlin rubs the aching curve of one shoulder, keeping up his smile to prevent Gwen from being too embarrassed. “Caught me off-guard, is all.”

Sir Lancelot snorts before crossing his arms. “Nothing else for you to do here then, as Gwen said. Go.”

“Don’t be like that, Sir Lancelot,” Gwen scolds lightly. Sir Lancelot replies with a noncommittal sound.

Merlin cannot help but grin at the interaction, sorely tempted to join in with the banter. Then, with a touch of grief, he remembers himself.

The warlock doesn’t trust that he can temper himself right now. He doesn’t trust himself not to talk to Gwen as a long-time friend. So, before he can act overly familiar to Gwen's counterpart and say something he shouldn’t, he decides to retreat until he’s better prepared. 

“It seems our resident heroic knight is kicking me out. I shall have to bid you goodbye.” 

Sir Lancelot growls, hands curling into fists and looking seconds away from a conniption.

Gwen bites the inside of her cheek to suppress another smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Merlin. Come join us in the tavern tomorrow night— the one just across the street. It’s Sir Lancelot’s nameday celebration!”

Merlin blinks rapidly. “Nameday?”

He casts a curious glance upon the glowering knight.  Merlin’s own Lancelot doesn’t have a nameday; most commoners don’t have the knowledge to tell the exact day with which their children are born. Only nobility and royalty can access such expertise.

The knight shows his displeasure at Gwen’s invitation by glaring at Merlin, daring him to accept. Quite tellingly, he does nothing to reprimand Gwen for issuing said invite.

Warmth bubbles inside Merlin at the kind welcome. Half in desire to spend time with a not-friend who’s not hostile and half to irritate an easily riled up Lancelot, Merlin gleefully replies, “I’ll be happy to join in.”

“And you can tell us all about your lessons with Lord Balinor!” Cava exclaims, brown eyes gleaming. Beside her, Fi is nodding vigorously, equally enthused.

“It’s not that interesting, truly,” Merlin replies awkwardly. “I don’t think it’s any different than yours.”

“Of course it’s different. He’s the Court Sorcerer!” Fi insists.

Cava and Fi finally let Merlin go when he relents; he is to narrate every interaction with the Court Sorcerer the next night. Of course, Merlin will leave out the secret dragonlord lessons. Merlin just hopes they won’t be too disappointed when they find out all he did was put magical energy in crystals.

Merlin bids farewell to them and heads out of the blacksmith workshop. Gwen waves a rough and calloused hand while Sir Lancelot grunts impatiently. Right next to a bulky Gwen, the knight looks positively skinny. Merlin, with a touch of concern, wonders if Sir Lancelot is eating well.

The whole encounter has done wonders to Merlin’s mood. Gwen is the first counterpart who closely resembles his own friend in demeanor, if not in appearance. And even with all those toned muscles, Gwen can still effectively emit a harmless and amiable countenance. Their interaction eases Merlin’s homesickness quite a bit. It makes sense that she’s a blacksmith; Morgana did not become Uther’s ward so Gwen must have taken up her father’s job.

Then, Merlin pauses walking, brows furrowing. A woman carrying two buckets nearly bumps into him. She huffs out an irritated sound and walks around him.

Where’s Elyan then? Being the eldest man of the household, Elyan should have been the one to inherit the work. The warlock has seen not even a glimpse of him in the workshop. Will Merlin see him in Sir Lancelot’s nameday celebration? Cava didn’t even mention an older brother.

And Cava. Isn’t that another punch in the gut?

Merlin resumes walking, a hint of somberness slipping into him.

In his world, Gwen’s mother died of sickness when Gwen was a mere babe. In this one, she clearly survived long enough to birth another child. Merlin has unknowingly met another person whose existence he would have never known.

A blur of feathers attacks Merlin’s face, slapping him out of his morbid musings. Thankfully, he recognizes the assaulter before his magic can react to them.

“Kelly! Stop running around. You still need rest,” a familiar childish voice shouts, accompanied by running footfalls.

Merlin pulls off the baby griffin clinging to his head with difficulty. “K’lly, geroff!” After much effort, the warlock finally holds the griffin at arm’s length. Parts of his face bore reddened lines from Kelly’s sharp claws, but none seem to be bleeding.

Kelly croons, flapping her wings and staring at Merlin with big pitiful eyes.

“Merlin!” The warlock glances down to find Selly — or rather, Selia — looking up at him in awe. Her jaw is wide open, showcasing some missing front teeth. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive,” Merlin says around a chuckle. 

He hands the clingy griffin over to the child. Selia hugs Kelly to her chest almost absentmindedly, still gaping at Merlin.

“I thought you got killed by the böggel-mann,” Selia whispers.

Merlin bristles for a fleeting moment. Then, figuring children have no business being so frightened, he plasters on a carefree grin. “Me? The böggel-mann barely touched me, Selia. Besides, I’m certainly a lot stronger than that shadow of a man.”

As expected, Selia’s expression transforms into one of pure amazement. “Really? You defeated him?”

“Well, he’s not going to come back to Camelot any time soon.” Merlin fondly pats Selia’s light brown hair, messing up the bun hair slightly.

“Whoa.” Amazement vibrates Selia’s whole body. Kelly’s tail flicks back and forth, similarly excited. “Teach me how!”

“W-Well, maybe when you grow a bit older.” Merlin certainly isn’t imparting weaponized spells to a little girl. When Selia begins scowling indignation, Merlin hurriedly changes the subject. “Speaking of grown-ups, can you lead me to your father? I got my apprentice allowance and I’d like to pay him back.”

“You don’t have to pay back Da,” Selia says. She takes Merlin’s hand into her own while holding Kelly with her other arm. “But you can buy me sweets, if you want.” Her grin, when she directs it to Merlin, is partly toothy.

Merlin huffs out an amused sound and lets Selia lead him along. “Not sure if sweets will be good for you. Your teeth are falling out.”

“My Da says it was time for them to fall!” Selia squawks. “Children’s teeth are meant to fall out, Merlin.”

Unable to refrain from teasing her, Merlin replies mock-somberly, “Sure they are.”

Selia looks up and frowns at him as if debating whether she should be angry or not. Thankfully, before she can decide, they’ve arrived at her father’s inn.

“Merlin!” Tom exclaims from behind the bar as they enter. “You’re alive!”

Merlin cannot help but feel quite offended this time. “Did you both really think I died?”

“Well, the böggel-mann did attack you,” one of the early patrons of the tavern pipes up.

“Ach! I told you lot I saw him and two others accompanying Lord Balinor just days ago,” another retorts.

“You also said that you lost your magic,” a third patron drawls out. “And, coincidentally, just as you planned to show us, you can do magic again.”

“But ‘tis true, ‘tis true!”

“Perhaps you were just too drunk again, mate. Shouldn’t be in your cups so early in the morning.”

“Why’re you lot lecturing me? We’re all in the tavern right now early in the morning!”

Merlin decides to tune out the drunken ramblings. He walks to the wooden counter and blithely greets Tom. “Good morning, Tom.” With a swift movement, the warlock fishes out three silver coins from his trouser pocket and drops them on the bar. “Payment for last time. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in.”

Tom blinks at the coins. Then, he lifts his head and shoots Merlin an indecipherable look. Abruptly, the warlock recalls Balinor’s words. Wracu has singled you out. Had I not taken you as my apprentice, no one else in the citadel would be willing to put you under their employ. Or their inns.

Merlin swallows the ball of hurt forming in his throat. Perhaps he should have been used to it — used to getting shunned —

A tiny hand darts out and swipes the coins from the surface, breaking both Tom and Merlin from their respective stupors.

Selia stashes the coins into the pockets of her deep brown dress. “If Da isn’t taking it, I’ll have it all. Thanks, Merlin!” 

The girl then climbs onto the stool beside the warlock, grunting with the effort of sitting on a chair almost half-as tall as her. Kelly flies on top of the counter, crawls in front of Merlin’s folded arms, and rubs her feathered head on Merlin’s sleeves. Hesitantly, Merlin runs his fingers through her body. Kelly coos in delight.

“I — uh.” Merlin wonders what to do now. Should he leave? He has been so thoughtless, assuming that everyone he has met will treat him the same after the debacle in the Apprentice Exam.

Tom clears his throat, resuming his task of wiping down the counter. “As I said, no need for payment, Merlin. But since Selia has already stolen your coins —”

“Hey! I didn’t steal them!”

“— how about some food then?” Tom offers, a tinge of awkwardness to his manner. He’s clearly far from comfortable.

