Chapter Text

ACT ONE

“Magic gave me life. Love has kept me alive. But prophecy… prophecy will decide if either was ever truly mine.”

— Merilyn, Act One, Season Three

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The storm had come down from the western hills like an invading host, rolling across the sky in heavy ranks of cloud that devoured the late afternoon sun until the streets of Camelot drowned in shadow. Rain hammered the rooftops with a merciless rhythm, rattling shutters as if testing the city’s defenses, while the cobbled lanes became swift, glistening streams. Smoke from the blacksmith’s forge rose only to be instantly torn apart and hissed back into nothing by the downpour. Merilyn drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, though it was already sodden and clinging, dragging at her like a second skin. Arthur strode ahead with the rigid impatience of a man who despised yielding to anything—be it storm, circumstance, or fate—his every step a declaration that not even the weather would dare master him. Gaius shuffled along at her other side, his frame bent against the gusts, muttering about the folly of trudging through streets fit to swallow a man whole, and about joints that ached far worse in this cursed damp.

They had just left the smithy, where fever had burned brighter than the forge’s coals in the blacksmith’s chest, when another sound slithered through the storm. It was faint at first, nearly buried beneath the rush of water and the groaning of the wind, but it persisted—metal against stone, a steady, merciless grind, like the dragging of chains across the bones of the city. Merilyn’s head snapped toward the square, her senses sharpening as if the storm itself had bent close to whisper its secret. And there, through the curtains of rain, a figure emerged. A man loomed into view, broad as an ox and wrapped in dark, rain-slick leathers, his shoulders hunched against the weather but his gait steady, pitiless. Behind him groaned a cart whose wheels screeched and skidded over the cobbles. Upon it squatted an iron cage.

Within that cage, curled small as if she could fold herself into nothing, was a child.

The girl could not have seen more than twelve or thirteen summers. Her limbs, thin as reeds, shivered beneath the tatters of a dress that clung to her soaked frame. Long strands of dark hair plastered against her face, dripping, but through that veil shone eyes too large for her wan face—hollow with fear yet burning with a plea that reached across the storm. Those eyes caught Merilyn’s, and the world stilled. The rain fell soundless. The square vanished. For one unbearable heartbeat, she did not see a stranger shivering behind bars. She saw her son.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat, a jagged inhale that tasted of iron and salt. Those eyes—too old, too knowing, filled with a terror no child should ever be made to carry—struck her like a blade to the chest. Her mind spun without her permission, seizing on half-forgotten fragments: the lull of a voice that never had the chance to grow, the weight of a cradle that had long since turned to dust in her dreams. A phantom ache hollowed out her chest, the kind of pain that had no name because it belonged to a wound that never truly closed. She had buried that hurt under years of survival, pressed it down beneath duty and disguise, but in that moment it rose like a tide, unstoppable and merciless.

The girl’s small hands clung to the bars with the desperation of someone who believed that letting go would mean vanishing altogether, as though the iron was the only proof she still existed. The sight struck Merilyn like a physical blow, hollowing out her chest. A sickening jolt of recognition coursed through her veins, sharp as lightning—too familiar, too cruel. She had lived this kind of captivity, though hers had never worn chains of iron. Her bars had been fashioned from silence, from disguises that pressed tight against her throat, from the ceaseless fear of being unmasked. How many nights had she stood at her own invisible prison, wishing—not daring to say aloud—that someone might see her suffering and tear it open? The girl’s white-knuckled grip mirrored her own secret grip on survival, and it unraveled something Merilyn had fought so hard to keep hidden.

Beside her, Gaius paled, his breath frosting in the cold air as he muttered, “Halig.” The name sounded bitter in his mouth, as though it might poison him to utter it. “A bounty hunter. Uther fills his purse well for every Druid he delivers alive.”

The words landed faintly, as if spoken from a distance. They reached Merilyn through the roar of the storm like echoes heard underwater, blurred and indistinct, because her mind was wholly fixed on those eyes behind the bars. The child’s gaze was not pleading—it was demanding, accusing, piercing into her as though it knew her soul. And her runes answered, sparking to life beneath her skin in furious recognition, as if her very blood had remembered what her mind might have reasoned away. Heat spread through her veins until it felt as though her ribs might split apart to release it. The storm outside was violent, yes, but the one inside her body was worse—raw, searing, uncontrollable.

She imagined for one treacherous instant that she could reach forward, seize those bars, and wrench them apart with her bare hands. She could see herself setting the child free, lifting her into her arms, striking down the bounty hunter if he dared to resist. She could see fire burning the rain itself away if that was what it took. The thought sang through her bones with dangerous clarity, every instinct urging her toward action. And yet her feet rooted themselves to the ground. She knew too well the weight of consequence. She knew how swiftly Uther’s hammer would fall, how ruthless his judgment would be. Her mind whispered caution even as her soul screamed revolt.

She had lived long enough in Camelot to measure the cost of defiance. But for the first time in years—perhaps the first time since she had hidden behind her moonstone necklace and let the world believe her to be something she was not—Merilyn realized she might be willing to pay any price. If it meant those hollow eyes never looked through iron again, she would burn everything she had built.

Arthur’s jaw hardened, the flicker of muscle in his cheek betraying what his voice tried to keep flat. His gaze shifted to the cage, then away again, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword before he stilled it with effort. “And that child,” he said at last, the words scraping from his throat like iron dragged over stone, “is his prize.” His voice carried no warmth, only the blunt acknowledgment of law upheld with cruelty.

Merlin, drenched through and staring with wide, horrified eyes, edged closer, his words breaking on disbelief. “She’s only a girl.”

“She’ll still fetch a good price, though,” Gaius answered grimly, each syllable weighted like an anvil.

Merlin turned, aghast. “Someone’s going to pay for her?”

“Uther offers a handsome reward for anyone with magic,” the physician said, and the grimness in his tone made clear it was no rumor, no exaggeration. This was the order Camelot lived by, carved into its very bones.

Merlin’s fists balled so tightly that his knuckles whitened, the tension trembling through his frame. His young face, still open enough to wear outrage plainly, twisted with fury and helplessness. “There must be something we can do.”

Gaius’s reply came sharp and fast, the words flung like a lash meant to stop him in his tracks. “Merlin, bounty hunters are dangerous men. They’re not to be meddled with. You of all people should understand that.”

The air seemed to bristle with the truth of it. As though to punctuate the physician’s warning, thunder split the sky overhead, rattling the stones underfoot, while rain beat harder against the city as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the cruelty below.

Arthur’s eyes turned to Merilyn. He did not need her to speak to know the riot in her chest—he read it in the hard line of her jaw, in the way her hands trembled though she fought to keep them still, in the restless fire alive in her eyes. His head moved once, almost imperceptibly, a small shake that carried the weight of command. His voice, when it came, was low and implacable. “We can’t touch this. Not here. Not now.”

The words settled around her like chains, dragging at her shoulders, cold and heavy. Yet for all their weight, they did nothing to extinguish the blaze inside her. If anything, they fanned it. Her runes burned hotter beneath her skin, thrumming as though her very body had turned into a vessel for the girl’s silent plea. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood, the sharp sting anchoring her against the pull of despair. Each breath felt like a fight against drowning, every second a battle not to unleash the storm building inside her.

She forced herself to move, her body trembling with restraint. Step by step, she dragged herself past the cart, past the reek of ale-soaked leather where Halig held his reins, past the cage that rattled and clattered as the child inside shifted. Each stride tore at her like flesh ripped from bone, her cloak dragging behind her heavy with rain, pulling her backward as if it too conspired to chain her to the stones.

But the girl’s gaze never let her go. Even as the distance widened, even as the crowd swallowed her, Merilyn felt those wide eyes clinging to her like hooks in her skin—unyielding, desperate, unrelenting. That silent cry burrowed into her marrow, a vow written into her bones.

She knew then, with a clarity as cruel and clean as lightning, that she could not leave the girl to that fate. To walk away was to betray something deeper than law, deeper even than survival. She might be condemned, unmade, undone—but the choice had already been made the moment their eyes met through iron.

That night, the storm worsened until Camelot itself seemed to groan beneath its weight. Rain hurled itself against the turrets in relentless sheets, coursing down the leaded windows in silver streams that blurred the world beyond into shifting shadows. Thunder cracked overhead, rattling the very glass within its frames, while gusts of wind roared through the courtyard below, bending the torches until their flames hissed and guttered near to nothing. Even within Arthur’s chambers, where the hearth burned low and steady, the storm pressed in, its fury seeping into the walls, making the golden trim of the furniture and the sheen of polished stone feel cold, fragile, impermanent. The warmth of the fire could not banish the weight of the night; it only made the darkness around it loom larger.

Merilyn stood before the tall window, her bare hand splayed against the chilled pane. The glass fogged faintly beneath her touch, though the cold soon bled it away. Her cloak and armor had been abandoned, replaced with a dress of soft, simple cloth that hung about her in a way that felt both alien and vulnerable, as if she were clothed in someone else’s skin. On the desk behind her lay the moonstone necklace, its power dormant, the spell broken. Without it, the illusion she had worn for so long was stripped away, leaving her unmasked—only herself, only the woman she had always hidden. Her hair, white as winter light, spilled loose over her shoulders, untamed, catching the shifting glow of the fire so that it shimmered like frost in motion. She stared through the glass as if she might pierce the storm, her dazed eyes hollow with exhaustion but her body taut, every muscle drawn tight with restless fury she could not quiet.

Inside her chest, the echo of that cage clattered with every heartbeat.

Arthur had been watching her far longer than he cared to admit, though he disguised it behind the ordinary rituals of his evening. He had removed his armor with deliberate care, set aside his sword with practiced precision, and drawn a whetstone slowly across its edge, each pass measured, as though such small order might keep him grounded. But no rhythm could silence the pressure gathering in his chest as she stood so still, so silent, a figure more storm than flesh. At last, unable to endure the distance between them, he rose. His steps were quiet on the rushes as he crossed the chamber, until he stood behind her, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the chill she carried from the window.

“You’re too quiet,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, as if afraid that to speak too loudly might shatter her entirely. He bent, his lips brushing her shoulder in the barest ghost of a kiss, fleeting warmth against skin still cool from the glass. One hand hovered just above her arm, not gripping, only coaxing her gently away. “When you’re quiet, it means you’re plotting something reckless. Come to bed.”

Merilyn’s fingers curled against the pane, her nails scraping faintly as though she could claw her way through it into the night. Her breath fogged the glass before her, but her voice when it came was raw, thick with the storm that had burrowed into her veins. “I can still see her,” she whispered. “The cage. The rain in her hair. The way she looked at me…” She shook her head hard, as if she could fling the image away, but it clung all the tighter. Her words cracked under the strain. “Arthur, she’s just a child.”

His hand settled more firmly at her shoulder then, a grounding weight against the tempest inside her. His tone softened, though it bore the hard edge of command. “And if you act, Uther will see you executed beside her. You know this.”

Merilyn turned her head, pale hair brushing against his cheek as she did. Anger smoldered beneath the haze in her eyes, violet sparks alive in the dark, sharp as struck steel. “Then help me,” she said, each word trembling with the fury of a vow. “Or stay out of my way.”

The storm answered before he did, rattling the window with a clap of thunder so fierce the floor itself seemed to shake. Arthur’s throat worked, his jaw locked tight, his gaze searching her face for any hint of hesitation. There was none. Only fire, only resolve. Slowly, his hand slipped away from her arm—not in rejection, but in reluctant surrender, the weary recognition that he could not cage the storm before him.

When she turned at last from the window, he did not try to stop her. He did not follow when she moved toward the door. He only stood in the hollow glow of the hearth, silent and troubled, and let her go.

The streets lay quieter in the dead of night, though the storm raged unbroken above them. Water rushed down the alleys, swelling in the gutters, and the wind tore at her cloak with greedy hands, whipping the fabric until it snapped behind her like a banner. Her runes burned faintly beneath her skin, pulsing like embers hidden under ash, their light obscured by cloth but no less alive. She whispered the Old Tongue under her breath, the words swallowed by the roar of rain, weaving shadows around her form as she moved.

She found the cart in the tavern yard, its wheels half-swallowed by the mire, its cage looming against the storm like some grotesque monument. The iron bars glistened with rain, every drop clinging and sliding down as if the storm itself wept for the child trapped within. Halig was slumped against a rain-darkened wall, his bulk slack, mouth open in a guttural snore, the sour reek of ale rising even above the smell of wet earth. A tankard still sagged in his hand, precarious, his fingers fat and lax around it. The man was as insensible as stone.

The girl was not.

She huddled in the cage with her knees drawn to her chest, arms locked tight around them, her body folded in on itself so completely that she seemed to be trying to vanish into the corner. At the sight of Merilyn’s approach, her head jerked up, her eyes widening like a startled fawn’s. Fear flared there first, sharp and instinctive, but behind it came the smallest flicker of something else—hope, faint as a candle guttering in a storm. That fragile light pierced straight through the night and lodged in Merilyn’s chest like an arrow.

“Easy,” Merilyn whispered, kneeling in the mud, her voice softer than the rain pattering on the roof beams above. She reached for the lock, the cold iron biting into her palm, and breathed the words of power. The runes along her wrist flared faintly, their glow swallowed almost at once by the storm. The metal hissed, shivered, and cracked, before yielding with a reluctant click. She eased the door open, careful, silent, every motion deliberate as though coaxing a frightened animal from a snare.

The girl flinched back instead of forward, her breath quick and shallow, eyes darting to the sleeping brute nearby, then back to Merilyn. She hovered on the edge of freedom, caught in the cruel paradox of captivity: that sometimes the unknown beyond the bars feels more terrifying than the prison itself.

Merilyn extended her hand through the open space, her arm steady despite the tempest pounding in her chest. Her voice was firm but gentle, carrying the weight of a promise. “Come with me.”

For a long heartbeat, nothing moved. The girl stared, her face pale and hollow, lips trembling as though words had long since abandoned her. Then, with a shiver, she edged forward. Her hand, small and trembling, slid into Merilyn’s palm. The skin was clammy, cold with fear, but the grip was fierce, desperate, as if clinging to the only tether left to her in the world.

Merilyn drew her out carefully, wrapping her own cloak around the frail body, the thick wool enveloping her like a shield. She could feel the girl’s heart racing through the layers, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the thunder overhead. Merilyn pressed her close, her own arm encircling the child with a protectiveness that came as naturally as breath. Without a backward glance at Halig, without a sound louder than the storm, she melted into the shadows.

Together, they vanished into the night before the bounty hunter even stirred.

The storm had not lessened by the time Merilyn slipped through the narrow arteries of the Lower Town. The alleys twisted around her like veins, slick with running water, their gutters overflowing into dark rivers that carried refuse toward the unseen drains. Her hood was drawn low, rain spattering off the fabric in rivulets, but her pace was steady, purposeful. Beside her, half-hidden beneath her cloak, the girl clung with every ounce of her strength, her small fingers latched around Merilyn’s hand as though letting go would mean death. Each shiver that ran through her body rattled Merilyn’s heart in answer, though she could not tell where cold ended and fear began.

She could have led her into the catacombs. The thought tugged at her—those tunnels were secret, familiar, cloaked in darkness and silence. Safer, perhaps, from prying eyes. But safer was not always kinder. She remembered too well the echo of dripping stone, the way shadows stretched into monsters when the light dwindled. To leave this child in such a place, alone and shivering in a damp hollow of the earth, would be to exchange one prison for another. She was not a soldier accustomed to solitude, not a fugitive hardened by hunger and cold. She was a child. A frightened child. And so Merilyn chose differently. She brought her to her own cottage in the Lower Town—a modest shelter pressed against the bend of a narrow street, its thatched roof dripping steadily, its gutters overflowing, but its door hers to open and close against the world.

Inside, the air was still and warm in its familiarity, scented faintly of old woodsmoke and dried rosemary hanging from the beams. The fire had long since died, leaving the hearth in ash-grey quiet, but the small room welcomed them with its worn familiarity: the rough-hewn table scarred with use, the crooked shelves lined with jars and herbs, the single bed beneath the faded quilt her mother’s hands had once sewn. It was not grand, not well-kept, but it was hers—and for the moment, it was sanctuary.

“Sit,” she urged gently, guiding the girl toward the bed. The child resisted at first, shrinking back as though kindness itself might yet prove to be a trick. But Merilyn’s hand was steady, her voice patient, and at last the girl sank onto the mattress, curling inward as though braced for hurt.

Merilyn fetched the quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it firmly around her shoulders, careful to tuck it close as though binding up something fragile that might break if left loose. The girl’s eyes lifted in the flickering candlelight, wary and guarded, and her voice—when it came—was little more than a whisper. “Why did you do that?”

Merilyn paused, the question catching her off guard. She blinked, then crouched so they were level, her expression softening. “Do what?” she asked quietly.

“Help me.”

The words were simple, but the weight of them struck hard. Merilyn drew a slow breath, lowering herself to a crouch so they were eye to eye. “Because I saw you,” she said quietly, her throat tight. “And it could have been me. It should never have been you.”

For a moment, the girl only stared, as though trying to decide whether to trust the truth she heard in that voice. Then her gaze dropped, the blanket clutched tighter to her chest.

“You’re safe here,” Merilyn continued, her tone as gentle as she could make it. “No one will come looking for you in this place. And I’ll stay. You won’t be alone.”

The girl nodded, a faint motion, uncertain but willing.

Merilyn rose and crossed to the peg by the door, tugging free her cloak. It was soaked through, heavy with rain, but she draped it over the chair by the fire to dry before returning with another layer—a simple shawl of wool, rough but warm. She held it out. “Here,” she offered softly.