Tom’s effort to remain friendly mollifies a small part of Merlin. However, a larger part of the warlock feels perturbed by the vastly different behavior.

He paints a fake grin upon his face, and he shakes his head. “I just ate breakfast.” Merlin straightens, leaning away from the counter and ceasing his petting of Kelly. The griffin lets out a displeased sound. “Thanks again for helping me. I better get going.”

Tom also attempts a smile. “You take care of yourself, Merlin.”

“Wait!” Selia clutches Merlin’s sleeve, a pout marring her features. “You just arrived. Where are you going?”

Merlin gently attempts to extract himself out of Selia’s hold. “I’m afraid I have lots of things to buy from the market, Selia.”

“I can go with you!” Selia offers enthusiastically. Kelly jumps on her shoulders and looks similarly eager for an adventure.

From the corner of his eye, Merlin spies Tom bristling. Merlin is further disheartened at the confirmation that Tom wishes to get his daughter nowhere near him.

Merlin rummages through his mind for an excuse to separate himself from Selia without informing her of her father’s disapproval. From the brief time he has known her, the warlock knows Selia is an absolute precocious and stubborn child, so it has to be a fairly good excuse.

Fortunately, a possible escape comes barging in.

“Oi, Tom!” Levi shouts as he marches towards the counter, fiery red curls flaring upon his head. “Some lunch for my workers, if you wouldn’t mind.” He gives Tom a toothy grin, setting down a pouch of coins on the counter.

Tom takes the coin. “My errand boy took the day off. I don’t have anyone to help you carry the food, so you’ll have to do two trips.”

“I’ll do it,” Merlin immediately pipes up. Levi, Tom, and Selia turn to look at him in confusion. “I’ll help you carry the food.” If Merlin is remembering right, Selia definitely cannot follow him in Levi’s place of business.

“Sure, I guess.” Levi shrugs, green eyes favoring Merlin with an odd look.

“I’ll help too!” Selia immediately volunteers, raising her hand.

A scowl forms upon Tom’s brows.

“Er. Lass, your father will kill me if I let you set your tiny feet inside my establishment.” Levi gestures haphazardly at Tom’s frowning face.

“No fair. What’s so special about your business anyway?” Selia crosses her arms and huffs.

“Oh, it’s very specially for grown-ups, little lass,” Levi replies before rubbing Selia’s head with an open palm and messing up her hair.

“Hey! Stop!” Selia, with brown locks chaotically covering her face, screams shrilly. Kelly squawks and nearly bites off Levi’s fingers.

Levi retracts his hand immediately with a chuckle.

Tom slides a tankard towards Levi, which the latter happily accepts. The innkeeper favors Selia with a firm “Stay” and casts another uncertain glance at Merlin before going out back to prepare the food. Selia pouts but finally relents. Merlin and Kelly help tame her hair and remove the large tangles Levi’s actions have caused.

“I’ll have Levi accompany me to the markets instead,” Merlin responds when Selia insists on going with him to the markets anyway. Levi’s brows rise, uninformed by this decision and his involvement with it. Merlin sends him a pleading look, asking him to go along for now. “He — He knows where I can buy what I need.”

Suddenly, Levi catches Merlin’s wrist, startling the warlock. A pondering look spreads upon the man’s face as he pulls at the sleeves of Merlin’s moss-green tunic. Belatedly, Merlin notes the dark circles underneath Levi’s eyes and the way the man is slumping ever so slightly. Underneath his cheery demeanor, Levi hides an exhausted visage. A feel of kinship lightly goes through the warlock; Merlin does the same sometimes to prevent people from worrying.

Levi’s jade eyes trace Merlin’s torso and track down to Merlin’s lower half. Well, that’s not a comfortable scrutiny. Merlin resists the urge to scowl and demand answers.

“Where did you get your clothes?” Levi asks, curiosity brimming in his tone.

“Someone gave them to me. I had nothing else to wear so I’m quite thankful for them,” Merlin answers, seeing no harm in telling the truth.

Levi hums, still looking thoughtful. He folds the hem of the sleeve and reveals the stitching underneath. Astonishment breezes by Merlin’s being as he sees the clear and distinct symbol of the triple moon darned on the sleeve. He has never looked too closely at the clothes and just accepted them as his.

Levi releases his hold on Merlin and takes a gulp of his drink. Merlin looks underneath the other sleeve and finds the same stitching of the triple moon. Huh. At least now he knows the clothes’ original owner, seeing as he only knows one person who darns the said symbol on clothes. And he’ll definitely be taking the clothes with him home.

Selia chatters on about the happenings of the Apprentice Exam, much to Merlin’s dismay. She narrates how her father lost her in the crowds, how Kelly got kicked in the face, and how brave knights rescued her. Although Merlin knows he’s not completely at fault, he does feel guilty for putting her in such danger.

Finally, after several minutes, Tom and Polly barge out of the backroom with cloth-bundled food in tow. They summarily hand the heated package to Levi and Merlin. Levi gulps down his tankard in one swallow before accepting his bundle. Each bundle is quite heavy and large enough to almost block Merlin’s vision.

“Smells delicious, Polly,” Levi compliments as the fragrance of it wafts over the air.

Polly nods, expression as severe as ever.

“Come visit us again, Merlin!” Selia calls out as they walk to exit the tavern.

Merlin smiles as wide as he can but makes no promises. He knows he likely won’t come back, not with Tom now discomfited with his presence.

“Well, Merlin,” Levi starts cheerfully as they trudge down the street. “Let me congratulate you on being chosen as the Court Sorcerer’s apprentice. My establishment would have paid you more but well done!”

Merlin cannot help but laugh. “Thanks, I suppose.”

“How’s the castle then? Must be so different from your little village, ‘no?”

“I haven’t lived in my village for years. I actually worked in a castle much like this one,” Merlin says, knowing to keep close to the truth as possible to keep his lies straight. “It is not so different.”

“Oh-hoh, these ears heard a rumor about that too.” Levi smirks, hugging the cloth of meals closer to his chest. “You are of royalty or so the rumors say.”

Merlin groans in exasperation, hefting his bundle of food higher. “Those rumors are exaggerated, I assure you.”

“Truly? I wonder why, then, do you have a knight dogging your steps if not to make sure you come to no harm,” Levi remarks casually. “What a strange rumor though.”

“I have a what?” Merlin snaps his head behind him in alarm.

Already, all the stalls in the markets are open, brandishing various products. The townspeople have crowded around the popular stores, haggling, and exchanging coins. Merlin, however, catches the sour face of one Sir Lancelot mixed in the motley of people. With the knight out of his armor and dressed in a commoner attire, it’s no surprise that Merlin has not noticed him. Sir Lancelot frowns down at a yard of dyed fabric, giving no indication that he is tailing anyone at all.

“Come, Merlin. Keep up,” Levi calls out, having noticed that Merlin has stopped in the middle of the busy road. “You’ll get trampled if you don’t.”

Merlin hurries to catch up and almost tackles a child running across the street. 

“How did you know a knight was following me?” the warlock questions, a bit suspicious. How utterly observant is Levi to note a knight in casual wear in the middle of a crowded street?

“Sir Lancelot is popular among these parts. There’s a betting pool going around here as to when that blacksmith will finally drag him into a courtship. I bet that it would be in two winters,” Levi cheerfully informs him without shame. “And I spotted him before I even entered Tom’s inn. When he started following me when I left with you, it’s obvious who he’s tailing.”

“A . . . betting pool.” Somehow, Merlin feels the need to inform Gwen of this, if she didn’t already know.

“It’s all in good fun,” Levi assures him.

Merlin casts a discreet glance behind him. Sir Lancelot, now conversing with a fruit merchant, still stalks nearby. Why is Sir Lancelot following him? Merlin has done nothing suspicious for a good while now. On the other hand, Sir Lancelot appears to be the kind of person who’ll be suspicious for a long time. 

Good thing Levi pointed him out. Merlin must lose the knight before afternoon comes lest he’ll get discovered sneaking out of the citadel.

“Here we are then!” Levi announces as they halt in front of the house at the end of the street.

The structure is as big as Tom’s inn, supporting several rooms inside. Merlin swallows as he observes the signage depicting detailed smiling lips. Levi enters, whistling, and Merlin has no choice but to follow.

The receiving room merely contains three benches by the sides and a small counter. Behind the counter stands a voluptuous woman with dark curls cascading thickly over her shoulders and apple-shaped cheeks Upon noticing their entrance, the woman looks up from the tome she’s flipping through and offers a delighted smile.

She looks familiar, and Merlin suspects he has met her in his world already. But Merlin doubts he would have been able to recognize her were her first words to him not the same.

“Mhm, you’re a handsome fellow.” The woman’s dark eyes shamelessly rove over Merlin’s form.

Merlin nearly trips over his own feet, identifying the woman as the barmaid of the tavern where he first met Gwaine.

“Are you a new recruit? Levi finally managed to hook one with one of his spiels? It is truly a miraculous day,” the woman remarks, an absolutely wicked smirk upon her lips.

Levi sniffs, offense lining the moue of his lips. “My spiels are amazing; I’ll have you know.”

“Amazing in its inaccuracy, that’s for sure,” the woman shoots back, amused. She turns her attention back to Merlin and leans forward as if sharing a secret. “This man here — the owner of this damn brothel—is completely inexperienced in the service he’s providing. It’s unbelievable, truly.”

“I’m not inexperienced,” Levi huffs out before gingerly setting down the bundle of food on the counter. Merlin eagerly follows his example, desiring to finish the whole interaction quickly. “I tried it once and decided it wasn’t for me.”

Merlin blinks rapidly, simultaneously taken aback and confused by the admission. “You . . . decided that it - it wasn’t for you?” Merlin has never encountered anyone averse to the activity before.

“Yes.” Levi cocks his head to the side and reads Merlin’s continued bewilderment. “I’m not attracted to anyone that way. Just isn’t for me, I guess. Rather spend my time cuddling.”

Merlin absorbs the information and categorizes it as one of the baffling norms of this realm.

“See!” The woman behind the counter chuckles. “What a sap.”

“Sod off.”

The woman laughs some more before turning to Merlin again. “That’s why we never leave the recruiting to him. But it looks like he finally snagged one. Well, let’s get you settled then. We’ll have plenty of customers who’ll be lining up for you.”

Merlin splutters, not knowing whether to feel flattered or aghast.

“Nah, Pat. This young man is a court apprentice. Apprenticed under Lord Balinor, in fact. He’s just helping me bring the food,” Levi explains, taking a certain delight in Merlin’s reactions. 

“Oh, a pity.” The woman — Pat, apparently — juts out her lower lip. “Didn’t know Lord Balinor was taking apprentices again. Good for—Nini!” Pat’s smile almost splits her face in half.

Merlin glances behind him, glances at the brothel entrance, which has creaked open. Beside him, Levi does the same but with a grin as bright as the sun upon his face. A tall man with a halo of blonde curls gracefully enters the brothel. Merlin immediately recognizes him as the potion-maker of the stall near the citadel entrance, the first person Merlin saw do magic right at Camelot’s heart.

“Patricia, my dear,” the curly-haired man greets solemnly. Then, he turns to Levi, a smile hinting at his lips. “Levi.”

Pat grins, placing a fist underneath her chin. “No smile for your little sister then?”

“Here you go, dear.” The curly-haired man stretches his mouth in a close-lipped and obviously fake smile.

Pat rolls her eyes. “Incorrigible.”

The new arrival then catches sight of Merlin. Surprise colors his face. “You’re the man Selia hit with a ball.”

Merlin feels his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “That’s me.”

Levi looks between the two of them. “You saw it, Nini?”

“Yes. Quite a commotion but you seem all right now.” The man scrutinizes him for a while as if trying to find injury.

“I am now.” Merlin rubs the back of his head in remembrance of the pain.

“Hmm. I am Loksni, my dear fellow.” He nods as he introduces himself. “If you experience any pain still, I sell several potions in my store that may help.”

“Nini, you are shameless.” Levi draws near to Loksni and laughs. Loksni scrunches his nose in offense. “Lunch at Kithes’ then?”

“Aww, you two aren’t eating with us?” Pat asks. 

“I’m afraid not.” Loksni holds out his arm, and Levi unhesitantly hooks his own arm around it. “Kithes has been bragging about her new oyster imports. We’ve got to try it before she runs out.”

Merlin edges away as they chatter, wondering if it would be rude to leave without informing them. He has never really been inside a brothel, even though Gwaine, the ever-regular patron of such places, has teasingly urged him to visit. He’s not even aware if this specific brothel exists in his world. While he knows there’s no shame in availing its services, Merlin has grown up in a small village where talks of such activities in public are highly frowned upon.

“I-I’ll just be leaving then,” Merlin manages to interject after a short while.

Thankfully, the three of them let him leave without a fuss.

Levi waves. “Thanks for the help, mate!”

Merlin nods and darts out as quickly as he can without being rude. Upon finally exiting the establishment, he breathes out in relief.

Well, it’s been an eventful morning. He has a feeling that the rest of the day will be no less lively.

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Losing Sir Lancelot is easy. He pretends to head back to the castle, hurriedly turns, and dash back to the markets in a circuitous path before Sir Lancelot can even glimpse him again. For extra measure, he slows down time for more than a minute, so Sir Lancelot won’t see him heading back.

Merlin weaves through the crowd for another half-an-hour to ensure he has truly escaped the knight’s scrutiny. He sees not a glimpse of Sir Lancelot’s glower, so he considers his endeavor a success.

The sun lazily slides over the cloudless sky, denoting that afternoon approaches. Merlin buys scrumptious grilled meat for lunch and eats it quickly as he searches for a clothing vendor.

He finds one, a sleepy woman who appears to miss the comfort of her bed. He buys the most unremarkable cloak offered — an earth-colored one that should camouflage perfectly with tree barks.

He walks into a dark and isolated alleyway with it. All right. Time to see if this works. Recalling the spell Morgana used days before, Merlin casts an unnoticeable enchantment upon himself. The spell has made him feel no different, just like before, so he knows not if it succeeded. After, he dons the newly bought cloak and lifts the hood over his head. With it, he becomes just another traveler instead of a resident of the citadel. The cloak will hopefully hide him from the guard’s notice if the unnoticeable enchantment proves to be a failure.

As he heads towards the eastern gate, Merlin considers putting on a disguise for additional measure. Merlin hasn’t forgotten the scolding he received after being discovered outside the citadel. Should he take the extra precaution? Selia has taught him that gendershifting spell after all, saving him from Dragoon’s old-man aches.

However, when Merlin arrives at the gate, none of the guards favors him with the slightest bit of attention. The unnoticeable enchantment and the cloak work, Merlin confirms with delight. He goes through the intimidating stone archway and pads along the wooden drawbridge. No one attempts to stop him.

He lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Although he has only seen Morgana perform the unnoticeable enchantment, it’s good he was able to replicate the same desired results.

With straightened shoulders and a face shrouded in a hood, Merlin enters the glimmering forest.

It isn’t long before he finds the same clearing they visited days before. That Kilgharrah, as large as a castle and as golden as the afternoon sun, is already sprawled on the green grass helps too. Merlin glances around one more time to make certain they’re alone. Then, he dispels the unnoticeable enchantment.

“Emrys,” the dragon greets rumbly. Yellow irises focus on Merlin as he steps into the clearing with a raised head.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin intones, similarly solemn.

The dragon gets his claws under him and flaps his leather wings. The motion sends gusts of wind whipping along Merlin’s cheeks. The warlock pulls the billowing hood further over his head.

“You know my name,” the dragon says, curiosity and wariness mixed in his voice.

Merlin winces. Not a good way to start this conversation but at least he can get straight to the point. “I do. And I am in need of your help.”

“And what can I help the great Emrys with?” Kilgharrah’s eyes narrow into slits.

“I do not belong here—in this world. I wish to go back home.” Merlin sighs and decides to just spill it all out.

He launches into his story without further hesitation, making sure to only reveal the relevant parts to save time. He tells Kilgharrah that he belongs to another world, a world where Uther had been king and a world where all types of magic are banned. He tells the dragon of the purge and of Kilgharrah’s own imprisonment. Of the dragon’s counterpart being his guide towards his own destiny and the purpose of his magic. Of being a servant in the citadel and secretly getting rid of the threats with magic. Of the Djinn who transported him into this Camelot filled with magic with no explanation.

Kilgharrah speaks not a word but, judging by the alertness of his gold eyes, he is listening attentively. When Merlin finishes, more than an hour later, his throat is parched, and his eyes are lifted hopefully at the dragon.

“What a tale, Emrys,” Kilgharrah mutters. “I did not expect this.”

“Do you know how I can get back?” Merlin asks.

Kilgharrah shifts, claws cutting through grass. “I have heard of Djinns.”