The child flinched back at first, eyes widening, her body stiff as if expecting a blow. Merilyn froze, then softened her voice further, lowering the shawl slightly. “I won’t hurt you. I thought you might be cold.”

After a long pause, the girl’s shoulders eased. She reached hesitantly and took it, clutching the fabric close, her fingers buried deep as though afraid it might vanish if she let go.

Merilyn’s lips curved in the faintest smile, though her chest ached. She brushed a damp strand of hair from the girl’s face, careful and slow, like one might soothe a skittish bird. “What’s your name?”

The child’s voice was a whisper, hardly louder than the rain tapping against the shutters. “Freya.”

“Freya,” Merilyn repeated, letting the name linger on her tongue as if anchoring it in the room. “It suits you.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I’m Merilyn.”

Freya’s eyes met hers again, and for the first time there was something flickering behind the fear. Not trust—not yet—but a fragile spark of it, the beginning.

Merilyn reached for the blanket, drawing it higher around her shoulders, and gave the girl’s hand the gentlest squeeze. “Rest now. You’re safe, I promise.”

Freya’s lips parted, her voice so faint Merilyn almost didn’t catch it. “Thank you.”

The words loosened something in her chest, sharp and aching. Merilyn smoothed the blanket once more, then sat on the edge of the bed, watching as the girl curled small beneath the quilt. Outside, the storm raged on, thunder rolling like distant drums, but within the cottage there was only the hush of quiet breathing, the flicker of candlelight, and the fragile sense of peace wrestled from a night of fury.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The morning crept in grey and sullen, the storm not gone but worn thin, its fury spent in the long hours of rain that had battered Camelot through the night. The world outside was sodden and heavy, the air still thick with the scent of damp earth and soot from half-drowned hearth fires. Merilyn woke with exhaustion weighing on her bones, her limbs aching as though she had carried the storm itself through the dark. The memory of the previous evening clung stubbornly, sharp-edged and raw—the cage in the tavern yard, the hollow eyes of the child, the desperate grip of a small hand in hers. It pulsed in her chest with every beat of her heart, leaving her both relieved and unsettled, unable to draw a full breath without the ache of dread pressing down.

In the narrow bed across the room, Freya lay curled tight beneath her mother’s faded quilt. Her body was a small bundle in the dim light, breaths shallow and even, though a faint crease of worry marred her brow even in sleep. The storm had not followed her into slumber, but its shadow lingered nonetheless. For a moment Merilyn simply stood watching her, torn between the fierce relief of having rescued her and the gnawing fear of what might come now that the girl was hidden under her roof. In saving her, Merilyn had crossed a threshold she could not retreat from, and the weight of that choice pressed heavily upon her.

She moved quietly to the bedside and rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, her touch gentle but firm enough to rouse her. “Freya,” she whispered, voice low and careful. The girl stirred, blinking groggily, her wary eyes opening as though she expected chains rather than comfort. Merilyn offered a small smile, though the effort of it tugged painfully at her chest. “I have to go to the palace today,” she said softly. “I can’t be missed—not even for you. But I’ll come back to you tonight. You’ll be safe here until then.”

Freya’s hand darted out, fingers catching at the edge of Merilyn’s sleeve, clinging with a desperation that was almost painful in its strength. Merilyn smoothed back the tangled hair that clung to the girl’s cheek and tucked the quilt firmly around her shoulders. “I promise,” she murmured, steadying her voice even as her heart beat hard enough to ache. “I will come back.” Only when Freya’s grip slackened, trust replacing fear for a fleeting instant, did Merilyn force herself away from the bedside.

By the time she reached the castle, the day was already thick with activity. Servants hurried down the stone corridors with arms full of linens, trays clattering faintly with the weight of trenchers and pitchers. Knights clattered past in partial armor, their laughter rough and brash as they jostled each other toward the training yard. The great hearths that lined the halls had been stoked to life again, the scent of smoke and wet wool mingling in the air as the lingering damp was driven back by firelight.

In Arthur’s chambers, warmth clung more stubbornly, the air hazed faintly with steam rising from the copper bath she was preparing. Merilyn moved with brisk precision, her hands steady despite the storm that had followed her here. She laid out a tunic and breeches upon the carved chest, shook out a cloak until it hung smooth, folded hose with practiced efficiency. Arthur’s quarters bore the comfortable chaos of a young man who never thought twice about order, but under Merilyn’s hands it slowly yielded into something approaching discipline.

She was bent over the copper tub, pouring the last of the water from a tall earthen pitcher, when the door swung open on its hinges. Erynd entered first, his stride as steady and weighty as ever, boots striking the rushes with a rhythm Merilyn could have recognized even blindfolded. Balanced carefully in his hands was a broad wooden tray, laden with thick-cut bread, wedges of pale cheese, and curls of smoked meat. The scent filled the room at once, rich and savory, a sharp contrast to the stale crust and shriveled apple she had left behind for herself and Freya that morning. Erynd set the tray down upon the table with a practiced ease, a faint grin pulling at his mouth as he spoke.

“I thought we’d spare him the stale bread today,” he remarked dryly, lifting a brow. “Didn’t think His Highness would appreciate an apple more shriveled than Gaius’s patience.”

Before Merilyn could smother the answering smile tugging at her lips, Arthur’s voice rang out from the corridor—a half-grumble, half-command that made her roll her eyes to the ceiling. “Breakfast!”

Suppressing the urge to snap back, she moved instead to the windows. With a single practiced sweep she drew the curtains wide, letting the pale grey light of morning spill across the chamber. Arthur sat up in bed, blond hair sticking out at haphazard angles, his face still heavy with sleep, and blinked blearily at the tray Erynd had arranged. Suspicion creased his brow as though the meal itself might have betrayed him.

“Where’s the rest?” he demanded, his voice still thick with sleep. “The meat? The cheese?”

Erynd, already pouring him wine with a deliberate show of calm, did not so much as glance up. “Right in front of you, sire,” he said evenly. “Unless your eyesight’s gone with the storm.”

Arthur ignored the jab and lunged for the trencher with the enthusiasm of a man who had been starved for weeks rather than only since the night before. He tore a hunk of bread free with boyish impatience, scattering crumbs across the linen sheets as he chewed with gusto. Merilyn caught herself sighing, her disapproval softened only slightly by the twitch of amusement that curved at her mouth.

“Hmph,” Arthur grunted around his mouthful, “this will do. Barely.”

“Only the best for you,” Erynd replied smoothly, retreating to a stool with Arthur’s boots in hand. The smirk remained firmly in place as he bent to his polishing.

Merilyn turned back to the tub, focusing on the work at hand. Her lips shaped the familiar syllables of the Old Tongue, the words no louder than the breath that carried them. A shimmer rippled across the surface of the water in answer, steam rising steadily as warmth spread through the copper basin. The air thickened with it, a faint haze curling upward to blend with the lingering damp of the morning.

“Make sure it’s hot enough!” Arthur called from behind her, tossing the bread aside with half of it still uneaten.

Merilyn tested the water with her fingers, feeling the comfortable heat swirl at her touch. “It’s ready,” she said evenly, not looking up. “Freshly heated.”

Arthur crossed the chamber in his loose linen shirt, peering down at the tub with deep suspicion, as though expecting trickery. He dipped his hand into the water and yelped, jerking it back at once. “Ah! You bumpkin—it’s boiling!”

She blinked at him with feigned innocence, her voice dry. “Boiling?”

“You’re half asleep today!” He shook his reddened hand dramatically, fixing her with a glare as though she had tried to scald him on purpose.

Merilyn, unimpressed, tipped her head a fraction, her tone flat as old parchment. “Sorry, sire. I’ll fetch cold water.”

Arthur’s irritation melted almost instantly into mischief. One corner of his mouth tugged upward into that crooked grin she had come to know far too well—the boyish flash of humor that surfaced at precisely the wrong moment, equal parts charm and infuriation. “No,” he said lightly, his voice carrying that careless confidence that always made her bristle. His hand shot out to seize the pitcher still resting on the table. “I’ll get you some.”

Before she could take a step back, before she could so much as lift a warning hand, he tilted the vessel and flung the contents toward her. The water struck with a cold, biting force, cascading across her shoulder and chest in a shocking sheet. It soaked through the fabric at once, clinging heavy to her skin, plastering the dress against her frame until the chill of it seemed to burrow into her very bones.

She gasped sharply, flinching away from the blow of cold. Her hand flew instinctively to her shoulder, her fingers pressing against the sodden fabric as though to wring the water out by sheer force of will. “Arthur!” she hissed, her voice tight with outrage.

He stood back with his arms folded, wholly too pleased with himself, watching her reaction with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he had performed some great service. His grin widened with each second of her indignation, unrepentant, his expression brightening as though her fury were not a reprimand but a prize to be won. “That woken you up?” he asked, entirely unapologetic, the words dripping with infuriating cheer.

Merilyn stood dripping, her dress clinging damp and heavy, rivulets of icy water sliding down her arm to spatter against the floorboards. Strands of her pale hair stuck to her cheeks and throat, glistening like melted silver in the half-light. For a heartbeat she simply stared at him, lips parted in disbelief, before her mouth hardened into a thin, unforgiving line, sharp enough to cut glass. The heat of her runes prickled faintly beneath her skin despite the chill soaking into her sleeves, her body betraying the storm she tried to keep contained.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself, sire,” she said at last, her tone tight and controlled, each word edged with frost. She wrung the hem of her dress with deliberate precision, twisting it as though she might strangle her temper in the same gesture. “I’m sure the crown depends upon how well you can douse your servants before breakfast.”

Arthur’s grin faltered, though only slightly, and his brows lifted at the bite in her voice. “Servant, is it?” he echoed, his tone tilting toward defensive. “Funny, I thought you were supposed to be keeping me alive, not sulking over a little splash of water.” He punctuated the remark by reaching for a wedge of cheese from the trencher, biting into it with deliberate force as though the act itself might underline his point.

Erynd, crouched nearby with Arthur’s boots in his lap, smirked without lifting his eyes from his work. He ran the rag across the leather in slow, mocking circles. “She has a point, sire,” he drawled. “Hard to defend you if she catches her death from a chill. Not that I’d mind inheriting her duties—it might be quieter around here.”

Merilyn’s head whipped toward him, her glare sharp enough to scorch the leather in his hands. “Quieter perhaps,” she snapped, “but your boots would never shine again.”

Arthur chuckled at the exchange, but Merilyn turned sharply away from both of them, gathering a folded tunic from the chest with a snap that cracked through the chamber like a whip. She shook it out briskly, the fabric snapping in the air, and laid it across the chair with more force than necessary, the sound of the cloth smacking against the wood betraying her irritation. Every movement she made afterward was neat, precise, efficient—but laced with a tension that betrayed the temper she fought to cage.

Arthur watched her in silence for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on his cheese as though weighing his next words. At last he set the piece down, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re in a mood this morning.”

Merilyn pivoted on her heel, her eyes flashing like stormlight. “I was in a perfectly fine mood until someone decided to throw half the bath across the room,” she said, her voice low but charged, vibrating with barely restrained anger.

His mouth curved again, but this time the smile was slower, more cautious, as if he sensed how close she was to striking him with the very pitcher he had used against her. “I was only waking you up,” he said, his tone pitched somewhere between teasing and placating. “You looked half-dead at the window last night, and you’re still dragging your feet.”

Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding against the reply she longed to unleash. He could not know what had truly kept her awake—could not know of the girl lying in her cottage, curled beneath her mother’s quilt, trembling in her sleep as though she were still behind iron bars. He could not know that every heartbeat she spent here was divided, one ear straining toward the thought of guards marching through the Lower Town. His careless teasing scraped against the rawness in her chest, each word sparking anger and dread alike. She turned back to the bath instead, her silence drawn sharp and cutting, a blade unsheathed between them.

Arthur shifted, leaning one shoulder against the carved bedpost, his eyes narrowing as if he could peel back her thoughts from across the chamber. The air between them bristled, taut with everything unspoken, but before he could press the silence into words, Erynd cleared his throat with deliberate volume. He set the boots down with a flourish, his smirk audible in his tone. “If either of you are finished drowning each other, perhaps His Highness might consider taking his bath before the council grows impatient.”

Merilyn let out a short, sharp snort, more breath than laughter, shaking the damp from her sleeve in irritation. She did not bother to look back at Arthur. Her annoyance with him still burned, hot and prickling beneath her skin, but under it coiled something heavier, something she could not so easily shake. The memory of the night before pressed into her ribs like a blade—the iron bars slick with rain, the hollow, frightened eyes staring out from behind them, and the silent promise she had sworn when she pulled the child free. She carried that vow in her very marrow, and no amount of Arthur’s boyish antics could distract her from it.

The council chamber later that morning was thick with the storm’s lingering weight, the air close and damp despite the braziers spitting orange light along the walls. Rain still drummed against the high windows in a relentless rhythm, a sound that only heightened the hush that fell as the heavy doors swung inward. The echo rang through the vaulted space like thunder.

Halig entered first, looming as broad as an ox, his rain-slick leathers still glistening in the torchlight. His boots struck the stone with each deliberate step, leaving dark prints on the flagstones. Two knights flanked him, their armor dulled by weather, their faces grim. Together they advanced toward the dais, where Uther sat brooding on his high-backed chair, his presence cold and immovable as the throne itself.

Uther’s eyes lit with a hard gleam, suspicion and expectation sharpening in equal measure. “Ah, Halig,” he drawled, his voice edged with satisfaction that made Merilyn’s stomach knot. “You’ve come bearing gifts?”

Halig bowed stiffly, no deference in the gesture beyond what was required. “Yes, Sire. A druid girl.” His words stalled, and his thick brows furrowed. “But she escaped. Last night. Here in Camelot.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber, courtiers whispering behind raised hands. Uther’s jaw tightened, though his tone remained cold and steady. “Do not concern yourself. We will soon find her.” His hand cut through the air, sharp as a blade, pointing toward a knight standing near the door. “You—send men at once to aid in the search.”

The knight bowed swiftly and strode out.

But Halig’s eyes gleamed as he stepped closer, voice dropping into a darker register, as if he relished the weight of his next words. “You would do well to caution them, Sire. The girl is dangerous. My informer claimed she was cursed.”

A furrow carved deep into Uther’s brow. “How so?”

Halig’s mouth twisted into a smile that seemed to savor the uncertainty he was sowing. “He did not know the nature of it. Only that even the druids feared her. They cast her out of their camp.”

Gasps and mutters swelled again among the nobles. From the edge of the room, Gaius stepped forward, his face pale and troubled. “It is against everything the druids believe to abandon one in need of care,” he said firmly, his voice carrying across the chamber with the resonance of hard truth.

Uther’s frown deepened, shadows gathering in the hollows of his face. “Then why would they?”

Gaius lowered his head slightly, his voice quieter but heavy with foreboding. “I dread to think.”

Uther straightened, his decision as swift as the cut of steel. “Set sentries on all the gates. No one enters or leaves without being checked.”

Halig seized the opening, his tone eager, pressing his advantage. “We should search the Lower Town, Sire. If she has not fled already, someone may be harbouring her.”

Gaius’s gaze flicked toward Merilyn. It was quick, subtle, gone in an instant, but she felt the weight of it all the same, heavy and damning. “You think she had help?” he asked evenly, his words hanging like bait.

Halig grunted, the sound harsh. “I saw two figures running from the yard. She’s not alone.”

Uther’s voice sliced through the murmurs, hard and absolute. “Then give Halig all the assistance he requires. I want this girl—and her accomplice—found.”

The command settled like a pall. Courtiers bowed their heads and withdrew, the chamber emptying in a flurry of whispers and clattering boots. Only the echo of Uther’s decree remained, hanging in the air like smoke that refused to clear.

Merilyn turned to slip away, her pulse drumming in her ears, but Arthur’s hand closed around her arm just beyond the doors. The corridor outside was dim, shadows pooling where the torchlight faltered, the storm’s voice a constant whisper through the eaves. He drew her close into the alcove, his grip tight but not cruel, his expression grim. His eyes, sharp as tempered steel, fixed on her with unyielding certainty. His voice was low, clipped, meant for her ears alone.

“You did it,” he said flatly. There was no accusation in his tone, no astonishment—only the steady weight of knowledge, as if he had expected nothing else.

Merilyn did not bother with denial. She lifted her chin, her voice firm and unflinching despite the thunder of her heart. “She’s a child, Arthur. What was I meant to do? Leave her in that cage?”

His jaw worked, teeth clenched as though grinding down the frustration that threatened to break loose. He closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose, and exhaled through his teeth, the sound rough and heavy. When he opened them again, his gaze burned fierce and unrelenting. “Do you have any idea what happens if Uther discovers this?” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “He’ll burn you.”

Her eyes flashed, violet fire kindling in their depths, her fury as sharp as her resolve. “Then help me keep her hidden.”

The silence that followed stretched taut, heavy as a drawn bowstring. Merilyn could hear the rain dripping from the eaves outside, the faint clamor of guards already rallying in the courtyard. Arthur’s gaze searched hers, tracing every flicker of fire in her expression, every ounce of defiance she refused to yield. He looked like a man torn in two, standing on the invisible battlefield between duty and desire—between the law of his father and the law of his own heart.

Finally, with a sharp curse muttered under his breath, Arthur surrendered. The sound was low, almost guttural, as though dragged unwillingly from his chest. “Where is she?”

Merilyn hesitated for the barest moment, her breath catching as though she stood on the edge of a precipice. Then she lifted her chin, her voice quiet but steady. “My cottage,” she admitted. “In the Lower Town.”

Arthur’s head snapped toward her, his eyes flashing wide with incredulity before narrowing into something closer to fury. “Your cottage?” he repeated, his voice cutting through the corridor like the crack of a whip. “Are you out of your mind?”