Merlin perks up. “So, they do exist in this world?”

Kilgharrah nods. “They do. But they are extremely rare, and even I have yet to see one for myself.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Merlin murmurs, disheartened.

“I have heard of otherworlders as well.” Kilgharrah bends his serpentine neck to draw his head closer to Merlin. Caged intrigue brims in his reptilian face. “And none of them ever went back to the world from whence they came.”

Merlin’s heart stops beating for a split second, and the ground underneath his feet sways. “W-What? No, that’s—” The warlock releases a strangled sound, hands curling into fists. “There has to be a way! I got here so there should be a way back!”

“Perhaps there is,” Kilgharrah says calmly. “In your case, we should find one, or the consequences will be grave.”

Merlin nods somberly in agreement. Even now, Arthur stands unprotected against magical threats. Gods, he hopes the prat hasn’t gotten himself killed already. “All right, what do you suggest?”

“Nothing.”

Merlin gawps. “What?”

“I can suggest nothing.” At the very least, Kilgharrah seems bothered by it. “This is out of my expertise, Emrys. Djinn magic is not of Old Religion, and transdimensional travel is something the Old Religion forbids. There is little to no study about it.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Forbids?”

Kilgharrah nods. “Spells of its ilk risk unbalancing the order the Old Religion seeks to uphold.”

“B-But it’s possible, right? There must be a spell that can—“ Merlin gesticulates haphazardly. “— that will allow me to travel back home.”

“If there is, I do not know it,” Kilgharrah replies. “But I will find out. Rest assured that I will do everything I can to get you back where you belong, Emrys.”

Hopelessness grips Merlin in its painful hold. Although Kilgharrah’s assurance comforts him a bit, he has thought the dragon will have immediate answers. The Kilgharrah of his realm certainly always emits an all-knowing air and an instant solution to the conundrums he is in.

Kilgharrah seems to take pity on him. “Be patient, Emrys. The answers you seek will come to you.” His golden irises drift over the trees of the forests before focusing on Merlin once more. “I will not be the only one aiming to return you. You are unbalancing the forces of our world, and many will wish to help you.”

“Should I go meet with the druids then?” Merlin asks, grasping for anything to do while Kilgharrah searches for the enchantment to get him home.

“They know less than I do,” the dragon says with a slight huff.

“Oh.” 

Merlin sighs, shoulders slumping. He has been putting all his hopes into this meeting, expecting that he will find a concrete way after he talks to Kilgharrah. He should have known it will never be that simple. Nothing in Merlin’s life is.

Kilgharrah gazes at him thoughtfully. “Emrys, do me a favor: do not get killed.”

Merlin stares at the dragon with a frown of disbelief. “That will be in my interest too.”

“When I sensed your presence, I sought to kill you,” Kilgharrah admits without remorse.

“You what!?” Merlin backs away several steps, preparing a shield spell just in case. “I – You thought I was a babe, and you were going to kill me?”

“Emrys wasn’t meant to be born in this world. Your birth and continued existence will spell destruction and chaos in our future,” Kilgharrah says grimly. “Killing you would have saved innocent lives. But I see now that you aren’t our Emrys. Therefore, you cannot die here.”

“B-But what about this world’s prophecies?” Merlin cannot help but ask. “Not to brag but your counterpart told me my birth has been prophesied for a thousand years.”

“Such prophecies do exist. But they have long been obsolete.” A hint of a smile curls the corners of Kilgharrah’s lips. “Your birth is a precursor to a golden era after a dark age. But in this realm, no such dark age occurred. Your existence, therefore, is not necessary.”

Prophecies can become obsolete? If so, Merlin could have changed Morgana’s fate. He can change Mordred’s. He has a fighting chance to prevent Arthur’s death. Sorrow and anticipation war within him at the notion. Now, more than ever, he’s determined to go back to his own Camelot.

“I must go,” Kilgharrah informs him. “The sooner we find a way to get you to your own world, the better.”

Merlin nods and offers a wan smile. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

Kilgharrah bows shallowly. “Emrys, take care. And I urge you to welcome any help offered to you.” With that one last obvious advice (of course Merlin will take all the help he can get), the dragon bats his wings and flies off in a great flurry of air.

Merlin watches him go until he’s naught but a speck in the sky. He sighs, fixes his cloak and hood, and begins heading back to the citadel. The meeting isn’t as fruitful as he thought it would be, but he did manage to learn somewhat important things.

For now, Merlin has no choice but to make use of Camelot’s library. At least he knows what to search for now. Transdimensional travel, was it? If it’s a forbidden art, information about it won’t be easily lying about. He wonders if Lord Geoffrey will entertain him if he asks the lord about it.

Lost in thought as he walks, he manages to snag his arm onto some bushes. Merlin nearly trips over his own feet due to the constraint. He glances at the constriction around his wrist, his free hand already hovering to remove the bush branches.

What he sees aren’t bush branches.

Leather-gloved fingers enclose his wrist in a caging grip.

Merlin’s breath hitches, his heart beginning to hammer a fast tempo. He raises his gaze and finds the hand attached to a cloaked individual leaning against a trunk of a tree. Dark shadows shroud the hooded face of the figure adorning the blackest cloak known to man.

“Emrys. How careless of you.”

The words spoken by an inhuman voice are the last things Merlin hears before a golden shimmer envelops him completely.

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Chapter Text

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The sun fans down near the horizon, and the skies display tints of warm orange. Peace-filled silence envelopes the forests near the western border of Camelot, the breeze lazily ruffling leaves, and the birds sleepily chirping sleepy tunes.

The Court Sorcerer, arms crossed over his chest, taps an impatient index finger upon his forearm. Finally, the foliage rustles as a distinguishable emerges from it, strides hurried.

Balinor surrounds them both with an anti-eavesdropping spell. “Late.”

“I’m so sorry that I can’t do efficient teleportation spells like you do, oh Great Court Sorcerer of Camelot,” the Spymaster replies wryly.

He huffs and dusts off his clothes, red wisps of hair peeking out of the hood of his brown cloak. With a swift movement, he fetches a metal flask from the pockets of his cloak and raises it to the Court Sorcerer as if in a toast. 

Balinor snatches the said flask away before a drop can touch the Spymaster’s lips, exasperation hinting at his countenance. “Can you stop drinking while you’re on duty?”

“Nah,” the Spymaster says, stealing his flask back with quick nimble fingers. “Helps me think.”

The Court Sorcerer releases a sound that may have been a sigh. He continues deeper into the forest, the anticipation thrumming in his veins making him halt the chastisement. Behind him, the Spymaster follows and matches his pace, walking side-by-side.

The Spymaster lifts his flask again and takes a long drink. Then, he splutters as water hits his tongue instead of mead. “The hell?”

Balinor stifles an amused sound. The Spymaster reads the emotion on his face anyway.

“I hate you,” the Spymaster groans out. He caps his flask and stashes it in the hidden folds of his cloak. “You know, they have this man in the New Religion who can do the opposite — turn water into mead. Or wine. I don’t remember. Now that’s a mate I can be the best of friends with.”

The Court Sorcerer says nothing. The information he desires to hear is far more critical and important to their current situation.

“All right, all right,” the Spymaster grumbles, aware of exactly what Balinor is dying to know. “Camelot’s Spymaster here to inform you how much I bloody hate the week after the Apprentice Exam. Goddess, it’s so exhausting.”

“Just get to it,” Balinor prompts, impatience coloring his tone.

“Well, well, patience, Lord Balinor.” The Spymaster smirks. Then, he clears his throat and begins. “First off, the apprentice Lord Ivaír picked is a spy from Tir Mor. The spy’s going to quietly disappear in the next few days, if you get what I mean, so no need to worry about them. The heirs of Mercia, Prince Clarence, and Princess Clarisse, have no plans to spy for their father. King Bayard knew his daughter was going to break off the engagement with Prince Arthur, so he sent both his heirs to Camelot to mollify any ruffled feathers in Camelot’s court. And it’s working, it seems like. Don’t know why; those two are spawns of the devil himself. And Merlin seems to be the son of Lord Agravaine and second heir to the throne so there’s excitement over that.”

“He’s not. Agravaine’s son, that is,” Balinor interjects calmly. 

He has heard the ridiculous rumor spreading like wildfire all over the castle. He’s not too sure how it started but knowing Agravaine, the man likely set the whole thing aflame. Agravaine is not even attempting to douse the flames of the gossip.

Balinor, though he may know the truth, can’t exactly proclaim it public without revealing Merlin’s dragonlord status.

The Spymaster hums, pondering, “Is he yours then?”

Balinor nearly trips over a tree root at the accusation. “What?”

“You gave him your old clothes. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” The Spymaster sends the Court Sorcerer a dubious look. “And from what I remember, all your clothes, even the old ones, are enchanted with discrete protective spells. It’s a gift you will not give lightly. Unless you’re growing soft in your old age.”

Balinor ignores the jab. “He’s my apprentice. It’s only proper.” To himself, Balinor can admit that his reasons span more than that. “All his belongings got stolen by bandits.”

The Spymaster’s eyes narrow. “Uh-huh. Look, far be it for me to judge but if you’ve proof that he’s not Lord Agravaine’s son, you need to show it to me now. Because I haven’t actually found one yet.”

Befuddlement furrows Balinor’s brows. If the Spymaster found Merlin’s family, they should be able to confirm his roots. Even if Merlin truly has been possessed by Lily’s soul, the body must have come from somewhere at the very least. Unless, of course, Merlin has no family left.

“I have no concrete proof to offer you,” Balinor finally replies. “But a quick blood test by the mages will surely prove that Agravaine is not Merlin’s father.”

The Spymaster sighs, irritation marring his whole demeanor. “Yeah, Lord Agravaine happily provided a strand of his and Merlin’s hair. They matched closely and confirmed them to be close relatives at the very least.”

“What?” Balinor’s eyes widen. “Impossible.” He’s quite sure Agravaine is no dragonlord.

“I’m just telling you what happened,” is the Spymaster’s simple reply. ”But I’m still investigating it. Merlin himself denied the rumors so I’m thinking this is a case of Lord Agravaine being his jester self again.“

Balinor nods solemnly. He would like to get to the truth of that matter too.

“Let’s get to your apprentices then. Mordred of the Forest of Engred. A citizen of Mercia. Nineteen summers. A proper druid, lived in that forest his entire life. Parents are druids too. He seems to be ostracized a bit, growing up. Something about an obsolete prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Balinor interjects, surprise tinting his voice. Two of his apprentices are involved in prophecies? It’s either an incredible coincidence or the hand of destiny lying heavy upon them. The Court Sorcerer prefers the former; it’ll be less trouble.

The Spymaster blows out another annoyed sound. “The druids won’t tell me or my people any details, saying that the prophecy matters not anymore. Seems to matter when the other children were throwing stones at the boy but who are we to judge, eh?” The Spymaster scratches his cheek, thinking. “A couple of years back, there was an incident involving him and a druid girl that got the latter kicked out of the clan. Don’t know anything more about it for now so I’ll continue digging.”

The Spymaster fetches the flask from inside his cloak. Then, recalling its changed contents, places it back with a scowl. Balinor waves away a stray branch from their path and walks in silence, waiting for the Spymaster to continue.

Fortunately, the Spymaster doesn’t make him wait for long. “Lady Morgana Le Fay. Twenty-seven springs. Second daughter of Lord Gorlois and Lady Vivian. A citizen of Camelot. A seer that became known throughout Albion when she foresaw several betrayals in the courts of Gawant, Nemeth, and Dyfed at the age of ten springs. She packed up three days before the Apprentice Exam and applied without anyone knowing. Or approving. Before that, she gave no indication that she even wanted to apprentice under any court. Her life is just as normal as any noble lady in Camelot, save from a few visits from nosy foreign dignitaries.”

The Court Sorcerer is already aware of Morgana’s aims. He thinks it prudent not to mention his knowledge to the Spymaster; Morgana has shared her vision in confidence, and Balinor is not in the habit of breaking confidences.

He has worried about his other two apprentices, not forgetting that Merlin may not be the main target of Wracu’s plans (With the information they kept unravelling, however, Merlin being the real target is becoming more and more likely). But he figured, based on Mordred’s and Morgana’s behaviors, that he need not worry much about the two. It’s Merlin who seems to easily find trouble on his own.

“And now, we get to the main course.” The Spymaster pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs the sigh of a man defeated. “Bloody Merlin of Ealdor. Twenty-four winters.”

Balinor cannot deny that his intrigue increases at the next set of information.

The Spymaster groans. “Do you know how long it took me to find that village? Or where to even start looking? Ages—and by ages, I meant four days. And do you bloody know why? Because Ealdor doesn’t exist. At least, not anymore.”

Balinor’s head whips to the Spymaster, strides ceasing completely. “What do you mean?” He demands.

The Spymaster stops beside Balinor before crossing his arms over his chest. “It was a village in Essetir. Near the border between Essetir and Camelot, in fact. But, believe me, no one’s lived there for a good fifteen to seventeen years. Because it’s been burned down to the ground. I went there myself to confirm.”

Shock cannot even begin to describe what’s building in Balinor’s chest. “Burned to the ground? By whom? Bandits?”

The Spymaster shakes his head. “According to Essetir’s records, the village is one of the victims of Priestess Nimueh’s earlier raids. You know, back when she was still an unhinged madwoman. Although, there’s no indication that she’s still not unhinged now.” A wry smile peppers the Spymaster’s lips.

Balinor bristles. It’s possible, then, that Wracu was able to get the body in Ealdor. And the body has long been in the warlock’s possession, if the Spymaster’s estimates are correct. But for fifteen to seventeen years? The difference between Sigan’s resurrection enchantment and other necromancy spells is that the former needs a living body to resurrect into.

Merlin’s connection with Wracu and the Army can no longer be denied, although Balinor is still uncertain as to what that connection is. Is Merlin one of Wracu’s experiments that escaped from his grasp, and he needed to disrupt the Apprentice Exam to get it back? The possibility of Merlin being a spy — perhaps unconsciously or perhaps not — is also becoming more and more likely.

Balinor suddenly realizes that he can no longer give Merlin the benefit of doubt. He must be careful about what sort of information he gives out to his apprentice in the future.

Oblivious to the Court Sorcerer’s thoughts, the Spymaster rambles on. “Now, unless Merlin’s been living in the husk of the houses there— which, quite creepy and sad, if true—, then I don’t think he is of Ealdor. Not since he was a child, at least. Which lends credence to the fact that he may indeed be Agravaine’s son and has lied about where he came from.”

The Court Sorcerer lets out a non-committal hum. He resumes his treads deeper into the forest, and the Spymaster follows once more.

“Then, of course, there are those curious scars of his that I can find nothing about,” the Spymaster grumbles before blowing away a strand of red hair tickling his forehead.

Balinor’s brows rise. “Scars? Merlin has?” Abruptly, Balinor recalls Merlin’s mindless defensive reactions to Morgana’s magic during the Apprentice Exam. It’s not so far-fetched that trauma of that caliber comes with some physical remnants.

“Haven’t seen them myself but there is gossip circulating in the castle that he must have gained them in some dangerous battle. Or many dangerous battles.” The Spymaster pulls the hood of his cloak further forward. “Merlin’s a White Level sorcerer; whatever battle that marked him with memorable scars will surely have some witnesses or at least some type of written record. I thought, you know, he met that legendary Questing Beast. That must be it, right?” An annoyed sound escapes the Spymaster's unhappy lips. “No, because I found no proof of any battle nor a single hair of that damned Questing Beast. Nothing in the eastern caves. No one has even glimpsed anything similar to it in the area.” The Spymaster huffs, movements growing rather agitated. “You know, aside from Agravaine’s claims, I’ve so far found no tangible proof that Merlin existed past last week!”

The Spymaster does so loathe anything that escapes his knowledge. Balinor knows that, had he not had a job of secrecy, then the Spymaster would have been infamous in several kingdoms for digging out truths that many would rather remain buried.

“I hate being the Spymaster,” the Spymaster claims with a growl. “I can’t wait to retire and leave all this mess with the younglings.”

The Court Sorcerer cocks a brow, amused. “You’ve only been Spymaster for three years.” And the Spymaster himself is not someone anyone would describe as ‘old’.

“And I hate every single moment of it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” the Spymaster admits begrudgingly. “But I do hate that Merlin for being so bloody impossible. I can tell that the queen wanted to cuff me when I told her all that I have. That I found nothing to disprove Agravaine’s claims.”

It’s good that the queen’s suspicions have veered off elsewhere, Balinor thinks. Perhaps he and Arthur can get away with investigating on their own for a while without telling the queen.

“And what about the prophecy involving a man named Emrys?” Balinor prods, countenance casual.