She drew herself up taller, spine straightening in defiance, refusing to shrink under the blaze of his glare. “Where else was I meant to take her?” she shot back, her words quick and hot. “The tunnels? The catacombs? She’s a child, not a soldier—she would freeze or starve in those pits. At least in my cottage she has a roof, a bed, warmth—”

“—and half of Camelot trampling past your door!” Arthur snapped, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it contained. The sound carried, sharp enough that Merilyn darted a wary glance at the guards stationed further down the hall. Arthur raked a hand through his damp hair, the gesture restless, his frustration spilling out in ragged waves. “You didn’t think this through, Merilyn. For all your cleverness, for all your damned secrets and schemes, this time you’ve hidden a druid child in the one place she is most likely to be discovered.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging crescents into her palms until the sting of it steadied her. Her voice came low but unwavering, iron wrapped in velvet. “I thought of her, Arthur. I thought of the cage she sat in all night, the cold rain plastering her hair to her face, the terror in her eyes when she looked at me. That is what I thought of.”

Arthur’s expression faltered, just for a heartbeat, but his temper had not burned itself out. His mouth twisted as he shook his head, the words spilling out sharper than he intended. “You women,” he muttered, his tone bitter, “always thinking with your hearts, not your heads. And children—”

He did not finish. Merilyn’s arm twitched, her hand rising halfway as if to strike him across the face. The sheer audacity of his words seared through her like fire, outrage blazing so fierce it nearly broke free of her restraint. She stopped herself, though barely, her hand falling back to her side with a tremor. But the glare she leveled at him could have felled him where he stood.

Arthur froze, the weight of his own words crashing back upon him. Shame flickered across his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw. He drew in a breath, slow and uneven, his shoulders sagging a fraction. “That was… poorly said.”

Her voice trembled with fury, though quiet, every syllable sharpened to a blade’s edge. “Poorly said? If you think my heart makes me weak, Arthur Pendragon, then you have not been paying attention.”

He winced, dragging a hand down the planes of his face, his voice softening into something almost raw. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just—” His throat worked, words stalling before he forced them out again. “I’m frustrated. Uther will have the entire city combed by nightfall. If they find her there, if they find her with you…” His voice trailed into silence, the ending heavy and unspoken: I will lose you.

Merilyn’s anger did not vanish, but it shifted, the sharpness blunted by the crack she saw in him. Her fire dimmed to a steady burn, her voice calmer now, though no less resolute. She stepped closer, closing the gap between them until her words landed like a vow. “Then help me, Arthur. Not with lectures. Not with insults. With action. If she is to stay hidden, I need you.”

For a long moment he only looked at her, his jaw locked tight, his chest rising and falling as though he had run a battle’s length in full armor. The storm in his eyes had not passed, but its edge dulled beneath the force of her conviction. At last he gave a small nod, reluctant but certain. “Very well,” he said, voice roughened. “We’ll find a way.”

The silence returned, thick as the storm pressing against the castle walls. Arthur scrubbed a hand down his face again, then dropped it heavily to his side, his sigh half-exasperation, half-resignation. “I can’t just take your word for it,” he said at last, his tone low but firm. “If you’ve gone and hidden her in your cottage, I need to see her myself.”

Merilyn’s head snapped up, her jaw tightening like a trap. “Arthur—”

“No,” he cut in swiftly, his voice unyielding, steel beneath the quiet. “Don’t try to dissuade me. If Uther so much as whispers suspicion, the guards will tear through every corner of Camelot. If they reach your door, I need to know what I’m protecting you from.” His eyes locked onto hers, narrowing with a resolve she recognized all too well. “I need to see her.”

Her mouth opened, a retort rising fast, but faltered on her tongue. His expression left no room for evasion, no space for the careful walls she had so long built. This was not Arthur the prince, throwing his weight about with orders and titles. This was Arthur the man—stubborn, immovable, unwilling to remain in the dark when the truth lay within reach.

She let out a slow breath, her anger cooling into reluctant acceptance. “If you come, you come as quietly as shadow,” she warned, her voice sharp but steady. “No knights. No fanfare. She’s frightened enough already.”

Arthur’s mouth quirked at that, though the humor did not reach his eyes. “You think I’m bringing a parade?” he asked softly. “You wound me, Merilyn.”

“I might yet,” she muttered, the ghost of her earlier irritation still lingering, her damp sleeve clinging cold against her skin from his earlier stunt.

Erynd, who had been hunched at the far side of the chamber pretending to busy himself with boots, looked up at last. His brows knit together as he took in the scene, his voice dry but edged with real concern. “Are you both mad? Sneaking a druid child under Uther’s nose is one thing, but dragging Arthur Pendragon through the Lower Town to your cottage? That’s how you invite death to tea.”

Arthur’s gaze cut to him like a drawn blade, sharp and warning. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Erynd gave a low whistle and bent back over his work, muttering just loud enough for them to hear. “Doesn’t stop me from giving it.”

Merilyn ignored him, her eyes never leaving Arthur’s. “She’s fragile, Arthur,” she said quietly, the words carrying more weight than the storm outside. “She’s been through more than you can imagine. If you frighten her—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone softer now though still carrying the edge of command. His jaw tightened, the line of his mouth grim but resolute. “But I won’t stand idle either. Not if this choice ties both our fates together.”

And there it was—the truth beneath his frustration, his ill-timed remarks, his fury at her recklessness. He wasn’t only afraid of Uther discovering the girl. He was afraid of losing her.

Erynd tossed down the rag he’d been using, the soft thump against the floor louder than it should have been. He leaned his elbows on his knees, studying them both with that look of grim practicality that had gotten him through more battles than either of them liked to count. “You’re both forgetting the obvious,” he said. “If the girl really is cursed—as Halig claims—then hiding her in a cottage only buys time. You need someone who can untangle whatever’s wrapped around her before Uther’s men sniff her out.”

Merilyn stiffened, her stomach tightening. “She isn’t cursed.”

“You don’t know that,” Erynd countered, his tone not unkind, but unflinching. “None of us do. If even the druids cast her out, there’s something at work here. And if there’s even a chance it’s true…” He hesitated, then pressed on. “You should send her to Lenora.”

The name struck her like a chord, vibrating through marrow and memory. Lenora—the high priestess who had trained her alongside Elric, who had pressed a staff into her hands for the first time and taught her how to anchor herself when the magic clawed too wild. Lenora, who had knelt at her bedside after Ealdor, when Merilyn had nearly bled herself dry to save Arthur, who had bound her wounds and whispered her back to life with herbs, prayer, and a steady hand.

Arthur’s gaze flicked to Merilyn at the name, reading her expression too easily. “Lenora?” he echoed.

“She was my teacher,” Merilyn said quietly, her voice rough with the weight of memory. “A healer. A guide.” She swallowed hard. “If anyone could see past rumor, past lies, if anyone could help this girl…it would be her.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Where is she now?”

“North,” Merilyn replied. “Beyond the Whitewood. Days from here. Perhaps more, in weather like this.” She shook her head, frustration bleeding into her tone. “It’s too far. Too dangerous. The roads are crawling with Uther’s patrols—she’d never make it.”

“She might,” Erynd said, unrelenting. “If your guard takes her.”

Merilyn blinked, caught off guard by his certainty. “My guard?”

Erynd gave her a pointed look. “You’ve got men who’d follow you into fire. Send one. Better him than you—because if you vanish, Uther notices. And if the girl stays, she’s as good as caught. You want her safe? Get her out of Camelot before the noose tightens.”

Silence hung for a long moment, broken only by the groan of the storm through the shutters. Merilyn’s heart hammered. The thought of sending Freya away so soon—alone, with only a sword at her side—made her chest ache. And yet, Erynd was right. Every hour the girl remained in her cottage was a gamble, one the whole of Camelot would soon lose.

Arthur shifted, his jaw tightening. “And what if Lenora can’t help her? What if the curse is real?” His tone was sharp, but beneath it lay something raw. “You’d stake your life on a long shot?”

Merilyn’s eyes flashed as she turned to him. “I’ve staked my life on worse. On you.”

That silenced him, just for a heartbeat. He swallowed hard, looking away, as though the memory of Ealdor pressed down on him too—the blood, the fire, the moment she had nearly died so he could live.

Arthur raked a hand through his hair, muttering a curse. “You’re impossible,” he said finally. His voice was taut, brittle, the words snapping more from fear than anger.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The storm had eased by the time darkness fell, but the city still wore its remnants like bruises. Water coursed along the gutters of the Lower Town, carrying mud and straw with it, and the air smelled of smoke, rain, and damp wool. The streets had thinned with curfew, lanterns guttering in the occasional window, shadows lengthening between the crooked buildings. Arthur walked cloaked, his hood drawn low, but still he moved like a man who belonged to the daylight — upright, certain, shoulders squared as though he dared anyone to question him. Beside him, Merilyn’s steps were quicker, softer, every stride sharp with unease as she guided him down narrow lanes she knew by heart.

Her cottage came into view at last, small and unremarkable, tucked into the corner of a narrow street where stormwater dripped steadily from the thatch. Merilyn pushed the door open with a care that made Arthur realize just how tightly she held herself. Inside, the air was warmer, still close with the remnants of the morning fire. A single candle burned low on the table, casting a wavering halo of light across the worn shelves, the quilt-draped bed, and the small, slight figure curled beneath it.

Freya stirred at the sound of the door, blinking wide-eyed from her cocoon of blankets. She froze when she saw Arthur, her gaze flaring with alarm. Her thin hands clutched the quilt as though it could shield her from him.

Merilyn was at her side in an instant, kneeling by the bed, her voice soft and steady. “It’s all right, Freya. He’s with me.” She smoothed the girl’s hair back from her damp forehead, her touch practiced, maternal. “This is Arthur. He’s not here to hurt you.”

Arthur lingered in the doorway at first, struck by the sight of her — not only the child, but Merilyn herself. The way she bent over the girl, her hands careful, her voice threaded with warmth and steel in equal measure, tore at him. For the first time he truly saw it — the shape of her grief, the hollow carved into her that no battle could heal. She looked at Freya not only as a girl in need, but as if she were something once lost and found again for a fleeting, fragile moment.

He stepped forward, slowly, making himself smaller, less imposing. “Freya,” he said quietly, testing the name on his tongue. “You’re safe here.” His voice carried no command, no expectation — only the quiet certainty of a man who wanted her to believe it.

Freya’s eyes darted between them, uncertain, but her grip on Merilyn’s sleeve eased by a fraction.

Arthur’s gaze flicked to Merilyn, and the truth struck him with an ache he could not swallow down. He remembered her silence on long nights, the weight she carried like a second cloak, the way her eyes sometimes seemed older than her face. And now, in the flickering candlelight, he understood. He saw it in her trembling patience, in the fierce way she shielded this child as though defying the entire kingdom to touch her. The loss of her own children still lived in her, raw despite the years, and here she was again — daring fate to take another from her grasp.

“Merilyn,” he murmured, her name breaking against the quiet.

She glanced up at him, her expression taut, wary of what he might say. But what he found himself speaking was not rebuke, nor lecture, nor even warning. It was softer, weighted with something far more dangerous. “I didn’t realize,” he said simply. “Not fully. Until now.”

Her lips parted, and for a heartbeat she looked as though she might deflect, might build the walls she had always built. But then her shoulders sagged, her hand still smoothing Freya’s hair, and the fire in her eyes dulled into something closer to grief. “I can’t watch another child suffer in front of me,” she whispered, the words trembling with all the things she never said aloud. “Not when I’ve already given one up and lost another."

The words lingered in the small room like smoke, fragile and suffocating all at once. Arthur stood rooted, struck by the rawness she had finally allowed to bleed through. For so long she had hidden herself behind sharp wit, behind quick retorts and careful walls, but here — in this flickering half-light, with a child’s thin fingers knotted in her sleeve — she was unarmored. He could see the fracture lines running deep beneath her strength, the ache she had carried in silence, the hollow carved by two children lost to time and fate.

Something inside him gave way. Slowly, he crossed the remaining space and crouched beside her, the boards creaking beneath his weight. He reached out with a hand that trembled faintly, not with hesitation but with the reverence of one who knew how easily a single wrong touch might shatter her. His palm brushed against her shoulder, warm against the dampness of her sleeve, before his hand slid up to cradle the side of her head.

Merilyn’s eyes flicked up to his, startled, violet fire dimmed now into something fragile, uncertain. Before she could speak, before she could retreat behind her defenses, Arthur bent his head and pressed his lips gently to her forehead. The kiss was brief, no more than a breath against her skin, but it was steady — a vow made not in words but in the quiet language of presence.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he whispered, his voice low, meant for her and her alone. The storm outside might as well not have existed; the world had narrowed to the warmth of his hand in her hair, the weight of his promise in the air between them.

For a moment Merilyn closed her eyes, her breath hitching as if the contact had unlocked something she had long since buried. She did not lean away. Instead, she stilled beneath his touch, her shoulders trembling as though the years of holding herself upright were finally too heavy.

Freya shifted under the quilt, her wide eyes flicking from one to the other, confusion and wonder mingling in her gaze. But Merilyn smoothed the child’s hair again, her hand steady despite the tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. Arthur’s forehead lingered against hers for a heartbeat longer, and in that fragile silence he understood: this was not simply about saving a druid girl. This was about saving Merilyn from breaking under the weight of her own unspoken sorrow.

When he drew back, his hand still resting lightly against her cheek, his eyes held none of the teasing arrogance she had cursed him for earlier that day. They were softer now, stripped bare, carrying something closer to devotion.

Arthur’s thumb brushed once against her cheekbone before he let his hand fall, though his gaze lingered, steady and unguarded. “We can’t keep her here,” he said, his voice low but no longer sharp. The words carried no accusation, only a hard truth. “If the knights sweep the Lower Town, your cottage will be among the first they search. Uther already smells blood in the air. We need a way to move her before they come knocking.”

Merilyn drew in a long, slow breath, her fingers still stroking the damp strands of Freya’s hair. The girl’s lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but her thin hand clung to Merilyn’s sleeve as if the slightest loosening might cast her adrift. Merilyn’s chest ached at the grip, fierce and fragile all at once. “She can’t survive the catacombs,” she murmured. “Not alone. And I won’t leave her to tremble in the dark.”

Arthur shifted closer, his cloak brushing against hers as he leaned in. “Then we give her to someone who can move her safely. Someone the guards won’t think twice about seeing on the road. One of your guard, perhaps. They’d die before betraying you.” His jaw worked, his voice firm but gentled by the look in his eyes. “If she goes north, she might make it to Lenora. And if there’s truth in what Halig said about curses…” He hesitated, weighing the words. “Then Lenora may be her only chance.”

The name settled between them like a stone cast into still water, rippling outward. Merilyn closed her eyes briefly, feeling the familiar pull at the back of her mind — the bond she had not called upon in months. Nerys. The Tide. The woman whose presence was like water itself: steady, cleansing, merciless when stirred.

Merilyn reached for her in silence, not with words spoken aloud but with the quiet extension of thought and rune, her mind brushing against currents she had once known like the rhythm of the sea. She pictured dark hair braided with shells, eyes that shifted with the tide, a voice that steadied storms. Nerys, she whispered inwardly, sending the thought like a pebble into deep waters. I need you. A child needs you.

A faint hum answered — not words, not yet, but a tremor like the swell of a tide acknowledging the moon’s call.

Her eyes opened, violet glinting in the candlelight, and she looked at Arthur. “If we move her, we move her to the guard. Nerys can take her farther. She’ll keep her hidden, guide her to Lenora. If anyone can cleanse what’s been done to her, it’s Lenora.” Her voice trembled, not with doubt, but with the weight of placing hope in something as fragile as a plan.

Arthur studied her for a long moment, his face shadowed but intent. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” His hand brushed her arm again, a fleeting contact, grounding them both. “But we must be swift. By morning, the gates will be sealed, and every soldier in Camelot will be looking for her.”

Merilyn bent her head, pressing a final kiss into Freya’s hair. The child’s eyes fluttered closed, her breathing steadying as though the sound of their voices had lulled her, unaware of the storm that gathered on her behalf. Merilyn’s hand lingered, unwilling to let go, even as she whispered, “We’ll keep you safe.”

Arthur’s gaze softened again, watching her with a mixture of reverence and fear, as though he had glimpsed both the wound and the fire that defined her. For the first time, he saw clearly that she was not just fighting for the child before them. She was fighting against the ghosts that haunted her, refusing to let the world tear away another piece of her heart.

The candle burned low as the night deepened, its flame guttering against the drafts that slipped in through the cracks in the shutters. Merilyn and Arthur worked in silence, broken only by the occasional murmur between them and the rustle of cloth. Freya sat propped on the edge of the bed, her limbs thin and awkward as a newborn fawn, while Merilyn rifled through the small chest at the foot of her bed. She drew out garments she had kept folded there for years — a soft woolen shift, patched but warm, and a cloak she had once sewn for herself but had long outgrown.

Arthur knelt at the hearth, coaxing embers back to life so that the water in the small iron pot could warm. He was no servant, no hand accustomed to such work, yet he moved with the quiet purpose of a man who had decided there was no task beneath him tonight. When the steam began to rise, Merilyn wrung out a cloth and knelt before Freya, her hands gentle as she bathed the girl’s face, smoothing away the grime of days spent in fear. Each stroke was deliberate, reverent, as if she were washing away the memory of the cage itself.

Arthur turned once, watching them, and something in his chest shifted at the sight: Merilyn bent over the girl, hair falling loose and pale around her shoulders, her face softened by an expression he had rarely seen — not only fierce, not only unyielding, but tender in a way that spoke of wounds and love in equal measure.