The Spymaster’s lips purse into a thin line. “Normal druids appear to have no knowledge regarding it. Their elders, however, . . . Well, they clearly know something but are extremely tight-lipped about it. Still negotiating with them so I have nothing concrete to offer you. I will say that whatever prophecy it is, it isn’t some trivial matter.” The Spymaster shoots the Court Sorcerer a pointed look.

Balinor has already guessed as much. Still, he doesn’t know how the whole Emrys issue fits into Wracu’s plans and Merlin’s identity.

The Spymaster sighs, releasing all his pent-up frustrations in one exhale. They walk in relative silence for several minutes afterward, each lost in their own thoughts.

Then, the Spymaster breaks the quiet. “Did you know that the böggel-mann sat beside me almost all throughout the Exam?”

Terror and disbelief spike within Balinor’s chest. “He found out your identity?”

“No, no, no! I was the perfect carefree brothel owner.” The Spymaster scowls at the implication that he can be so careless in his act. Then, his jaw clenches, and his hands curl into fists. “I am, however, rather irritated that I, of all people, didn’t manage to see through him.”

“Wracu’s disguises are flawless,” Balinor replies in consolation. “You couldn’t have known.”

“No disguise is flawless,” the Spymaster retorts. “I was caught off-guard. But it won’t happen again.”

They’ve arrived at the appointed place of the meeting before Balinor can think of a response.

Immediately, the Spymaster swiftly hides in the shadows of a large tree. He leans his back against it and activates the camouflaging capabilities of his cloak with a small gesture.

Balinor deactivates the anti-eavesdropping spell. He steps further forward until he stands in the middle of a small circle of trees. The weak sunlight of pre-twilight peeks out from between the tree leaves, painting the foliage with a tint of orange.

Before long, the bushes and grass ahead rustle with hurried footsteps and heavy cloths. A mousy boy, almost a young man, reveals itself from between the copse of trees, his face flushed, and his breathing ragged from exertion.

“Bey --” The boy pants and swallows. Balinor patiently waits for him to catch his breath. The boy straightens, scratching behind one ear with his left hand before rubbing the back of his neck. “Beyond the ancient fog where the dawn of day reaches out with a fairy kiss.”

The Court Sorcerer purposefully adjusts his right sleeve, pulling and smoothing out the nonexistent creases. “The Land of Youth -- Tír na nÓg.”

The boy’s shoulders slump in relief as Balinor finishes his own signal. When the Court Sorcerer witnesses nothing amiss in the boy’s demeanor and confirms no disguise present, he casts another anti-eavesdropping enchantment upon them. Unbeknownst to the boy, a third individual lies within its radius.

“You’re alone, right?” the boy asks without fail every time, wringing his hands and looking for enemies in the shadows.

“Yes,” Balinor lies without fail every time, smoothing out his coat and emitting an air of nonchalance.

The boy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting. With deft hands, Balinor fetches the pouch from the inner pockets of his robe and throws it to the boy without delay. The boy clumsily catches it with sweaty palms. The coins inside the pouch noisily clink against one another. The boy weighs the pouch in one hand, nods in approval, and stashes it inside his trouser pocket without complaint.

“Lord Wracu was looking for information about something called an Emrys,” the boy says without further prompting. “He was hit with a vision of some sort more than a week ago. He went to Camelot just a few days later to look for the Emrys.” Then, he hurriedly stutters out, “I-I would have warned you about it but-but he told no one beforehand of his plans.”

The Court Sorcerer nods grimly. A warning will have been welcomed indeed.

The boy shifts again, eyes darting around nervously. ”When he came back empty-handed, he tasked the Army to search for recent circumstances of—” A thoughtful frown pinches his brows as he tries to recall. “—of dead people coming back to life. Or to find mimics who have the ability to make changes to the appearance they’re emulating.”

Every remark the boy made rearranges the pieces of the puzzle Balinor has been solving. So Wracu may be scrambling for answers too. That means Wracu may know nothing of Sigan’s enchantment — of the resurrection spell that can explain Merlin’s unusual circumstance. On the other hand, if Wracu is uninvolved regarding Merlin’s strange magical signature then who on earth is responsible for it then?

The mystery deepens. Wryly, Balinor thinks that, unless he actually forced a truth potion down Merlin’s throat, there will be no end to it. No matter. Balinor still has a few tricks left to get the complicated truth. If nothing else, it seems they have the upper hand on relevant knowledge this time around.

The boy continues rambling, oblivious to Balinor’s thoughts. “Lord Wracu chased one of the leads to a village, but it led to a false trail. After that, it seems like he just gave up. He called off the other searches and never even mentioned the Emrys again.” 

Astonishment blooms in Balinor’s chest. “He gave up?”

Nodding multiple times, the boy remarks, “Quite unusual of him. Priestess Nimueh didn’t ask him more about it, so I suppose they decided the Emrys was more trouble than it was worth.”

Balinor’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t think it would be that simple. More likely, Wracu did find something and stopped further investigations because of it. “Do you know what village he went to?”

The boy shakes his head vigorously. “No. I-I’ll try to find out, but I cannot promise anything.”

The Court Sorcerer nods, knowing he cannot push for more.

“Well, that’s it, I suppose,” the boy finishes awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

The boy scrambles to go without waiting for a reply, nerves evident throughout their interaction. Balinor is used to it by now. Ever since the boy approached the Court Sorcerer personally three years ago and claimed to be the servant of the böggel-mann himself, the boy has always been a bundle of nervous energy during their encounters. Balinor cannot blame him; one careless mistake may land the boy on a fate worse than death. That’s why the boy only agreed to deal with the Court Sorcerer and the Court Sorcerer alone; the fewer people who know of his involvement, the safer he is.

With his help, however, the knights and magic-users of court have prevented the destruction of more than one village and thwarted some of the Army’s heinous plans.

“Daegal,” Balinor calls out.

The boy, Daegal, pauses and half-turns to him, face speaking an inquiry. For a moment, Balinor gauges his expression, contemplating. In the pockets of the Court Sorcerer’s coat lies a vial of deep blue aconite, a potent poison capable of killing instantly.

It is a dastardly plan indeed. But it is also a practical one, one the queen has approved of. Balinor has turned it over so many times in his mind; he knows he cannot come out of it with a clean conscience. 

Balinor had suggested it to Daegal, once. Just one drop on Wracu’s and Nimueh’s meals, and Camelot would have had two fewer foes. The Court Sorcerer even offered an escape plan after the deed, assuring that the boy will come out of it safe and unscathed. But back then, Daegal had blanched so badly at the request that he nearly fainted. He refused to meet with Balinor for four moons because of it.

For someone playing spy and working under one of the frightening men of the decade, Daegal is quite weak-hearted. Balinor supposes Daegal may be a traitor but he is no murderer. With that diffident demeanor, Daegal would have been caught and killed long before the poison can touch anyone’s food. Not only will they lose a valuable informant, but they also risk invoking unpredictable backlash from their enemies.

Still, at their every meeting, Balinor brings the aconite, just in case. Just in case today will be the day Daegal gathered the courage and competency to put an end to the warlock who killed --

Judging by Daegal’s hesitant and jittery behavior, however, Balinor deduces that today will not be that day. The Court Sorcerer lets out an almost inaudible sigh.

“Be careful on your way back,” the Court Sorcerer says instead.

Daegal nods and even smiles a bit before dashing between the trees and disappearing from sight. After dispelling the anti-eavesdropping enchantment, Balinor strides back from whence he came.

“I couldn’t detect any lies from him as usual.” Uncloaking himself from the shadows, the Spymaster joins the Court Sorcerer once more and confidently confirms the validity of the information they received.

Balinor, assured by the confirmation, begins mentally planning his next steps. The Spymaster will surely relay the information from Daegal to the queen soon, and Balinor will have to —

Unbidden, every hair in the Court Sorcerer’s body prickles.

He inhales sharply. “I have to get back to the citadel.”

Immediately, the Spymaster snaps to attention. “Why? What happened?”

“I know not. Yet.” Balinor begins preparing a teleportation spell. “But a protection spell of mine has been set off.”

“You can detect it even from this distance?” The Spymaster whistles, impressed. “You truly deserve your position, Lord Balinor.”

Balinor frowns and says nothing, too focused on finishing his enchantment. Moments later, whipping winds surround him, and takes him away in a blink.

“Could’ve taken me with you,” the Spymaster grumbles, now alone in the dense forest. “Ah, forgot to ask him about places that forbid magic.”

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A shield, shimmering bright gold, envelops Merlin completely within two breaths.

The warlock finds himself caged and trapped with naught but a few feet to move in. Drat, I was too carefree. Balinor and Kilgharrah are going to skin me if I die here.

From outside the barrier, Wracu tilts his head. “Pea —“

Merlin raises both arms and slaps his palms flat on the barrier, irises flaring gold. However, before he can even utter a spell, something remarkable occurs. The sleeves of his borrowed tunic touch upon his glittering cage, and sizzle and crackle. 

“Ack!” Merlin feels the clothes heating up for a brief second before thankfully cooling down.

The golden shield shatters like glass without further prompting, the remains dissolving in the air. What the hell just happened? Merlin glances upon the moss green tunic beneath his cloak with incredulity.

“Hm. How unexpected.” With a gesture, Wracu recreates the same shield around Merlin.

The warlock instantly dives to the side before the shield can fully manifest and trap him once more. Still on his knees on the ground, he throws out a “Forbaerne! Ácwele!”. A fireball heads toward the dark-cloaked figure of his enemy with incredible speed.

Wracu plucks the flames in mid-air with a gloved hand and crushes the flames between his fingers. The fireball dissipates without a trace.

“Peace, Emrys,” Wracu says in the interim with his inhuman voice. “I came to talk.”

Merlin lifts an arm, another spell forming between his fingertips. “Well, you should have done that before trying to kill me. Astryce!”

“Scildan.” Wracu shields against the explosive attack that can destroy stone. The spell hits his barrier and shatters it completely, forcing him to stumble back. “I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I’m certain attempting to plunge a dagger into my chest is the very definition of ‘trying to kill me’. Forbærne firgenholt!”

The largest branch of the tree atop Wracu tears itself off and falls speedily. Wracu turns one of his palms skywards to halt its descent with an “Ic þe healte.”

With his enemy occupied, Merlin begins another enchantment, “Ic her aciege ænne —”

“I know how to get you home.”

The spell dies on Merlin’s lips.

A split second later, the same glimmering shield envelops. Merlin snaps back to attention but it’s too late; he has been caged once more. He inwardly groans, rather irritated with himself; he can’t believe he fell for Wracu’s trick.

Merlin shoots to his feet and starts working on dismantling the barrier. His clothes, this time, appear to offer no help. He supposes the clothes’ abilities are a one-time thing.

“It isn’t meant to hold you.” With a graceful gesture, Wracu silently puts down the branch that nearly spelled his demise. He strides closer, cloak billowing behind him. “A tracking spell is placed upon every castle talisman. I assumed you wouldn’t be willing to part with it, so I created this shield to momentarily nullify it.”

Merlin glares at him and chooses not to heed any of his words. Upon quick observation, Merlin realizes that the barrier is indeed flimsy. He can easily dispel it. He taps it, hesitating.

Wracu stands a few feet away, making no move to attack. In fact, as Merlin looks back on it, Wracu has only dodged Merlin’s assaults and has not counterattacked once.

Judging by Wracu’s previous statements, he has clearly overheard Merlin’s conversation with Kilgharrah. He knows of Merlin’s origins, of the warlock’s goals and plans. Merlin can’t let him get away with such knowledge; the risk is too great to comprehend. Can I defeat him? Merlin has defeated far more powerful —

“Your mentor is on his way,” Wracu informs him, with no hint of emotion in his voice. “I had activated the protection spell on your clothes. We have mere minutes left before he notices your talisman is blocked. Decide quickly whether you’ll hear me out.”

Oh, drat. If Balinor finds Merlin outside of the citadel, in Wracu’s grasp, mere days after he has warned Merlin of this very situation, any good graces Merlin may have earned will disappear. Merlin doesn’t have time to battle with Wracu if he wants to get back inside the citadel without Balinor knowing of his stupidity. Besides, Balinor might misunderstand and think him in league with Camelot’s enemies if he is found with Wracu.

On the other hand, with Balinor here, they could both subdue Wracu. Merlin may raise suspicions once more but at the very least, they have a chance of capturing one of Camelot’s greatest foes.

Merlin grits his teeth. He still doesn’t know what the proper course of action is. But he does know he has to stall for time before he can decide. “Tell me what you want.”

“To send you home,” Wracu replies simply. “To send you back to your original realm.”

Merlin blinks, the words stealing away every emotion except bewilderment. “After trying to kill me, you suddenly want to help me? How am I meant to believe that?”

“I didn’t try to kill you,” Wracu repeats. “Because you and I both know a simple dagger won’t kill you.”

Despite the situation, Merlin can’t help but gape at the other man. “A blade to my heart will most certainly kill me! What do you take me for, a Dorocha?”

Wracu stills. “You do not know.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “Know what?”

“A matter for another time,” Wracu smoothly evades. “But know that I never aimed to kill you. I don’t expect you to believe me just yet, Emrys. Meet me here in a week’s time once more, and we shall speak longer.”

“Meet you here again so I can walk right into a trap? No thanks,” Merlin responds tersely. Merlin may have been careless this time, but he will never be careless again.

“And how am I to know you will not bring the might of Camelot’s court upon me?” Wracu counters calmly. “You are capable of setting a trap for me as well. I am risking as much by asking you to meet with me again, in Camelot’s lands no less.”

Merlin glowers. “Then why exactly are you offering to help me? What do you get out of it?”

“You are an obstruction to my plans,” Wracu admits without hesitation. “Getting you out of the way will be most beneficial for me.”

Merlin is rather taken aback by the abrupt frankness. If Wracu is doing it to gain Merlin’s attention, he’s succeeding.

“How exactly am I an obstruction to your plans?” Merlin prods.

“Do you really expect me to tell you?” Wracu deadpans.

Well, it was worth a try, Merlin thinks. “Why not just kill me then? Why go through all this trouble?”

“Personally, I have no qualms in killing you.”

Merlin bristles at the statement, his magic crackling in defense.

“But I am no fool. As that dragon said, you cannot die here in our realm. Therefore, returning you to yours is my next best option.” Wracu turns his head to one side and pauses, as if listening for something.

“Even a great dragon doesn’t know how to send me home,” Merlin retorts, unable to completely remove the annoyance in his tone. “How can I believe that you even know how to do it?”

“I have an interest in the forbidden arts of magic,” Wracu replies monotonously. “And I have plenty of resources I can tap.”

“I have access to Camelot’s Great Library. Do you think I need your help?” Merlin shoots back, although it’s a bit of a bluff. He’s not exactly sure whether the library can provide him anything useful but he’s not about to let his enemy know that.

Wracu seems to know anyway. “Yes, the Great Library whose accessible information adheres to strict Old Religion laws. I’m certain you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

Because of the mostly toneless and still inhuman voice Wracu uses, it takes Merlin a while to determine the sarcasm in his last remarks.

No matter how much Merlin scrutinizes, he can barely read Wracu at all. The man’s face is hidden in the shadows of his dark cloak, covering whatever expression he may be making. Wracu offers no excess body movements, each and every gesture purposeful and necessary. Even now, Wracu stands straight and unmoving, gloved hands loose by his side and no visible tension in his form. His voice, camouflaged by an eerie quality, barely has any inflection in it when he speaks.

I have no idea if he’s telling the truth or if he’s toying with me. And isn’t that a familiar situation? In the past, Merlin has trusted cunning magic-users who only sought to take advantage of him. The only difference this time is Wracu has made his goal quite clear and has made no flowery promises to win Merlin over to his side.

Speaking of changing sides, Merlin abruptly remembers why he can’t even pretend to do so. A chill runs down his spine. “My Apprentice Contract.” The contract states that apprentices should not knowingly associate with known enemies of Camelot. And what is Merlin doing? Gods, Balinor will know, and suspicion will lay heavy on Merlin again. Has the contract been breached already? Will Merlin feel something if it has? He hopes Balinor will believe that he did it unintentionally.

“The Shallow Contract—” Wracu begins, piercing through Merlin’s panic. “— has one little-known flaw. It is merely attached to the name and nothing else. Have you two names, you can easily work around it. Right now, I speak not to Merlin of Ealdor but to Emrys. Hence, no breach of contract will occur.“

Merlin boggles. “That’s — That’s a major flaw.”

Wracu shrugs — the first hint of expression he has ever made during the whole interaction. “Not entirely. The names must be something that several people know you as—names that you truly identify with, names that you know to be yours. A fake name will shatter the contract without fail. People rarely have more than one true name.” Wracu pauses for a beat. “I suppose you have no such magic in your realm.”

There are a lot of enchantments in this world that Merlin doesn’t think existed prior to his unwelcomed travel. Now, Wracu is aware of Merlin’s significant ignorance and will most likely take advantage of it in the future. Merlin really can’t catch a break, can he?