They worked through the hours without complaint. Arthur mended a tear in the cloak with thread clumsy in his large hands, muttering curses under his breath that made Merilyn huff a weary laugh. She braided Freya’s hair to keep it from her eyes, her fingers nimble, weaving small shells she kept from her youth into the plaits as though gifting the child some fragment of beauty, some reminder she belonged to more than fear. They pressed warm bread into her hands, urging her to eat, coaxing her to sip the broth Arthur had managed not to burn.

By the time the moon had climbed high, silver light spilling through the shuttered cracks, Freya no longer looked like a child dragged from chains. She looked like any girl wrapped in her mother’s cloak, ready to travel under cover of night. Arthur fetched the cloak from the peg and settled it over her shoulders, fastening it carefully at the throat. His fingers brushed the small hollow beneath her collarbone, and Freya startled, glancing up at him. He smiled faintly — no arrogance, no jest, only the solemnity of someone who wished to be trusted. She gave the smallest nod.

Merilyn rose and drew a deep breath. Her moonstone necklace lay untouched on the desk, the spell dormant, her disguise abandoned. She had not worn it since the storm broke, and tonight she did not reach for it. If anyone saw her, they would see her not as “Merlin” the manservant but as the woman she truly was — a woman guiding a child into the uncertain dark, and Arthur Pendragon walking at her side.

They stepped into the street, the door closing quietly behind them. The Lower Town lay hushed under curfew, lanterns dark, the only light the cold gleam of the moon as it slid between scudding clouds. Their footsteps splashed through shallow puddles, the sound loud in the silence. Arthur kept close, his cloak brushing hers, one hand resting lightly near his sword hilt though he hoped not to use it.

And then, without warning, Freya faltered.

At first it was only a shiver, a tremor that coursed through her thin frame as though the night’s chill had finally seeped too deep. Merilyn tightened her grip on her hand, glancing down in concern. “Freya?” she whispered. But the girl’s eyes had gone wide, glassy, as if she no longer saw the street before her. Her breath hitched once, twice, before a sound tore from her throat — not a cry, not human, but something guttural, raw, edged with pain.

Her body convulsed. She dropped to her knees, the cloak tangling around her, and before Arthur could move, before Merilyn could gather her close, the curse took hold.

It burst out of her like a riptide. Shadows clung to her skin, rippling and twisting, her limbs elongating, her face contorting into something neither wholly human nor wholly beast. The sound that followed shattered the silence of the Lower Town — a shriek that split the night, rising to the rafters of the crooked houses, scattering roosting birds into the air.

“Arthur!” Merilyn cried, reaching for the girl, but her hands met only the lashing of shadow and claw. Freya — no, the thing that wore her shape — surged forward, slamming against the cobbles, her cloak tearing away.

Arthur drew his sword, but his eyes were not on the creature alone. They were on Merilyn, standing bareheaded in the moonlight, white hair gleaming, her dress clinging damp from earlier, no enchantment to shield her. To every window that opened in fear, to every shadowed face peering out into the street, it looked like Arthur Pendragon himself had stolen away with a woman — and that the woman was now standing in the middle of the Lower Town beside a monster.

“Get back!” Arthur shouted, his voice carrying through the narrow lane, but already doors were cracking open, whispers slithering like smoke into the air.

The whispers swelled from the doorways, low at first, then sharper as more shutters creaked open. The curse had drawn the Lower Town awake, its residents peering from the dark with eyes that would carry stories by morning.

Merilyn’s heart slammed against her ribs as the Bastet twisted free of its shreds of cloak. It was no longer Freya—not fully. The girl’s body had stretched into something leaner, animalistic, her hands curving into claws, her mouth splitting with teeth that caught the moonlight. Shadows rippled like a second skin, fur and darkness tangled together, and her eyes gleamed with a hunger that had nothing of the child in them.

Merilyn instinctively raised her hand, runes flaring beneath her skin. But she froze before the first syllable could pass her lips. Here, on the open street, with faces pressed to glass and guards sure to arrive at the first shout, magic would not only doom her — it would doom Arthur beside her. Her hand trembled, then fell, helpless at her side.

“Arthur,” she hissed, her voice raw with panic. “I can’t.”

He caught the words, even as he shifted his stance, blade angled between them and the beast. “Then stay behind me.”

The Bastet lunged, faster than Merilyn could track. Claws swept wide, raking the air with a whistle. Arthur swung his sword up to meet the blow, steel clashing against shadow-flesh with a sound that seemed to shiver the air itself. The impact forced him back a step, boots skidding on wet cobbles, but he held his ground.

Merilyn darted in from the side, reaching for Freya’s arm—the girl’s arm—desperate to find some remnant of the child beneath the curse. But the creature whipped its head toward her with a snarl, teeth flashing. Before she could retreat, claws raked across her leg. Pain flared hot and sharp, ripping through fabric and skin alike. She stumbled with a strangled cry, the taste of iron flooding her mouth as her body pitched against the wall for balance.

Arthur’s head snapped toward her, fury blazing across his face. “Merilyn!” His shout was equal parts warning and fear.

The Bastet’s attention followed, its shadowed body coiling for another strike.

Merilyn’s heart hammered, runes burning beneath her skin, begging to be loosed. But she bit down hard, forcing them still. If she revealed her magic here, with the townsfolk watching from every shutter, she would not only condemn herself — she would condemn Arthur for standing at her side.

Arthur surged forward, blade cutting a bright arc through the moonlight, driving the beast back with sheer force. The creature shrieked, shadows peeling from its form in long, twisting ribbons, but still it did not falter. It circled them, claws scraping sparks from stone, eyes fixed on Merilyn as though sensing weakness in her refusal to fight.

She staggered upright, clutching at her bleeding leg, her breath ragged. Arthur pressed closer, sword raised, but she could see the tension in his grip. He would kill if forced—but this was no nameless monster. It was Freya.

Her gaze darted to his belt. Without thinking, she seized the dagger sheathed there, fingers slick against the hilt. She stepped in front of him before he could stop her, ignoring the pain burning in her leg, planting herself squarely between Arthur and the creature.

“Merilyn!” he barked, fury and fear tangled in his voice. But she stood firm, dagger gleaming in her hand.

“Freya!” she cried, her voice ringing through the narrow street, desperate, commanding. “Come back! It’s me—Merilyn. You’re not this. You’re not a beast.”

The Bastet prowled closer, shoulders rolling, muscles rippling beneath shadow and sinew. Its ears flattened against its skull, and the sound that ripped from its throat was half-growl, half-scream. But for a heartbeat—just one—its eyes flickered. Gold flared beneath the black, the shimmer of a girl staring out from the prison of her own body.

Merilyn seized the moment, her dagger lowering though her body remained taut as a bowstring. “Fight it, Freya,” she begged, her voice breaking on the edges of grief. “Fight it. Come back to me.”

Arthur shifted behind her, his blade still raised, but his eyes never left her. In that instant he saw her not as the sorcerer she kept hidden, not as the servant she pretended to be, but as a woman standing unarmed against the darkness with nothing but her voice, her fury, and her love.

The Bastet screamed again, shaking its head violently as though two wills warred within the same body. Its claws slammed against the stones, sparks flying, and Merilyn knew—it was far from over.

The Bastet shrieked, lunging forward in a blur of shadow and sinew. Arthur lifted his sword, ready to meet it with steel, but Merilyn moved first. Her grip tightened on the dagger until the hilt bit into her palm, and in that heartbeat she made her choice.

If the knights found Freya like this, they would not hesitate. They would cut her down with arrows and blades, tearing her apart until nothing of the girl remained. There would be no mercy, no chance for her humanity to be remembered. Only blood and screams in the streets.

Merilyn would not let that be her end.

The world seemed to narrow, sound dulling to the ragged pull of her breath, the thundering of her heart. She stepped into the creature’s path, side-stepping the slash of its claws. The movement tore her wound open further, fire racing down her leg, but she pushed through the pain. The Bastet loomed over her, its maw open, fangs dripping shadow. For the barest instant, those gold-flecked eyes flashed again — Freya, terrified, trapped inside her own body.

Merilyn struck.

The dagger drove up beneath the ribcage, angled swift and precise, finding the heart before the creature could recoil. The Bastet convulsed, a sound tearing from its throat that was both beast and child, echoing through the narrow street like the dying scream of two souls at war. Shadows writhed violently, peeling back, unraveling into smoke that curled upward and vanished into the night air.

And then there was only Freya again.

She sagged against Merilyn, small and fragile, her wide eyes clearing for a single instant. Blood flecked her lips as she breathed out one final, broken whisper. “Thank you.” Her fingers twitched against Merilyn’s sleeve, and then her body went still.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Merilyn cradled the girl against her, her chest heaving, the dagger slipping from her hand to clatter against the cobblestones. She pressed her forehead to Freya’s damp hair, her throat raw with words she could not speak. The child she had fought so desperately to save had slipped through her fingers like water, and she could do nothing but hold her in the moonlight.

Arthur stood frozen behind her, his sword lowered, his face stark with shock. He had seen her fight with fury, with cunning, with defiance — but never like this. Never with such terrible tenderness. His chest ached with something he could not name as he watched her gather the lifeless girl into her arms, rocking her gently as though she were still alive, as though comfort might still matter.

Shutters banged shut one by one as the townsfolk pulled away from their windows, too afraid of what they had witnessed to linger. But whispers would already be racing through the Lower Town — of a woman at Arthur Pendragon’s side, white-haired and fierce, standing in the street with a dead druid child in her arms.

Arthur finally moved, sheathing his sword with a sharp scrape of steel. He stepped forward, kneeling at her side, his voice low and rough. “Meri…”

Arthur’s voice caught in his throat, the name dying half-formed as the thunder of boots shattered the fragile silence. Lantern light flared at the end of the street, bouncing against wet stone and rippling across the puddles. Steel clinked, orders barked, the sound of men closing in fast.

Merilyn didn’t stir. She clung to Freya’s body, rocking faintly, her hair falling like a silver curtain around her face. Her lips moved soundlessly, words spilling only for the child whose eyes would never open again.

Arthur’s hand closed hard around her shoulder. “Merilyn,” he hissed, urgent now. “You have to let go.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to hear him. The world had narrowed to the cold weight in her arms, the blood soaking into her skirts, the echo of that last whisper—thank you—still slicing her raw.

The knights were nearly upon them. Arthur’s jaw clenched. He grabbed her wrists, pried her hands away from the child with more force than he wanted to use, and hauled her upright. Her eyes flew to his, wild, dazed, as though she might fight him for the right to hold Freya a moment longer. But then she saw it—the torchlight, the spears, the narrow street filling with Uther’s men—and understanding slammed into her.

Arthur shoved her back against the wall, his body shielding hers from the first line of knights. His voice dropped to a razor whisper. “They can’t know who you are. Do you hear me? Right now, you’re no one. Stay silent. Stay still.”

Her chest heaved, fury and grief burning behind her eyes, but she gave the smallest nod.

The first of the knights arrived, swords raised, shields up. Behind them lumbered Halig, his dark leathers slick with rain, his beady eyes gleaming at the sight of the lifeless child sprawled on the cobbles.

“Prince Arthur!” one knight barked. “Are you hurt?”

Arthur straightened, his voice clipped, cold. “I’m unharmed. The beast came through here.”

Halig shoved past the men, his lip curling at the sight of the small body. He spat on the stones. “Told you she was cursed,” he growled. “Better off dead.” His eyes flicked sideways, catching on Merilyn’s pale figure in the shadows. “And this?”

Arthur shifted subtly, blocking Halig’s view, his face like carved stone. “A woman of the Lower Town. She saw what happened. Nothing more.”

Merilyn’s heart clenched at the words, but she understood. Every syllable was a shield, buying her the anonymity she needed to survive. Still, the dismissal struck deep, her grief curdling into something jagged.

Halig sneered but didn’t press, kneeling over Freya’s still form. “Uther will be pleased the thing’s been dealt with. He’ll want proof.” He grabbed the child by the wrist, dragging her limp body toward the knights.

“Enough,” Arthur snapped, his voice a whipcrack. “Show some respect. She was still a child.”

Halig froze at the tone, then grudgingly released her arm, muttering curses under his breath. The knights exchanged wary glances, but none dared challenge Arthur.

“Take the body to Gaius,” Arthur ordered tightly. “He’ll see it tended before it reaches the pyre.”

The men obeyed, lifting Freya with rough hands. Merilyn swayed against the wall, her nails biting into her palms, the sight tearing through her like a blade. Every instinct screamed to fight for her, to stop them, but Arthur’s weight at her side held her still.

And then—two figures stumbled into the far end of the lane. Gaius, robes heavy with rain, and Erynd, his dark hair plastered to his face, both breathless as though they had run from the palace itself. Their eyes landed on her at once—Merilyn, pale, bleeding, dazed, standing against the wall while the knights carried the girl away.

“Gods above,” Gaius breathed, rushing to her side. His hands fluttered uselessly, checking her wound, her face, the tremor in her body. “Child… what have you done?”

Erynd’s gaze burned hotter, flicking between her and Arthur, piecing together what neither of them would say aloud. He slid an arm beneath her good side, steadying her when her knees threatened to buckle. “She shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp. “Not like this.”

Merilyn didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mind was a storm—shutters slamming, whispers hissing, Freya’s last words looping endlessly in her skull. She had saved her from the cage only to kill her with her own hand. Quick. Clean. The only mercy she could give. And yet her body recoiled as if she had done something monstrous, as if her bloodied dagger would never leave her palm no matter how often she washed it.

Arthur met Erynd’s glare over her head, his expression taut, unreadable. But when his hand closed once more around Merilyn’s shoulder, it lingered—not as command, not as disavowal, but as the only anchor he could give her while the world threatened to tear her apart.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The lane emptied slowly, the clamor of boots and the clatter of armor receding into the distance until the night swallowed them whole. Only rain and silence remained, pooling in the narrow gutters, seeping into the cracks between stones. The townsfolk had already drawn their shutters tight, but whispers still clung to the air like smoke, curling unseen, waiting to spread with the dawn.

Only when the final torchlight disappeared around the bend did Arthur ease his grip on Merilyn’s shoulder. His fingers slipped away reluctantly, as though the act itself cost him, and in the absence of that steady anchor she sagged, her weight falling into Erynd’s bracing arm. She shook as though the cold had seeped deep into her bones, marrow frozen, her body unable to distinguish between rain and blood.

Gaius was already at her feet, his knees creaking as he dropped heavily to the slick cobblestones. With care, he lifted the torn edge of her skirts, revealing where the Bastet’s claws had raked deep. Blood streaked down her leg in crimson rivulets, fresh and bright against the filth of the street, running freely with every uneven heartbeat. His breath caught sharply at the sight, though his hands did not falter. “It’s bad,” he muttered, his voice low but tight with urgency. He reached for the worn satchel slung over his shoulder, fingers already fishing for herbs and cloth. “We must clean it before it festers.”

Erynd shifted closer, his palm still firm beneath her arm, steadying her as though he could bear the weight of her trembling himself. Light flickered faintly between his fingers, a soft glow gathering like dawn beneath his skin. “I can take it,” he said, his voice pitched low, roughened by resolve. “The wound. Give it to me.”

“No.”

The word tore from her throat like a lash, sharp and sudden, striking before Gaius could even nod. It cracked open the silence, raw and jarring, startling even herself. Her eyes lifted, violet still burning despite the haze of shock, pinning Erynd in place with a force that left no room for argument. “Not tonight.”

The glow in his hand faltered, then died. His brow furrowed, confusion darkening quickly into hurt. “You’re bleeding out, Merilyn—”

“I said no.” This time her voice shook, the tremor betraying her exhaustion, but it did not waver in its weight. It carried something deeper than defiance, something that rooted itself in grief. “I won’t steal from you to mend what I broke.” Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms until they stung. Her gaze did not falter, even as her lip trembled. “I took a life tonight. A child’s. Do you hear me? I ended her. If my leg rots, if it scars—so be it. I’ll bear it. But I won’t take more. Not from you.”

The rain whispered down the gutters, filling the silence she left behind. Erynd’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping as though he fought to shape an answer, but nothing came. His mouth opened, then closed again, and in the end he folded his arms across his chest, retreating into shadow. The look on his face was unreadable, half anger, half sorrow, but the anguish in her voice had left no room for his protest.

Gaius’s hands did not falter, though his heart clenched at every word. He pressed his palm gently against her knee, holding her still, speaking in that practiced calm he had used to steady kings and apprentices alike. “Very well,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet finality. “No magic. But then you must suffer the time it takes to heal. And you must endure what I can do with what little I have here.”

“I will,” she whispered. Her throat was raw, every syllable breaking against it, but she forced the words out. “I deserve no less.”

Arthur had not spoken once, but he stood only a pace away, looming in the shadows of the rain-slicked lane. His hands were still stained, not only with the fight but with the memory of it, and his jaw was set hard. Yet his eyes never left her—tracking every tremor, every flinch, every tear she refused to let fall. It was as though he were memorizing her pain, cataloguing it in his own bones so she would not bear it alone, even if she would never allow him to say it aloud.

Gaius worked swiftly, drawing a strip of cloth from his satchel, soaking it with the dregs of sour wine. He pressed it hard against the wound, and Merilyn hissed, the sound breaking sharp between her clenched teeth. Her fingers dug into the cobblestones slick with rain, her shoulders rigid as the sting seared through her leg like fire. She did not cry out. She did not beg. She only set her jaw until the bone ached, forcing herself to endure every second, as though she deserved to feel it, as though penance required pain.

Erynd shifted restlessly, his arms still folded tight, anger twitching at the corners of his mouth. He looked ready to step in, ready to tear the cloth from Gaius’s hands and force the healing himself, but he stayed rooted, bound by the line she had drawn. Arthur’s fists flexed at his sides, his knuckles blanching, the urge to intervene scraping hard against the understanding that this was not his battle to fight. This was hers. A punishment she had chosen for herself, and neither man could take it from her.

When Gaius at last finished binding the wound, his touch gentler than before, Merilyn sagged back against the wall with a shudder that seemed to empty her. Her breath came shallow, every inhale a ragged scrape that pulled at her chest. Her face had gone pale beneath the wet strands of hair plastered to her temples, her skin sheened with rain and sweat, yet it was not her body that unsettled them most. It was her eyes. They were hollow—not the blankness of someone gone entirely, but the hollow of something scooped clean from within, leaving grief sitting in the empty space where her fire usually burned.

“She looked at me, Gaius,” she whispered at last. Her voice fractured around the words, fragile and unmoored, as her fingers curled hard into the bloodstained folds of her skirt. “She looked at me, and she thanked me. As if I hadn’t stolen everything from her.”

The sentence cracked in the air, and with it, the dam she had forced around herself gave way. Her shoulders buckled forward, the line of her body collapsing in on itself as sobs tore free. The sound was raw, not sharp but guttural, dragged from deep inside her chest until it shook her whole frame. She pressed her hands to her face as though she might stifle it, but the grief was too wide, too heavy for her narrow body to contain. It filled the narrow street, low and breaking, almost too much for the night to bear.

Gaius gathered her carefully, his arms stiff from years of disuse but steady all the same, drawing her against his shoulder. His embrace was awkward, but there was no mistaking the intent—the simple, human act of presence. He did not tell her to be strong, nor remind her of mercy. He simply held her and let her grieve.

Erynd’s gaze softened, the fire of his earlier anger extinguishing into something quieter, something aching. He shifted closer, kneeling opposite Gaius, his palm hovering just above her shoulder. He did not touch her, not yet—only offered his strength in silent reach, giving her the choice to take it or not. For once, his sharpness was gone, leaving only the weight of loyalty and helpless sorrow.

Arthur turned his face away, his throat tight, his vision burning as the rain blurred the torchlight at the end of the street. He had fought monsters, had killed men, had watched blood soak into the ground countless times, but nothing in all his battles had prepared him for this—for the sound of Merilyn breaking apart beside him, for the sight of her cradled not by magic or defiance, but by grief too deep to be hidden. He stood a pace away, rigid, unable to give voice to the words that pressed against his chest, because he knew none of them would be enough.

The morning that followed came bleak and brittle, the light thin as paper filtering through the narrow windows of Gaius’s chambers. The storm had passed, but it had left the air heavy with damp rot and the lingering stench of torches burned too long. Merilyn stirred on the cot tucked into the far corner, the coarse blanket drawn up to her chin. Pain pulsed through her leg where Gaius’s bandages bound the claw marks tight, each throb echoing against her ribs, where even her breathing scraped like gravel.

For a fleeting moment, half-dreaming, she thought she was still in her cottage. She almost expected to hear the soft sound of Freya’s breathing beneath her mother’s quilt, to glimpse the faint rise and fall of a child’s chest in the candlelight. Her head turned weakly, her eyes searching the shadows, but instead of finding that fragile shape she found only jars and vials stacked high on Gaius’s shelves. The reality struck like a hammer blow, crushing, and her throat closed against it.

Gaius was already awake, bent over his workbench. The sharp tang of crushed comfrey and vinegar cut through the air, thick and acrid. His hands moved with practiced care, but slower than usual, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of sleeplessness and quiet sorrow. The lines carved into his face seemed deeper than ever, grooves etched not only by age but by the grief of carrying others’ burdens too long.

When she shifted, the simple movement dragging fire through her leg and pulling a hiss from between her teeth, he turned at once. His eyes softened though exhaustion rimmed them dark. “Careful,” he murmured, setting aside the pestle. He crossed to her cot, his presence steady, the faint smell of herbs clinging to his robe. “You shouldn’t be moving yet.”

“I couldn’t go back,” she rasped. Her voice was raw, still hoarse from the night’s tears, and she fixed her gaze on the rafters rather than the floor, afraid of the memories waiting there. “Not to that house. Not where she—” Her voice cracked, the sentence breaking off into silence.

“I know.” His reply carried no judgment, no admonishment, only the quiet gravity of a man who had lived long enough to know when words were useless. He bent, checking the bandages at her leg with careful, deliberate hands. “You’re safe here. Rest.”

But rest was a cruel demand. Even lying still, the whispers pressed against her ears. She could almost hear them moving through the city already, woven from mouths in the Lower Town and carried into the court. A woman in the streets. White hair gleaming in the moonlight. Arthur Pendragon at her side. The words would twist, mutate, sharpen with every retelling, but the seed had been planted, and it would grow.

Her stomach churned. Not only had she killed a child, she had done it without her mask, standing unshielded in the open. The illusion she had clung to for years—the secret she had buried in shadows—had been dragged into the torchlight, wrapped in blood and moonlight.

The door opened softly with the dawn, and Erynd slipped in, his cloak damp with lingering drizzle, his hair plastered against his forehead. His face carried the weariness of a man who had stolen no more than an hour of sleep, his jaw tight with unshed words. He halted just inside the chamber, his eyes raking over her pale face, the damp strands clinging to her temples, the tremor in her hands as she pushed herself upright against the cot.

“You look half-dead,” Erynd muttered at last. His voice was rough, but the sharpness in it had dulled, tempered by something quieter, something that made the words fall more like concern than rebuke.

Merilyn tried to summon a smirk, the familiar mask of wit and defiance, but it faltered on her lips. What emerged was only a pale echo of her usual sharpness, a ghost of the retorts she might once have wielded with ease. “Then I match how I feel,” she murmured, her voice strained, each word trembling beneath the weight she carried.

Erynd eased into the chair beside her cot, his cloak still damp from the rain, the smell of wet earth clinging faintly to him. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and studied her with a frown that spoke more truth than his words ever could. “The city’s already buzzing,” he said grimly. “Half the Lower Town swears they saw Arthur last night with a woman. Some call her a sorceress, others a harlot. They don’t know it was you.” His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath his skin. “Not yet.”

Merilyn’s stomach lurched. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, nausea rising sharp and sudden, her chest tightening as though the walls of the chamber had pressed inward. To the people she was already a rumor, a shadow taking shape in the mouths of gossipers. But to herself, she was something far worse—a murderer.

Arthur had not come. She hadn’t expected him to—not with the council likely circling him like hounds, eager to gnaw at weakness—but the absence hollowed her nonetheless. Her thoughts caught on the memory of his lips against her forehead, the quiet strength in his voice when he had whispered you don’t have to carry this alone. Now, alone in Gaius’s chambers, those words felt like both balm and cruelty.

Her hands curled into the coarse blanket, trembling despite her effort to still them. The words escaped in a broken whisper, her voice cracking against the raw edge of grief. “I can still feel her. The weight of her in my arms. The way she looked at me. Like I had saved her. Even when I was the one to—” She could not finish. The sentence fractured and fell away, splintering into silence that hurt more than the words themselves.

Gaius’s hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding, the quiet reassurance of a man who had steadied countless lives at their breaking points. “You gave her mercy,” he said softly, his voice carrying the solemn gravity of truth. “It was cruel that the choice had to be yours. But it was mercy all the same.”

Her eyes brimmed, spilling over unchecked, the tears running down her temples to stain the pillow. “Then why does it feel like I damned her?” she whispered, her voice hollow with anguish.

Neither man had an answer. The chamber fell still, filled only by the uneven rhythm of her breaths and the faint scrape of the pestle as Gaius returned to his herbs with deliberate care. Outside, the city stirred, its murmurs swelling into rumor, into story, into danger. The world was already reshaping the night into legend, but none of those whispers carried the truth of what had been lost.

Merilyn lay back against the thin pillow, her heart aching with every beat, the wound in her leg a dull fire that paled beside the deeper wound in her chest. For the first time since the moonstone necklace had cloaked her, she had woken bare in the world as herself—not Merlin, not a servant’s shadow, but Merilyn. And it felt less like freedom than exposure, as if the world’s eyes had turned upon her all at once.

The chamber smelled of damp wool and crushed herbs, the residue of sleepless hours ground into mortar and pestle. Merilyn shifted slightly, sparks of pain dragging through her body from the bandaged leg, but she hardly noticed. Her mind remained in the street, still kneeling on rain-slick cobblestones, still cradling the child who had whispered thank you with her last breath before falling silent forever.

Gaius lingered nearby, his movements slowed, each gesture drawn out with the deliberation of a man who was buying himself time. More than once his eyes flicked toward her, the weight in them heavier than sympathy, edged with sorrow and something almost like fear. At last, he set his work aside and folded his hands in front of him, the silence stretching taut until he broke it.

“Merilyn,” he said quietly. The tone of her name made her look up, raw and weary, her violet eyes glassy with unshed tears. His voice carried the gravity of something more than counsel. “Uther has ordered that the body be prepared here. He trusts me with the task, as he always has. That means…” He paused, searching her face—the pallor beneath her white hair, the way grief had hollowed her cheeks, the glimmer of her eyes like fragile glass about to fracture. “…it means I have a choice in how she is laid to rest.”

Her throat tightened. She could not yet shape words, only watch him with eyes already brimming.

Gaius drew a careful breath. “If you wish, you may be the one to carry her to Avalon. No guards. No fanfare. Only you. The lake will take her gently, as it takes all who are offered to its waters. There she will be free of pain, of chains, of this curse. There she will know peace.”

The word peace struck her like a blow. Merilyn turned her face away, pressing the heel of her hand to her mouth, but a sob still slipped free. The thought of Freya’s body—light as it had been in her arms, already fading, but still hers to protect one final time—filled her with a fierce, shattering longing. Avalon. The promise of its waters, the veil parting, a better afterlife than the twisted end she had been forced to give.

Erynd, still seated in the chair beside her cot, shifted forward. His elbows braced on his knees, his eyes narrowed with concern. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice rough. “If you go, I’ll walk with you. To the lake and back.”

Merilyn shook her head faintly, her voice ragged but sure. “No. This… this has to be me. I owe her that much. She trusted me to keep her safe, and I failed her. At least—” Her voice cracked. She drew a breath deep enough to steady it, though her hands still trembled in the blanket. “At least I can see her to Avalon. At least I can give her what the world never would.”

Gaius bent over her leg again, his hands steady as he checked the bandage, though his voice was quiet and grave. “Then rest while you can. You’ll need strength for the journey. And when you stand at the shore, remember, child… you did not damn her. You carried her as far as you could, and now you will carry her the rest of the way.”

Merilyn closed her eyes, letting the tears slip unchecked down her temples into the pillow. The words did not erase the ache in her chest, nor the memory of Freya’s last breath—but for the first time since the night began, she felt the faintest thread of direction through the fog of her grief.

Avalon. A farewell worthy of the child who had been denied everything else.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Merilyn had only just begun to sink into the shallow, restless drift of half-sleep when a heavy knock rattled the door to Gaius’s chambers. The sound was sharp and commanding, the kind of strike that carried authority and impatience in equal measure. It was not the polite rap of a servant bearing a message, nor the hesitant shuffle of an apprentice seeking guidance. This was the summons of someone who expected obedience without question.

Erynd stiffened immediately, his hand falling instinctively to the hilt of his blade. His body tensed like a drawn bowstring, ready to spring, though his eyes cut swiftly toward Gaius, seeking permission before acting. The old physician, already straightening from his bench, smoothed the front of his robe with deliberate calm. He crossed the chamber with unhurried steps and eased the door open only a fraction, his frame angled as though to shield whoever lay behind him.

A young knight stood in the corridor, helm tucked beneath one arm. His armor bore the sheen of recent polish, but his voice was clipped, devoid of ceremony. “Uther Pendragon summons the woman who felled the beast. She is to attend him in the council chamber. Now.”

The words fell like a blade, clean and merciless. Erynd muttered a curse beneath his breath, rising fully, his shoulders stiff with barely contained defiance. Merilyn stirred beneath the coarse blanket, her pallor stark against the dim candlelight. She pushed herself upright with a hiss, her breath catching as pain lanced through her leg, sharp enough to blur her vision. “I can’t—” she began, the protest ragged and unsteady.

“You must,” Gaius interjected, his voice grave but unwavering. He did not look at her as he spoke, instead fixing the knight with a steady, almost dismissive stare. “If you refuse, suspicion will turn sharper than any blade. You must go, child, or all will be lost.”

Erynd’s jaw worked, anger tightening every line of his face, but he swallowed his retort. Instead, he crossed swiftly to her side, bracing his arm beneath her elbow. His touch was firm, steadying, though his mouth was pressed into a grim line. Merilyn allowed the support, though her body trembled beneath his hand—not only from the pain that radiated through her wounded leg, but from the heavier weight that clung to her still. The memory of Freya’s blood beneath her nails.

The walk to the council chamber blurred in her mind, a haze of light and sound stretched thin by exhaustion. The castle’s corridors seemed too bright, every torch casting harsh shadows that clung to the stone like accusations. Each flickering flame threatened to reveal her bare as she was, no cloak of illusion, no moonstone charm to hide behind. Every step rang too loud, echoing through the vaulted halls as though daring others to notice. She felt the stares of servants and guards alike, the subtle sidelong glances, the soft shuffle of boots pausing in her wake. Whispers trailed after her, indistinct but sharp as nettles against the skin.

The great doors of the council chamber swung inward and closed behind her with a weighty finality that made her heart stutter. The sound reverberated in the vast space like the toll of a bell, announcing judgment. Uther Pendragon sat upon the high-backed chair that served as his throne, his posture rigid, his expression carved into stone. His gaze cut across the chamber, colder than steel, sharper than a drawn sword. Arthur stood just behind him, shoulders squared, his face carefully unreadable—but the whiteness of his knuckles where his fists curled betrayed the storm held at bay.

Merilyn forced her spine straight, though each step toward the dais sent fire through her wounded leg. She dropped into a bow as low as her trembling body would allow, her head bent, her voice steady despite the strain. “Sire.”

Uther’s voice rolled through the chamber like distant thunder, measured in tone yet carrying a chill that raised the fine hairs along Merilyn’s arms. “So. You are the woman who brought down the cursed creature that terrorized my city last night.” His words held neither admiration nor warmth, only the cold scrutiny of a man accustomed to weighing lives as if they were coin.

Arthur had told him. Merilyn dared the briefest glance toward the prince and caught the smallest inclination of his head. It was nothing more than the dip of a chin, subtle enough to be overlooked by anyone not watching for it, yet she understood it as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. It was both confirmation that he had already claimed her deed as truth and warning that she must hold to the story. She swallowed, willing her voice not to betray the tremor that threatened to shake it loose. “I did what had to be done, my lord.”

The king’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing until they resembled the unblinking focus of a hawk circling high above prey. He studied her without flinching, the silence that stretched between them taut as wire. “Halig claims the beast was no mere animal,” Uther said at last, his tone colder still. “That it was once a druid girl. Is that true?”

Her throat constricted, the answer sticking like thorns. She felt Arthur’s gaze on her, a weight almost physical, burning into her cheek and urging her wordlessly to hold fast to the line he had given her. Each syllable she shaped was measured with care, her voice slow and deliberate, as though she were walking across a frozen river where one false step would plunge her into ruin. “What I saw was a creature that would have torn through your knights had it not been stopped. Whatever she had once been… that was gone.”

Uther leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his fingers tapped against the carved armrest in a rhythm that echoed faintly through the hall. The motion was restless, calculated, a small crack in the mask of composure that betrayed his thoughts circling. His mouth curved slightly, but the expression carried no trace of warmth. “And yet the people whisper of something else.” His eyes narrowed further, gleaming with suspicion that curled through the chamber like smoke. “They say my son was seen in the Lower Town, walking beside a woman of pale hair and foreign dress. A woman who fought beside him in the streets.”

The silence that followed pressed down thick as fog. Merilyn’s breath caught in her throat, the chamber shrinking around her as if the stone walls leaned closer to listen. But Arthur’s voice cut across the stillness before she could even shape a reply. His words came quick, sharp-edged, but with a controlled intensity that brooked no contradiction. “Father, the woman fought bravely. Without her, the Bastet would have reached the heart of the city. Let the gossips wag their tongues—what matters is that she risked her life for Camelot.”

Uther’s gaze shifted between them, lingering first on Merilyn, then on Arthur, suspicion stirring as though he weighed the air itself for evidence. For a heartbeat his lips curved, something almost like satisfaction tugging at the corner of his mouth, though the gleam in his eyes remained hard. “So be it. If you say she risked herself for Camelot, then she has my thanks. But remember this, Arthur—appearances matter. Rumors cling like rot to stone. Do not be careless with where you are seen.”

Arthur inclined his head, his neck stiff with the effort of obedience. “Yes, Father.” His tone was even, but his jaw worked tight, as though he swallowed a thousand words that would never be spoken in this hall.

Uther’s gaze returned to Merilyn, fixing her as surely as if he had driven a pin through her heart. “You have my thanks,” he repeated, the words falling like shackles rather than honor. “What do you ask of your King in return for your services?”

Merilyn’s stomach turned violently at the question. Thanks from Uther Pendragon was never freely given; it was as heavy as iron chains and always came weighted with expectation. Her fingers curled into the rough folds of her skirts, her wounded leg throbbing in time with her heartbeat as she forced herself to lift her chin. “I ask for nothing, sire,” she replied, her tone carefully even, though the faint tremor of exhaustion wove through her words. “I acted only as any loyal subject would. Camelot’s safety is thanks enough.”