“Our time is running out,” Wracu reminds Merlin when the silence has gone on for too long. “Learn the enchantment of swīġan unsóþ, and I will allow you to perform it on me. I will wait for you here in a week’s time. I am your greatest chance at getting home, Emrys. Let me help you.”

And I urge you to welcome any help offered to you. Kilgharrah’s words come ringing between Merlin’s ears. That damn dragon knew this was going to happen! He knew Wracu was nearby. Are they in league with each other?

With a small gesture of Wracu’s finger, the golden shield around Merlin dissipates.

Almost immediately, Merlin raises his arms and shoots off an emphatic, “Flíe fǽgð!” Merlin rarely heeds Kilgharrah’s advice when it comes to identifying foes and friends.

The thick fallen branch raises itself in the air and darts its rough pointy end towards the enemy.

In a blink, Wracu disappears from its path, and the branch boisterously collides with the trunk of another tree.

Wracu reappears mere inches away from Merlin, filling Merlin’s vision with the darkness of his shrouded face. Merlin’s heart tries to climb to his throat, and his eyes widen in alarm.

Wracu’s arm shoots forward. Cool leather wraps around Merlin’s throat before he can react. Wracu’s grip is firm — not choking but tight enough to serve as a warning.

“Do not test me, Emrys.” Cold fury laces Wracu’s tone, making chills run down Merlin’s whole body. His breath fans over Merlin’s face because of their proximity. “I won’t kill you but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hurting you.”

Merlin, not one easily intimidated by petty threats, bares his teeth, his irises liquid gold. “You—”

Nearby, the foliage rustles violently and heavy footfalls crunch grass. Merlin’s attention snaps to it.

Abruptly, the pressure around his neck disappears. When Merlin turns his gaze in front of him, he finds no one and nothing. He glances around some more but finds no trace of the man who threatened him in the area. Drat. Now there’s an enemy out there who knows too much of his circumstance. While Merlin doesn’t think Wracu can do much with the information he gained, it still gives him the upper hand on Merlin.

Perhaps Wracu will indeed get that meeting he asked for. At least then Merlin will get a chance to subdue the man and further force answers out of him.

Unfortunately, someone troublesome pops out from between the trees, breaking Merlin out of his impromptu planning.

A familiar knight, face as dark as thunderclouds, marches towards Merlin.

“Sir Lancelot!” Merlin plasters on a bright ‘nothing suspicious here, no sire’ grin. “How fares our gallant knight?”

Sir Lancelot didn’t witness anything, right? Merlin needs to hide his involvement with Wracu this time; having come unscathed from the encounter, he doubts anyone will believe him if he claims that the interaction wasn’t a friendly chat.

Sir Lancelot grabs Merlin’s arm in an iron-clad grip. “You’re coming with me, boy.”

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Chapter Text

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”Bu-But I didn’t—” Merlin yelps as Sir Lancelot none-too-gently shoves him inside a dungeon cell. He stumbles inside without grace. “Hey, what crime did I even commit?”

Sir Lancelot didn’t see a glimpse of Wracu, of that Merlin is sure. Otherwise, Ever-So-Wary Sir Lancelot would have been pointing a sword right at Merlin’s face when the knight marched him down the dark and damp dungeons.

Sir Lancelot slams the cell door shut and brusquely locks it from the outside. “Apprentices are forbidden from venturing outside the citadel in the first few weeks of apprenticeship,” the knight says, confirming that he indeed witnessed none of Merlin and Wracu’s encounter.

Merlin, gripping the bars of his prison, squawks. “No, we aren’t! We’re just highly encouraged to stay inside the citadel.”

Sir Lancelot glares at him. “Why are you wandering around in a suspicious cloak and destroying trees?”

“It was cold. I needed a cloak,” Merlin lies shamelessly with a simpering grin. “And the tree deserved it.” Wracu deserved the damage more, of course, but he dodged the attack.

Judging by the look Sir Lancelot favors him, the knight has labeled Merlin an incorrigible madman. Merlin tries not to show his glee; Sir Lancelot is just too easy to provoke.

“How did you even know I left the citadel?” Merlin asks. He’s quite sure he lost Sir Lancelot in the markets.

“How about you take a guess, Merlin?” a familiar voice wryly interjects.

Dread pools in Merlin’s stomach. He struggles to maintain his carefree smile. By the smirk on Sir Lancelot’s face, Merlin doesn’t succeed. “Lord Balinor. How nice of you to pass by.”

Balinor sends Merlin an unimpressed glance as he approaches the cell. “Merlin, how is it that every warning I give you goes in one ear and exits the other?”

“I - uh. I heed your advice most of the time,” Merlin replies sheepishly. 

Merlin’s mind whirs, debating what to tell Balinor about his little trip outside the city; Balinor will surely ask. The warlock has never meant for anyone to find out he even left; he has no excuse prepared.

“Sir Lancelot was kind enough to volunteer his services when the tracking spell pointed outside the city gates,” Balinor says. Right. The castle talisman has a tracking spell. It will have been easy for Balinor to figure out Merlin’s whereabouts. “Fortunately, he was the one who found you. If it had been me, you would have been lounging in this dungeon as a cat.”

“You would have turned me into a cat?” Merlin is simultaneously horrified and amused.

“You would have been less trouble in that form,” Balinor replies, his face a portrait of seriousness. Merlin doesn’t think he’s jesting at all. “What business have you outside the citadel? If you have been visiting family, you would have informed me.”

Close to the truth. Close to the truth. “I wished to meet with a — er — scaly friend.” Merlin glances meaningfully at Sir Lancelot — an action with a two-fold purpose. Firstly, it’s a signal to Balinor why he’s hesitant to speak about the subject. Secondly, it serves to disguise any tint of nervousness in his tone.

Balinor’s eyes widen fractionally, getting the message. Turning to Sir Lancelot, he firmly requests, “If you can give us some privacy, Sir Lancelot. I wish to speak to my apprentice alone.”

After glancing curiously between Balinor and Merlin, Sir Lancelot bows. “My lord.” Without another word, he climbs up the stairs and exits the dungeon.

As soon as the knight’s footsteps fade away, Balinor narrows his eyes at Merlin. “You met with a dragon?”

Merlin nods repeatedly. “Yes, Kilgharrah.”

A hint of astonishment flits by the Court Sorcerer’s expression. “He told you his name?”

Merlin hides a wince. “Y-Yes.”

“Hmm. Why did you meet with him?”

“I-I wanted to ask more about - about this Emrys thing. He seems to know a lot about it.” Merlin attempts to prevent his eyes from shifting to the side. It’s partly the truth so no need to be jittery. “To be honest, the druids didn’t really explain much to me before.”

Intrigue rests on Balinor’s solemn face. “And what did he say?”

“He mentioned something about obsolete prophecies about Emrys.”

“And these prophecies — what do they entail?” Balinor prods.

“Uh — does it matter? They’re no longer relevant.”

The Court Sorcerer cocks a brow. “Seeing as you are Emrys, how can it no longer be relevant?”

“Well, you see — the druids called me Emrys but that doesn’t mean I really am him.” The doubts Merlin had the first time he heard the title pour out with ease.

“You think the druids are mistaken?” Balinor’s tone denotes his disbelief regarding the notion. “You told me they gave you that name because they recognize your power.”

Merlin shrugs and hopes it doesn’t come out as tense. “I may be wrong. I’m not Emrys—” Well, not this world’s Emrys, anyway. “—because Emrys doesn’t exist at this point in time. That’s what Kilgharrah told me. So. The druids must have been mistaken.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that it was the dragon who was mistaken?”

Merlin blinks rapidly. The idea never occurred to him; Kilgharrah is never wrong. A manipulative arse, yes. But wrong? Never before. “Kilgharrah is the Great Dragon, isn’t he?”

An unmistakable snort escapes Balinor’s mouth. “Is that what he told you? What nonsense.”

Merlin notes that Balinor and Kilgharrah don’t seem to get along well. Merlin is awfully curious as to why.

“What does the prophecy contain?” Balinor asks again.

Merlin sighs and decides to just go through with it. What harm can it do anyway? It’s not like Balinor will or can do anything with the information. “The prophecy states that Emrys will be born in a dark age to help the people. With peace in the Five Kingdoms, do you think this era is the dark age?”

A contemplative look passes by Balinor’s face. “I suppose not.” Then, his eyes narrow once more. “Why did my protection charm activate?”