Arthur shifted slightly behind his father, tension carving lines into his jaw. He knew, as surely as she did, that her words were not the whole truth. He could feel it in the silence that stretched between them—that somewhere inside her burned the desire to cry out, to beg that the girl be remembered not as a beast slain in the street but as a child who deserved more than chains and curses. Yet she buried that truth, locking it tight where Uther’s eyes could not reach.

The king’s gaze narrowed further, studying her with a predator’s patience, as though he might peel back her very skin and lay bare the secrets she fought to keep. “So modest,” he murmured at length, the skepticism in his tone clear and cutting. “And yet I have learned to distrust modesty in those who bleed for Camelot. Always there is something unsaid.”

Merilyn held her breath, her lungs burning as the silence thickened. The sconces along the walls guttered low, their flames flickering as if straining to hear. Her heart drummed a desperate rhythm, so loud in her ears she was certain Arthur could hear it from where he stood.

When she offered nothing more, Uther leaned forward, his voice sharpening into steel. “Halig says you fought as one well-versed in battle. That you wielded a blade with skill not common among women of the Lower Town. Where did you learn such craft?”

Her throat tightened, but she forced her voice steady, her words falling without hesitation, though each one was forged like iron. “From my father, sire. He believed a girl should defend herself as well as any son might.”

For the first time, the faintest flicker of amusement curved Uther’s mouth, though his eyes remained cold and unsparing, like iron forged in frost. “Then he was a rare man,” the king said, his voice as sharp as a blade despite the almost-smile. “Foolish, perhaps, but rare.” He leaned back in his chair, the carved wood creaking faintly beneath his weight, and with a dismissive wave of his hand cast aside her explanation, though the scrutiny in his gaze lingered. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower, heavy with the authority of a decree that could not be disobeyed. “Very well. You will have no reward if you do not ask it. But hear me, and hear me well—I will not suffer secrets in my city. If you walk beside my son again, it will be under my gaze, not under shadow. Do I make myself plain?”

Merilyn bowed her head low, her hair falling forward to veil the heat rising in her cheeks. “Yes, sire,” she whispered, the words tasting bitter, like ash caught in her throat.

Arthur’s fists tightened at his sides, his knuckles whitening as though he fought the urge to strike against the very walls of the chamber. “Father—” he began, his voice hard, ready to argue, but Uther silenced him with a single, sharp look. The king rose in one fluid movement, his cloak sweeping through the torchlight like a shadow cut in flame. “This audience is at an end,” he declared. “Go. Leave me to my council.”

The heavy doors opened on command, the hinges groaning as iron echoed against stone. Arthur stepped forward at once, his movements brisk but not careless. His hand brushed lightly against Merilyn’s elbow, steadying her, though she knew the touch was meant less for balance and more for reassurance. The faint pressure of his fingers was a silent promise—that she was not alone, even beneath his father’s merciless gaze.

They passed through the threshold into the corridor beyond, the air cooler here, the fire of Uther’s scrutiny finally dimming behind them. Only when the doors had shut with finality, sealing them in shadow and torchlight, did Arthur speak. His voice was low, its edges harsh from restraint, but threaded with something gentler, something dangerously close to care. “Are you all right?”

The words brushed against her like a rough cloth, concern disguised beneath the iron of command. Merilyn forced a stiff nod, though the effort of holding herself upright drew sweat across her brow. Her leg throbbed with each heartbeat, the pain sharp and insistent, echoing the memory of claws tearing into her flesh. She faltered in her step, her body betraying the strength she tried to summon.

Arthur caught the hesitation instantly. Without hesitation or question, he shifted closer, his arm bracing beneath hers, guiding her forward with quiet steadiness. The corridor was empty but for the flicker of torches set in brackets along the walls, the flames stretching shadows long across the stone floors. Their footsteps rang hollow, the silence pressing in until Arthur slowed at a bend where the light thinned and the world felt removed from prying eyes.

From within the folds of his cloak, he drew out her necklace. The moonstone caught the light, its surface dulled by shadow yet still thrumming faintly with the spell she had abandoned. He pressed it firmly into her palm, curling her fingers around it with a decisive hand. “Put it on,” he murmured, his tone leaving no room for protest.

She blinked up at him, startled by the suddenness of the command. “Arthur—”

“No arguments,” he interrupted, his voice low and steady, not unkind, but brooking no refusal. His gaze held hers with fierce intent. “You can’t limp through these halls looking like this. Every servant will talk, and half the knights already suspect too much. As long as you wear this, you’re Merlin again. Not the woman in the streets. Not the rumor crawling through Camelot.”

Her fingers trembled around the chain, the weight of the stone somehow heavier than gold, heavier than any crown. For a heartbeat, she wanted to resist, wanted to remain unmasked, to bear the cost of her choices openly. But when she met his eyes, she saw not only command but fear—fear for her safety, fear for what the whispers might become if left unchecked. That fear stilled her defiance.

Her throat tightened as she lifted the chain, the cool stone pressing against her skin as she clasped it at the nape of her neck. At once the magic stirred, flowing through her veins like fire and ice intertwined, reshaping her features, drawing a veil over her hair, narrowing her frame. The woman dissolved, leaving the boy-servant in her place. The illusion was complete once more. Merlin.

Arthur exhaled slowly, the breath heavy with relief, as if he had been holding it since the moment she stepped into his father’s chamber. His hand lingered on her shoulder, his thumb brushing briefly over the fabric of her sleeve—a fleeting reminder that he still saw her, even through the mask the world demanded she wear. “Good,” he murmured. “Now I can take you back without question.”

She swallowed hard, her voice emerging hoarse and strange in the borrowed timbre of her disguise. “And if someone asks why the prince is leading his manservant through the halls half-dead?”

Arthur’s mouth quirked, the faintest curve of wryness at the corner, though the tension in his eyes betrayed how tightly he held the moment together. “Then I’ll tell them my servant nearly got himself killed helping me fell a cursed beast. Not the first time you’ve bled for me, is it?”

His attempt at levity pressed like a knife against the raw ache in her chest, but she managed a faint nod, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders as he guided her onward. Together they moved through the corridors, Arthur tall and steady, Merlin limping yet concealed once more. To any who looked on, it was nothing unusual—only a prince returning to his chambers with his clumsy, loyal servant in tow. Yet beneath the mask, the truth lived between them, fragile and unspoken, heavier than any secret Camelot’s walls had ever held.

The corridors blurred around her, long stretches of stone and shadow broken only by the torchlight that flickered and swayed with each gust of air. Every step dragged fire through her wounded leg, the pain flaring sharp and hot, but Arthur’s hand never left her arm. His grip was firm, steady, a quiet anchor that kept her moving when her body threatened to fail. More than once she stumbled, her breath hissing between clenched teeth, yet he did not falter. He bore her weight as though it were his own, guiding her forward with the unyielding certainty of a man determined to see her safely through the storm. By the time they reached the heavy door of his chambers, she was gasping softly from the effort of keeping her spine straight, her head bowed beneath the crushing weight of exhaustion and grief.

Arthur pushed the door open with his shoulder, ushering her inside before the echo of their steps could draw notice. The chamber greeted them with a muted glow: the hearth burned low, embers casting faint red light that painted the carved stone in shifting shadows. The air was warmer here, softer, untouched by the whispers that tangled in Camelot’s halls. When the door shut with a heavy thud behind them, the noise of the castle vanished, leaving only the hush of fire and the fragile sound of her uneven breathing.

“Sit,” he said, the word emerging rougher than he intended, the gravel in his tone betraying more concern than command. He guided her carefully toward the bed, his hand steady at her elbow, and pressed her gently down onto the edge of the mattress. She obeyed, but not with ease. Her fingers curled into the blanket beneath her as if she needed to hold herself together with sheer force, her shoulders trembling, her jaw clenched so tight she could hardly draw a full breath.

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the faint glint of the moonstone at her throat. The necklace rested innocently against her skin, but he knew it for what it was—the mask of Merlin, the chain that bound illusion to her body and forced her to hide. For a heartbeat he hesitated, his hand hovering above it, torn between restraint and the certainty that he could not bear to see her cloaked when she was breaking apart before him. His decision came as naturally as drawing a sword.

Merilyn stiffened as his fingers brushed the chain. “Arthur—”

“Enough,” he cut in, his voice low and steady, each syllable carved with intent. His thumb found the clasp, his eyes locked onto hers as though daring her to resist. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

The clasp yielded with a soft snap, and the necklace slipped free, pooling into his palm with a muted weight. The magic unraveled at once. Her features blurred, shimmered, and then resolved again into their truest form. Pale hair spilled loose over her shoulders, silver strands catching the firelight, her face laid bare in exhaustion and grief. The hollowness in her eyes was unmasked, the tremor in her lips visible now without the illusion’s shield. Merlin was gone. Only Merilyn remained.

She tried, for a moment, to hold herself upright, her chin lifting in defiance of her own breaking. But the fight crumbled the instant the chain left her throat. Her shoulders bowed, her body sagged, and the sob tore loose before she could choke it back.

Arthur caught her without hesitation. He drew her into his chest, his arms wrapping firmly around her as though to guard her from the world itself. One hand cradled the back of her head, pressing her hair against his shoulder, while the other braced her trembling frame close to him. Her forehead pressed into the fabric of his tunic, dampening it with tears, her fists knotting desperately into the wool as though she could hold herself together by holding onto him.

“I killed her,” she gasped, the words muffled against him, broken into jagged fragments. “I killed a child, Arthur. And she thanked me for it. She—” The rest dissolved into another sob that shook through her, tearing from her chest with the rawness of something that would not heal.

Arthur’s throat tightened, his chest aching as though her grief had been driven like a blade into his own ribs. He bent his head, his lips brushing her hair, whispering into the pale strands as if his words might seep into her bones and anchor her. “You spared her,” he murmured, his voice fierce though quiet. “You gave her peace when no one else could. Do you hear me? You saved her from worse. You did the only thing you could.”

But she only shook her head, the denial trembling through her body even as she wept harder, her tears soaking through his tunic, her hands clutching weakly at his chest. Arthur held her closer, rocking her just slightly, the rhythm instinctive, as though he might calm her the way one calms a child from a nightmare. His palm smoothed over her hair again and again, his breath steady and warm against her temple, a constant reminder that she was not alone in the dark.

The moonstone lay forgotten in his hand, its chain coiled loosely, its power meaningless in the face of her raw humanity. There was no mask now, no guise of Merlin, no servant to the prince. Only Merilyn—bare, grieving, undone—and Arthur, holding her as if he would not let her go, even if the kingdom itself demanded it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The dawn was thin and pale, a ghost of light filtering through the heavy veil of mist that clung low across the earth. It was the kind of light that seemed to hesitate, uncertain whether it belonged to night or day. Arthur had ridden through fog before—long hunts across the northern marshlands, border patrols at first light—but never had he felt it press upon him quite like this, dense and watchful, as though the world itself held its breath and waited. Every sound was muffled beneath the shroud: the horses shifting restlessly, the faint creak of leather, the damp crunch of boots on sodden ground.

He swung down from the saddle, the earth soft beneath his boots, dark with last night’s rain. The smell of wet soil and woodsmoke lingered in the air, clinging to his cloak. The lake stretched out before them, vast and still, the surface smooth as polished steel. It reflected nothing back—not the ghostly treeline, not the low sky—only an empty sheen that looked less like water and more like some otherworldly mirror turned inward. Avalon did not grant reflections; it devoured them.

To Arthur’s left, Erynd stood silent as carved stone, his hand resting lightly but firmly on the pommel of his sword, though there was nothing here to guard against except grief. His face betrayed nothing, his eyes fixed on the horizon as though refusing to intrude on the moment that was not his to claim.

And then there was Merilyn.

Arthur’s gaze found her without effort, as it always did, and held fast. She moved slowly, her limp pronounced, every step a small battle won against the pain in her leg, but she carried the weight in her arms as though it were light as a feather. The linen-wrapped form of the girl lay cradled against her chest, and for a heartbeat—just a fleeting, cruel heartbeat—it looked too natural. She looked too much like a mother carrying her child to bed after a long day, her body curving protectively around the stillness she held. The sight carved into Arthur with merciless precision, sharp and unrelenting, and he felt the ache settle into him as though it had been carved there all his life.

She reached the edge of the water and stopped. The mist clung to her hair, turning the pale strands into threads of silver that spilled forward, catching what little light the morning offered. She looked, in that moment, less flesh than spirit, some luminous figure belonging more to Avalon than to Camelot’s stone. With a reverence that made Arthur’s throat tighten, she bent and laid the small body into the boat waiting at the shore. The vessel was so weathered, its lines so simple, that Arthur found himself wondering whether it had always been there, waiting in silence for this very purpose, or whether Avalon itself had conjured it to receive the dead.

Merilyn lingered, her hands smoothing the linen once more, trembling as her fingers traced the shape of a face hidden beneath the shroud. Arthur could not hear the words she whispered, too low for even the mist to carry, but he saw the shape of them on her lips, saw the way her shoulders quaked with the effort of voicing what the heart can scarcely bear. He wished he could give her silence enough to grieve without witness, wished he could draw the pain out of her body and carry it himself. But he could not. All he could do was stand, still as a knight before his queen, and bear witness to her sorrow.

At last she straightened, her hands falling empty to her sides. The boat drifted with a faint tug of current, gentle at first, then steadier, as though drawn deeper into the lake by some invisible hand. Merilyn raised her arm.

Arthur’s chest tightened, breath catching in his throat. He had seen her power before—had felt its edge in the heat of battle, had watched the fire flare in her eyes when she bent the world to her will—but here, here it was different. There was no triumph, no defiance. Only grief, steady and terrible, woven into every motion. Her voice rose in words he could not understand, syllables older than stone, soft but resonant, and it seemed as though the lake itself leaned forward to listen. Light flickered beneath her skin, runes glowing faintly through the thin bandages and the fabric that bound her arms, as if her body itself could no longer contain the force moving through her.

The flame appeared first at her fingertips, small and trembling, no larger than the wick of a candle. It wavered, fragile, as if it might die in the mist, but then she cast it outward with a flick of her hand, and the boat answered. Fire leapt where her power touched, blooming along the wood, curling golden and fierce around the pale linen shroud.

Arthur felt his lungs tighten, his chest constricting as though he had forgotten how to breathe. It was not the magic that stole his breath—though the sight of it was awe-inspiring, dangerous, beautiful beyond measure—it was her. The way her body trembled and yet did not falter, the way her eyes fixed on the blaze with a mixture of anguish and fierce, unbreakable resolve. She looked as though she were shattering, and yet she stood unshaken, breaking and unbreakable all at once.

The fire spread quickly, the crackle and hiss of it piercing the silence of the lake. In moments the entire vessel was alight, the flames climbing higher, licking the mist, casting long shadows that leapt across Merilyn’s face. The blaze caught at the wetness on her cheeks, turning her tears into glimmers of gold as they fell. The boat drifted farther out, the fire burning so bright it seemed as though the lake itself glowed, the mist gilded in molten light. Still she stood with her arm raised, her breath ragged, her hair whipping around her shoulders in the faint breeze the flames stirred.

Arthur could not look away. The sight of her standing there, arm outstretched toward the drifting flames, felt less like a moment of grief and more like a glimpse into something sacred. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he had no right to witness it and yet also knew it would burn itself into his memory forever. This was not merely a farewell, not the final gesture of laying a body to rest. It was a vow and a promise, an act of defiance flung into the face of a world that had already stolen too much from her.

Beside him, Erynd lowered his head, his features shadowed, whether in respect or in sorrow Arthur could not tell. The man’s silence was absolute, unbroken even by breath, but Arthur’s own gaze never strayed. He could not take his eyes from Merilyn—not from the way her shoulders quaked with exhaustion, nor from the fierce, trembling resolve that held her upright when her body threatened to collapse. The boat drifted steadily out into the lake, the fire consuming it piece by piece until it became no more than an island of flame surrounded by shifting mist. Time itself seemed to stretch thin. The ash scattered slowly into the air, curling into the fog like smoke from an unseen altar, and Arthur could not tell if minutes or hours had passed.

When at last Merilyn’s hand dropped heavily back to her side, her entire body shivered with the release. Arthur moved before thought could form, his arm closing around her shoulders as she swayed. She did not resist him, did not try to stand proud as she so often did. Instead she leaned into him with a yielding weight, her head bowing against his chest as though at last the long fight inside her had gone still. The warmth of her pressed against him, fragile and trembling, and Arthur tightened his hold instinctively, one hand braced firm across her back, the other steady at her arm as if by sheer strength he could keep her from breaking apart.

His throat felt raw with the force of words that refused to shape themselves. He wanted to tell her she had done right, that Freya’s soul had been freed from torment, that nothing in this world or the next would count her act as damnation. But here, in the silence of Avalon where the mist curled and the fire hissed into nothing, words felt small and clumsy, unworthy of the enormity of what she had borne. So he said nothing. He only held her close, their bodies pressed together against the quiet, and together they stood watching until the last sparks sank beneath the water and all that remained was a mirror-smooth surface rippled only by memory.

The fire sank slowly, devoured by Avalon’s deep waters until there was nothing left but drifting ash and the faint curl of smoke rising into the dawn. For a long time none of them moved. The mist rolled soft against the banks, the air heavy with the smell of charred wood and the echo of flames that no longer burned. Merilyn sagged heavily against Arthur’s chest, her breath uneven though no longer broken, her tears drying in hot, salt-crusted trails along her cheeks. When the boat was gone, when even the last ripple smoothed into glass and the lake gave no sign that it had ever held such fire, she lifted her head slowly, her neck stiff with weariness, and drew in a long, steady breath that seemed to fill her whole body with fragile resolve.

Arthur felt the shift as keenly as if it had happened inside himself. The grief in her eyes was still raw, still sharp enough to wound, but beneath it lay a new steadiness, a thread of something close to peace. Freya had not been abandoned, nor lost to shadows. She had been given back—back to Avalon, back to the waters that promised gentleness, back to an afterlife that would be kinder than the one the world had denied her. That, at least, Merilyn could give, and it seemed to anchor her enough to breathe without splintering.

She stepped away from his hold with care, easing out of his arms though he felt the reluctance in her body. Her limp was still pronounced, the pain still etched in her frame, but she stood straighter than before, shoulders drawn back as though she had reclaimed a measure of herself in that release. The pale morning sun broke faintly through the thinning fog, its light casting a soft glow across the shore, and Arthur saw how it touched her face. For the first time since the night of blood and loss, there was something that softened the hollow in her eyes.

“You carried her all the way,” Arthur said at last, his voice hoarse, roughened not with command but with reverence. He had meant for the words to come gently, but they trembled with something deeper than he intended. “She’s at peace now.”

Her gaze lingered on the glassy surface of the lake, her lips parting as though she breathed in the silence itself. “And so am I,” she whispered, her voice quiet but sure. “For the first time in days… I can breathe.”

The words had barely left her lips when the faintest ripple disturbed the mist along the opposite bank. The fog shifted, shadows stirring until a figure resolved out of the haze. A cloaked woman stepped into view, the blue-grey of her garment blending with the morning light, her long dark hair braided loose with small shells that glimmered faintly like pearls in the dawn. Her sea-green eyes caught the sun, their depths luminous and strange, as though the tide itself had been caught and bound within them.

Arthur’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, every muscle in his body tensing, his stance shifting to caution. But before he could take a step, he felt the change in Merilyn’s posture. The rigid stiffness melted from her shoulders, her breath catching not in alarm but in recognition. Her voice, quiet and raw from grief, still carried steady across the shore. “Nerys.”

The priestess moved with the slow grace of water, each step unhurried, her cloak whispering across the damp grass as though it carried the tide in its folds. She bore with her a calm that was measured and deliberate, yet beneath it Arthur sensed something deeper, something dangerous: the serenity of a sea that could drown as easily as it could cradle. When she reached them, she bowed her head low to Merilyn, her voice soft with reverence. “My lady. Word reached us of the Bastet. I grieved to hear of it, and grieve still for the child. But I see now she has been given back to the lake, as is right.”

Merilyn’s throat tightened, the ache returning but tempered now with relief instead of anguish. Her eyes shone faintly in the fragile light as she whispered, hoarse but certain, “Thank you.”

Nerys straightened, her sea-green eyes flicking briefly to Arthur, measuring him with the quiet intensity of a tide judging whether to pull a ship under. Her gaze lingered next on Erynd, offering a small nod, before returning to Merilyn. “The Brotherhood has stirred again. Their chains clink louder with every passing season, their nets spread wider. But while they hunt, we have not been idle. Your guard has worked in secret, weaving what they could with little, carving safety out of shadow.” Her voice deepened, edged with quiet pride. “We are building a sanctuary. A place beyond Uther’s reach—and beyond the Brotherhood’s as well—where those marked by magic need no longer live in fear of fire or fetters.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, suspicion flickering across his features, but Merilyn leaned forward at once, her body taut, her violet eyes sharp with sudden attention. “Where?”

“In the deep forests west of the mountains,” Nerys answered, her tone calm but carrying the force of a tide. “Hidden in mist and warded by runes older than stone. No slaver, no hunter, no king will cross without invitation. There, the Brotherhood’s hands cannot reach, and Uther’s decree cannot burn.”

Merilyn’s breath caught, her lips parting. For so long she had lived with the tension of secrets pulled tight across her chest, every day in Camelot a blade’s edge. Now, at Nerys’s words, the weight shifted—not gone, but lifted just enough that hope could stir. Real refuge. A place where chains did not dictate futures.

Erynd stepped closer, folding his arms, his gaze steady but wary. “And you’re certain it’s safe? You’ve seen what the Brotherhood is capable of. They won’t stop just because they’re barred at the border.”

The tide turned sharp in Nerys’s eyes. “I know their cruelty better than most. I bled under their whips before Merilyn freed me. I have woven the wards with that memory burned into every rune. The waters themselves guard our borders. Let the Brotherhood come. They will drown before they breach our walls.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his mouth a hard line as he looked between Merilyn and the priestess. “And what then? A hidden gathering of sorcerers and Druids, bound together, cut off from Camelot’s rule—do you not see how that will look to my father? To Uther, it will not matter if you call it sanctuary. He will see only rebellion.”

Nerys regarded him without flinching, her voice calm but unwavering. “Perhaps rebellion is what it must become. Or perhaps it is only survival, nothing more. But tell me, Prince of Camelot”—her gaze sharpened, her words as cool and unrelenting as the tide—“would you call it treason for children to live free of cages?”

Arthur’s mouth opened, but no words came. He looked away, his fists clenching at his sides.

The lake lay still long after the fire had sunk beneath its waters, the surface smoothing once more until it reflected nothing, as though the world itself had paused to honor the passing. The mist drifted low across the water, curling in soft tendrils that caught the weak dawn light, and the air was hushed in a way that felt sacred, untouched. Merilyn lingered at the shore, her hand splayed tightly against her thigh to steady the tremor that refused to leave her body. Pain throbbed sharply in her wounded leg, but it seemed distant now, dulled by the steadier ache of release. Freya was gone to Avalon. Whatever else the world had denied her, peace had not been stolen.

Nerys bowed one last time, her long braid dark with mist, the shells woven into it glinting faintly as the first true light of the sun broke over the horizon. She looked every inch the tide she embodied—steady, inevitable, quietly powerful. “Go back,” she urged softly, her voice carrying the gentleness of water lapping at stone. “You are needed still. The Brotherhood will watch from afar until the day comes that we may walk openly beside you.” Her sea-green eyes softened, the sharp depth of them easing into something calmer, like a tide-pool at rest. “And when that day comes, Merilyn, you will not stand alone.”

Merilyn’s throat tightened, the force of feeling swelling until it threatened to break her apart. Words failed her, caught behind the ache in her chest, so she only bowed her head in a small, reverent nod. Erynd stepped forward in silence, his touch grounding as his hand settled briefly on her shoulder before guiding her back toward the narrow path where their horses waited. Arthur kept close at her side, and when the slope forced her to falter he steadied her without a word, his fingers brushing her elbow, the contact as natural as breathing.

The ride back to Camelot passed in silence, the kind of silence that spoke louder than words. The morning sun burned pale through the remnants of storm, gilding the fields in a faint gold, yet the nearer they drew to the city walls the heavier the air seemed to grow. Whispers clung to the stone like ivy, carried in the voices of every villager and merchant they passed. A woman seen in the Lower Town. White hair like silver in the moonlight. Arthur Pendragon at her side. Rumor grew with every telling, twisting like smoke through the city, impossible to contain.

By the time they reached the gates, Merilyn’s stomach was knotted so tightly she thought she might retch. Her hand trembled where it clutched the reins, her breath shallow beneath the cloak drawn close to her throat. The weight of eyes—imagined or real—pressed against her until she felt she might choke on them. Arthur glanced at her once, his gaze sharp with understanding, and then, without a word, he reached into the pouch at his side.

“Put it on,” he said quietly. The moonstone necklace gleamed faintly in his palm, the stone catching the thin light like a drop of frozen dawn. Its presence was too familiar, and far too heavy, carrying with it the years of secrets and sacrifice that had bound her to it.

Merilyn’s hand hovered, fingers curling just shy of the chain. For years, the necklace had been both her armor and her prison—the tether that protected her even as it stole from her the right to simply exist as herself. Her throat ached as she looked at it, then at him. Arthur’s face was steady, his blue eyes fierce not with command but with something gentler, something truer.

Slowly, she took it. The chain was cool against her fingertips, and when she lifted it over her head the magic stirred at once. It sank into her skin like ice and fire both, reshaping her features, dimming the pale brilliance of her hair to an ordinary shadowed brown. Her shoulders narrowed, her face shifted, and the woman vanished into the servant once more. The transformation was seamless, practiced, but never had it felt heavier, as if she were burying herself alive beneath the mask.

Arthur’s hand lingered at her shoulder as the spell settled, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of her cloak. The touch was grounding, steady, as though reminding her that he still saw her, that the spell did not blind him. His voice was low, roughened with a conviction he rarely allowed to surface. “Someday,” he murmured, “you won’t need this.” His thumb pressed briefly against the stone where it rested at her chest. “Someday, I’ll see to it that you can walk through Camelot as yourself—without fear, without whispers. No masks. No chains. That’s the kingdom I want. For you.”

Her breath caught, the words striking deeper than any oath of chivalry or promise of war. They carried no grandeur, no flourish, but they cut sharper than any blade. She searched his face, desperate for some sign of jest, but there was none. Only the stubborn, unyielding light in his eyes—the light that made him Arthur, that made him the man she had risked everything for, and would again without hesitation.

For a heartbeat, the urge to tear the necklace off surged through her, to let the world see her and dare it to burn her for it. But she couldn’t. Not yet. So instead, she bowed her head, her voice trembling but certain. “Then I’ll hold you to it.”

His mouth curved, not into the polished smirk he gave the court, nor the crooked grin he wore on the training field, but into something softer, quieter—a smile made only for her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The months that followed Freya’s passing blurred like the tail end of a storm—quiet on the surface, but carrying deep currents beneath. The city healed in pieces. Whispers that once hissed sharp through the Lower Town faded into rumor and, eventually, into silence, though the scar of that night remained etched in the memory of every face that had glimpsed fire and shadow in the streets.

Merilyn bore it in her own way, which was to say, not at all and yet entirely. The wound in her leg mended slowly under Gaius’s careful tending, a jagged line that left her with a limp on rain-heavy days, though she refused to let it slow her more than a breath. Her grief, too, had scabbed over into something quieter but no less present. The child’s whisper of thank you haunted her dreams, yet the memory of Avalon had become a balm as much as a blade. She had given Freya peace, and in that act had claimed a measure of her own.

Arthur saw the difference in her most keenly. There were days her smile came quicker than before, fleeting but unforced, and her eyes no longer carried quite the same hollow ache when they caught the morning sun. But there were also nights he woke in the barracks to find her silhouette pacing alone along the ramparts, moonlight limning her hair, her hand pressed to the moonstone at her throat as though she were reminding herself of the weight she still carried. He never called to her in those moments. He only watched, memorizing the way she endured, and let her keep what fragments of solitude she could cling to.

Camelot itself did not pause for grief. The kingdom stirred restlessly in the wake of Uther’s tightening decrees, the hunts for sorcery growing sharper, the shadows in the forest more restless. And beyond its walls, the drums of war had gone quiet not because peace had been won, but because the kings who sat upon their thrones had turned their eyes toward one another. Lines were shifting, alliances fraying, and the air was heavy with the promise of reckoning.

Now, as autumn’s edge sharpened the mornings and bronzed the fields, Camelot prepared for the gathering that would shape its future: the great Accords with the five kings. Banners were unfurled across the battlements, their crimson and gold snapping in the wind. Messengers darted like sparrows through the courtyards, carrying sealed letters, fresh decrees, and endless lists of provisions. The council chambers filled daily with arguments that stretched long into the night, every nobleman eager to press his own vision of what the accords should bring.

Arthur felt the weight of it pressing against his shoulders as keenly as the armor he wore. Uther demanded strength, demanded submission to his will, demanded that Camelot stand as the pillar to which all others must bow. Yet Arthur, in the private corners of his heart and in the steadier moments spent with Merilyn, dreamed of something else—of a table not of masters and vassals, but of equals. Of unity forged not from fear but from trust.

Merilyn herself moved through the palace in her familiar guise, the boy-servant Merlin once more to most eyes, but Arthur caught the flickers beneath. Her gaze sharpened with every mention of the kings, her steps quickened when the corridors filled with foreign banners and new tongues. She knew the danger as well as he did—knew that each king carried not only retainers but spies, not only swords but secrets. And she knew, too, that if the Brotherhood lingered near, this gathering would be a feast of opportunity for them.

The days shortened. The air cooled. And as Camelot dressed itself in its finest banners and polished every corner of its armor, Arthur could not shake the feeling that the accords would mark more than treaties and handshakes. They would mark a beginning—or an unraveling.

The battlements thrummed with the iron music of hooves striking stone and the low clatter of armor shifting in the wind. From the high walls, Camelot overlooked a valley streaked with the colors of foreign banners, each procession a ribbon of defiance and pride. The air itself carried the bite of late autumn—sharp, clean, edged with the promise of winter. Flags snapped restlessly against the pale sky, their bright dyes stark against the thinning light of the season.

Arthur stood at his father’s side, his cloak whipping behind him as though stirred by the same tension that coiled through his frame. Uther loomed tall, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his profile as hard and unyielding as carved stone. Arthur’s gaze narrowed on the horizon, where the lines of riders snaked steadily closer. He shifted, the weight of his armor heavy, though his tone came lighter, threaded with wryness.

“Father,” he said, eyes never leaving the approaching banners, “we’re not going into battle. You don’t have to look so somber.”

Uther’s mouth thinned, though his gaze did not waver. “Never before have the rulers of the five kingdoms come together in this way. Never before have we all worked toward the same aim—towards peace.” His voice was low, touched with reverence, though beneath it ran a current of iron that admitted no weakness. “If these talks succeed, Camelot will enter a new era of prosperity.” He paused, eyes narrowing, as though he could already see betrayal written into the threads of those distant banners. “If they fail, we will almost certainly be at war.”

Arthur fell silent, his jaw tightening, the truth of it settling heavier than the sword strapped at his hip.

Just behind them, two shadows lingered in quiet attendance—Merlin and Erynd. To all who looked upon them, they were no more than a pair of loyal retainers: one the bumbling servant boy with his too-large jacket and ink-stained hands, the other a guard of stern bearing and steady presence. Yet Arthur knew better. Beneath Merlin’s mop of dark hair and threadbare wool was Merilyn, pale-haired and sharp-eyed, her true self hidden under the spell that pressed down on her like a second skin. She had traded her cloak for a roughspun jacket cut like a boy’s—heavier than her usual garb against the chill creeping through the stone halls. The weight of the illusion bent her shoulders, but she bore it as she always had, silent and unflinching.

Erynd stood a step to her right, broader in frame, his dark leather jerkin and steel bracers catching the faint gleam of morning light. His posture was rigid, his eyes sweeping the square below, scanning not only the banners but the hands that held them. Where Merilyn disguised herself in quiet observation, Erynd made no secret of his vigilance, his hand always resting just shy of his blade. Between the two of them, Arthur felt a measure of steadiness that no court of nobles could offer.

The great gates groaned open, and the cobbled square below filled with the tumult of arrival. Hooves clattered against stone, horses tossing their heads in protest at the sudden noise. The first to enter was King Alined, his gaudy cloak a flood of crimson, gold, and green so rich it mocked the dust of the road. He swung down from his saddle with theatrical ease, letting the heavy cloak fall deliberately to the cobbles.

“Boy!” he barked, his voice snapping across the square like a whip. “Is it too much to ask that you might anticipate my needs?”

Trickler, wiry and bent, scurried forward with the desperate gait of one too used to cruelty. He snatched at the cloak, fumbling as though the weight of the fabric itself might strike him down. “No, Master. I was just—”

“Stop whining.”

The fool’s apology died sharp in his throat, the words swallowed as quickly as they were born. “Sorry, Master,” he mumbled, bowing his head low.

Uther descended the steps from the palace, his armor polished until it gleamed, the sigil of the Pendragons burning against his chest. His expression was carved into unreadable formality as he extended his arm in greeting. “Alined,” he said, his tone heavy with authority that left no room for pretense, “you are most welcome on this momentous occasion.”

Their hands met and clasped, though the grip was a clash of wills rather than camaraderie, fingers biting like drawn steel.

“Momentous?” Alined’s lips curved into something sharp, his eyes gleaming with private calculation. “Let us hope so.” He released Uther’s arm with a flourish, his gaze sliding toward the horizon where still more banners crested the rise. His voice softened, but it carried a cutting edge that turned the morning air brittle. “Hope is a fragile thing.”

Arthur shifted at his father’s side, his jaw tightening again, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Merlin’s gaze. For a fleeting moment, behind the mask of the boy, he glimpsed Merilyn’s fire—silent, observant, sharp as the coming frost.

The arrival of King Olaf came with all the subtlety of a winter gale. His booming voice carried across the palace square before his horse had even drawn to a halt, the tone equal parts insult and demand.

“What kind of welcome is this?” Olaf bellowed, his broad chest straining against furs heavy with frost. “You have us hanging around like the last swallows of summer.”

Uther, who had endured sharper words from friend and foe alike, inclined his head with the patience of a man who considered dignity the sharpest retort. “You are welcome indeed, Olaf.”

And then she appeared.

Lady Vivian slid down from her palfrey with the grace of someone who had never once had to check her footing. Her gown glittered with embroidery that caught the pale light of the autumn sun, every thread of gold stitched as though to announce her presence to all within earshot. Pale hair, wound in braids, glimmered beneath her veil, her skin untouched by wind or hardship. She cast her eyes about the square with the cool appraisal of a jewel merchant considering whether the wares before her were worth her notice.

“May I present my daughter,” Olaf said with the pride of a man certain the world owed him admiration. “The Lady Vivian.”

Uther’s expression softened by a fraction, though his words carried formality. “Lady Vivian. How like your mother you are.”

Vivian’s lips curved, though it was less smile than calculation, her lashes lowering as though already bored of the proceedings.

By the time Arthur was ordered to escort her to her chambers, he wore the expression of a man girding himself for battle. Erynd followed at his shoulder, silent as a shadow, his hand resting against the pommel of his sword as duty dictated. Merilyn trailed behind them, her disguise intact — the illusion of Merlin wrapped in a simple jacket and boots more fitting of a servant boy than the woman beneath. The autumn chill seeped through the stone of the corridors, but her jacket was enough, and the spell gave her the comfort of invisibility. She walked with measured steps, eyes lowered, though her mind was alight with sharp observation.

Vivian swept into the chamber as though she were claiming a throne, her skirts fanning out across the rushes strewn on the floor. She cast a cursory glance at the bed hangings, the carved oak chest, the jug of fresh water that had been left by the fire, and her lips curled with delicate disdain.

“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” Arthur said, his voice carefully polite, though the faint strain at his jaw betrayed him.

Vivian gave a little hum, a sound more suited to dismissing a platter at supper than a room prepared with care. “It is… adequate.”

Arthur’s brows lifted a fraction, though he kept his composure with the discipline of long practice. “Most of our guests are extremely happy here. I’m sure you will be, too.”

“I am not most of your guests,” she replied airily, her eyes sliding toward him with the faintest trace of challenge.

Arthur’s lips tightened. “In…deed.”

At that moment, Gwen entered, carrying herself with quiet composure, her hands folded before her. Her plain gown was spotless, her hair neatly bound, and though she moved without flourish, there was dignity in every step.

Arthur brightened slightly, his relief almost visible. “Well—may I present Guinevere. She’ll be looking after you for the duration of your stay. You’ll want for nothing. She is truly one of Camelot’s finest.”

Vivian giggled, a sound like glass chiming, but sharpened by malice. “Then I fear for Camelot.”

The words landed like a slap. Gwen faltered, her eyes widening for the briefest instant before she gathered herself, her back straightening though her voice remained still. Arthur, however, froze, his expression caught between outrage and disbelief.

Before he could respond, Vivian’s gaze slid past Gwen, lingering instead on Erynd where he stood just behind Arthur. Her smile shifted, taking on a languid quality, her chin tilting with imperious curiosity.

“And who,” she asked, ignoring Gwen entirely, “is this?” Her hand fluttered vaguely toward Erynd as though summoning him like a servant. “You. Yes, you. I should like you to attend me instead. You look far more capable than… this girl.”

The chamber went very still. Gwen’s chin dipped slightly, her eyes cast toward the floor to hide the sting, but the tightness in her shoulders betrayed it. Arthur’s jaw locked, his glare snapping to Vivian, but it was Erynd who moved first, his voice low and steady, though edged with steel.

“I serve the prince,” he said simply, his tone leaving no space for correction.

Arthur cleared his throat, the forced civility of diplomacy smoothing his words though his eyes burned with temper. “Lady Vivian, Sir Erynd is sworn to my service. Guinevere will remain as your attendant, as is custom.”

Vivian pouted faintly, her lashes fluttering in mock offense. “Customs are such tiresome things. Still—if I cannot have him at my beck and call, then at least he may escort me with you, Arthur. A lady requires proper protection, after all.”

Arthur inclined his head stiffly, offering his arm in formality. “Then Sir Erynd will see you safely to your chambers.” His tone suggested that any further argument would not be entertained.

Vivian preened as though she had won a great victory, sweeping past Gwen without a glance. Erynd, stone-faced, fell into step beside Arthur, his stride as measured as always, though his eyes held a glint of disdain for the task thrust upon him.

And behind them, Merilyn followed silently, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her eyes narrowed in quiet judgment. The illusion of Merlin might have hidden her white hair and softened her features, but nothing could disguise the sharpness of her thoughts. She watched Vivian glide down the corridor with her silks and arrogance, watched Gwen’s quiet hurt tucked away like a secret, and thought sourly that if vanity could be taxed, Camelot would never know famine again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Arthur’s chambers were a chaos of discarded garments and restless impatience. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a wavering amber glow across the carved screen that shielded him as he dressed. On the other side of it, Merilyn—Merlin, to all who believed the illusion—stood with his jacket draped neatly over one arm. She smoothed the fabric with exaggerated care, fussing at a frayed edge as though it required all her attention, though her expression betrayed her true amusement. The boyish guise she wore could not disguise the quiet sparkle of laughter in her violet eyes. She looked every inch the long-suffering servant, yet beneath that mask lingered the warmth of a lover who found her prince endlessly entertaining.

“Meri,” Arthur’s voice drifted out from behind the screen, half a command and half a complaint, the familiar weight of his impatience curling around her name. “What kind of impression do you think this gives?”

A moment later his hand shot around the carved edge, thumb poking solemnly through a small hole in his undershirt’s sleeve as though presenting evidence of a crime.

Merilyn tilted her head, lips curving with sly humor. “That we have moths?” she suggested sweetly, her tone light and entirely unhelpful.

Arthur groaned, the sound more dramatic than genuine. “Fetch me another.”

She deliberately took her time, smoothing the jacket across her arm as though she hadn’t heard him at all. “And who exactly are you trying to impress, Sire?” she asked, her voice as mild as honey though her grin betrayed her mischief.

Arthur stepped out from behind the screen then, half-dressed and utterly unaware of how maddeningly handsome he looked in his carelessness. His tunic hung loose at the throat, the pale line of his collarbone visible in the firelight. His golden hair was mussed, as if he had been wrestling with the garment instead of simply putting it on. His brows rose in a princely arch, meant to remind her of his authority, though the corner of his mouth twitched, giving him away.

“Well,” he said with exaggerated dignity, sweeping across the chamber as though he were addressing a hall rather than a single woman, “perhaps the five kings seated in the banquet hall below. That might be a decent place to start.”

Merilyn tapped her chin as if deep in thought. “Oh. Not the king’s daughter, then? The Lady Vivian?” Her voice was light, teasing, the grin in her eyes unmistakable. “She is very beautiful.”

Arthur halted mid-step and narrowed his eyes, suspicion sparking immediately. “Anyone attempting to impress the Lady Vivian does so at extreme peril. Olaf would have their head in a vat of hot oil before they so much as finished a greeting.”

Merilyn’s smirk widened. “Not your type, then?”

“Not remotely. She may be beautiful, but she’s insufferably rude. You should’ve heard what she said to Gwen.”

The teasing vanished from Merilyn’s face as quickly as smoke in a draft. Her expression sharpened, eyes darkening beneath the illusion. “Anyone insulting Gwen should do so at extreme peril,” she muttered, her voice fierce despite its soft disguise.

Arthur tilted his head, catching the edge of her words. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she replied too quickly, biting down on her lip as if to trap the smile that threatened to escape. Her voice softened a fraction, though her eyes gleamed with a stubborn fire that no illusion could hide. “I would just like to see Vivian insult Gwen in front of me.”

Arthur’s brow arched, and with deliberate slowness he closed the space between them until she was nearly pressed against the edge of his desk. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning the blue into something sharper, almost metallic, like polished steel catching the sun. “You sounded rather murderous just now,” he observed dryly. The words might have been a rebuke in another man’s mouth, but in his, the amusement threading through them softened the accusation.

Merilyn tipped her chin upward, adopting an air of defiance that her boyish disguise could not quite carry with conviction. The illusion clung to her still, painting the angles of her face in sharper lines, but her posture—proud, unyielding—belonged wholly to her. “I merely said I’d like to see it. Gwen would destroy her with nothing more than a look, and I would enjoy every moment of the spectacle.”

Arthur gave a sharp huff, the sound halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement. He shook his head, though his lips betrayed him by curving into a smile. With a careless sweep, he plucked the jacket from her arm and tossed it onto the chair without so much as a glance. “You and Gwen,” he muttered, the affection in his tone undermining the complaint. “I swear she is the only person in this castle who defends you more fiercely than you defend her. Sometimes I half suspect she already knows the truth.”

Her heart lurched at the suggestion, but she masked it behind a crooked smile. “She doesn’t,” she said quickly, though her voice softened into something more reverent. “But if she did, she would guard it better than anyone. Gwen is…” She hesitated, the teasing mask faltering, before finishing with quiet sincerity. “…the sister I never had. I trust her with my life.”

Arthur studied her in silence, the playful smirk on his lips gentling into something far quieter, something reverent. His voice dropped, low and almost solemn. “I can tell. The way you look at her. The way you’d burn the world if someone so much as breathed against her wrong.”

Her mouth curved again, this time with a sharper edge. “That’s rich, coming from you. You nearly set the training yard on fire once when someone made her cry.”

Arthur straightened indignantly, his princely bearing spoiled by the flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. “That was not my fault,” he insisted, mock-offended. “Sir Kay is a brute and deserved every bruise I gave him.”

Merilyn’s laugh escaped before she could restrain it, bubbling up like water breaking through stone. The sound filled the chamber, warm and bright, and Arthur’s shoulders eased as though that single note had loosened something coiled too tightly inside his chest.

He leaned down suddenly, swift as a fox stealing from a coop, and kissed her. It was brief, the barest brush of lips against the illusion’s boyish mouth, but the spell could not hold beneath the intimacy of it. For an instant, the magic flickered—the edges of the disguise faltering, revealing pale hair glinting in the firelight and wide violet eyes startled by the audacity of his touch. Then, just as quickly, the mask snapped back into place.

“Arthur,” she whispered, cheeks flushed even under the veil of the enchantment. Her voice was breathless, caught somewhere between exasperation and yearning. “What if someone walked in?”

“Then,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw in a gesture that made her knees weaken, “they would see a prince kissing his servant and think I had lost my mind. Which is true, because you’ve driven me to it, Meri.”

The name—his name for her, the one no one else could ever speak—slipped between them like a promise. Her breath caught, her heart stumbling over the sound. She shoved lightly at his chest, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her attempt at severity. “Obsessed,” she accused softly.

“Utterly,” he agreed, his grin boyish, unabashed, as if obsession were the highest honor a knight could claim. “Now come, before my father sends a search party. I need my manservant at my side—properly disguised. Vivian may not be my type, but if she tries to sink her claws into me, I’ll need you there to fend her off.”

Merilyn snorted, tugging the jacket from the chair and handing it back with an elaborate flourish. “Oh, gladly. I’ve always wanted to swat a spoiled princess.”

Arthur laughed, the sound rich and warm, before bending swiftly to steal one more kiss, quick and possessive, as if he couldn’t resist. Straightening, he swept his cloak across his shoulders with mock solemnity. “Careful, Meri,” he warned, his voice pitched low, his smile tugging crooked. “You’re far too good at making me forget I’m meant to be a prince.”

“And you,” she returned wryly, her eyes soft even as her grin teased, “are far too good at making me forget I’m meant to be your servant.”

The banquet hall glittered with gold and firelight, the air thick with roasted meats, spiced wine, and the murmur of voices. High torches smoked faintly against the vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows over the banners of five kingdoms strung from the rafters. Musicians played in a corner, their lutes and pipes straining to be heard over the laughter and clatter of goblets, while servants wove between the trestle tables with platters piled high.

Arthur sat to his father’s right, his posture the very image of composure, though Merilyn—seated two steps behind in the guise of Merlin—saw the flicker of weariness in his shoulders. She knew him too well to be fooled. The evening had barely begun, yet already Arthur’s patience was stretched taut by the endless boasts of rival kings and the saccharine simpers of their daughters. At his other shoulder, Erynd stood like a shadow given form, his expression calm but his eyes ever watchful, measuring every movement in the room.

Uther, of course, looked content—if one could call the cold satisfaction etched into his features contentment. He thrived on such spectacles, on the careful games of display and dominance that came with hosting men who might as easily turn enemy as ally.

It was then that Trickler, King Alined’s fool, sprang into the center of the hall. His wiry frame twisted in a bow so deep his pointed hat nearly brushed the rushes on the floor. The murmurs quieted, eyes turning toward him with varying degrees of boredom or disdain.

With a sudden inhalation that seemed to fill his narrow chest to bursting, Trickler pursed his lips and exhaled a plume of fire. The hall gasped as the flame curled in the air like a living thing, golden light washing across polished goblets and startled faces.

Merilyn’s brows shot upward, violet eyes flashing briefly beneath her illusion. She folded her arms and muttered under her breath, “Show-off.”

Arthur’s hand twitched at his side, his jaw tightening as if to hide a smile. “Careful,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear, “your jealousy’s showing.”

She nearly elbowed him in the ribs where she stood behind, but Gwen’s sharp glance from across the room stilled her, and Merilyn bit back the retort.

Trickler basked in the brief applause, bowing again with a theatrical flourish. “But it is not enough to please just the gentlemen of the court,” he declared, his voice high and sly, “no, no, no. Now, I have a spectacle for the ladies.”

He snapped his fingers, and from his palm fluttered a handful of butterflies, their wings glimmering with impossible iridescence in the torchlight. They drifted upward in a cloud of color, drawing delighted gasps from the visiting queens and their daughters. Even Morgana’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained sharp as glass.

Uther leaned forward, his voice carrying across the tables. “It is skill, indeed.”

Alined inclined his head, smug as a cat who had cornered a mouse. “We aim to please.”

Trickler swept the hall with his beady eyes until they alighted on a target, and with a gasp exaggerated enough to draw every gaze, he pressed a hand to his chest. “But what is this? The Lady Vivian.”

Vivian, seated beside her father King Olaf, preened at once, tossing her curls with a coyness that made Gwen stiffen where she stood with the other attendants.

Trickler bowed low, then drew his hand near Vivian’s ear. With a flourish, he pulled back to reveal a butterfly perched daintily on his palm. “It has mistaken you,” he crooned, “for a most beautiful flower.”

The hall chuckled softly, indulgent. But then, with a sly grin, Trickler extended his hand farther, showing that between his fingers he now held something more than wings. A golden curl of Vivian’s hair had come away in his grasp, glinting like captured sunlight.

A gasp rippled across the chamber. Vivian’s face flamed crimson, her hand flying to her head with an indignant shriek. “How dare you!” she cried, rising so quickly her goblet toppled, wine spilling dark across the table.

King Olaf surged to his feet, his massive frame casting a shadow across the table. “What kind of insult is this?” he thundered.

Merilyn’s jaw tightened, her boyish façade hiding the sharp smile threatening to break through. Trickler had overplayed his hand, and the fool’s comeuppance was long overdue.

Arthur rose swiftly, cutting through the growing murmur. “My lord Olaf,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but commanding, “it was but a jest, ill-timed and clumsy, but no true insult meant.”

Vivian turned on him with wide eyes, indignant tears threatening. “A jest? He stole a lock of my hair!”

Behind Arthur’s chair, Merilyn muttered just loud enough for him to catch, “If she had any wit, she’d be more worried about what’s inside her head, not what’s dangling from it.”

Arthur nearly choked on a laugh, covering it with a cough into his fist. His shoulders shook with barely-contained mirth, and he shot her a warning glance over his shoulder.

Erynd, impassive as ever, leaned slightly closer to murmur, “Careful, Meri. One more word and someone might accuse you of enjoying this.”

“Oh, I am,” she whispered back, eyes gleaming. “Immensely.”

Arthur’s composure wavered, though he bowed deeply toward Olaf and Vivian, his voice steady once more. “Please, allow me to escort Lady Vivian to her chambers myself, so that she may be assured her dignity will suffer no further indignity this night.”

Uther, watching carefully, inclined his head in stiff approval. “See to it, Arthur.”

Vivian sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a silken kerchief. “I will not be attended by some… some servant girl,” she snapped, glaring toward Gwen, who stood silent and steady, though her jaw was tight.

Arthur’s eyes flicked briefly to Gwen, then to Merilyn, before he inclined his head with a polished smile that betrayed nothing of his true thoughts. “Very well. If Lady Vivian prefers, 

Arthur’s eyes flicked briefly to Gwen, then to Merilyn, before he inclined his head with a polished smile that betrayed nothing of his true thoughts. “Very well. If Lady Vivian prefers, then she shall be escorted by my own manservant, Erynd.”

The words landed like iron. For a heartbeat, Erynd’s composure cracked, his head snapping toward Arthur with a look that might have curdled wine. His jaw worked soundlessly before he bowed—stiff, reluctant, but obedient nonetheless.

Vivian’s cheeks flushed, though not with outrage this time. Her gaze slid over Erynd like a cat considering cream, her lashes lowered, her lips curving into something altogether too pleased. “Yes,” she said softly, her tone suddenly honeyed. “That will do.”

King Olaf grunted his approval, though his narrowed eyes never left Trickler. Vivian rose, gathering the spill of her skirts, and with a toss of her hair, swept toward the doorway as though she were the injured queen of the evening rather than a spoiled girl indulged.

Erynd fell in step behind her, his shoulders squared, his stride measured, the very picture of the long-suffering guard forced into service. The great doors closed behind them, the echo ringing through the hall like a bell marking doom.

Arthur exhaled slowly, then reclaimed his seat with all the grace of a prince who had just avoided the sharpening edge of an international quarrel. His goblet found his hand, though he drank deep more out of weariness than thirst.

Behind him, Merilyn leaned close, her voice pitched so low only he could hear. “She’ll eat him alive.” Her tone dripped with wicked amusement, her violet eyes glittering beneath the illusion’s boyish mask.

Arthur’s lips twitched around the rim of his cup, his composure threatening to unravel. “Erynd has faced worse,” he murmured back, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

“Not like this,” Merilyn countered, folding her arms across her chest. “Beasts he can fight. Wars he can win. But a pampered princess with an appetite for attention? He’ll wish he’d been left to Trickler’s fire.”

Arthur’s shoulders shook once, just enough for her to know she’d struck true. He cleared his throat, straightening with princely dignity, but when his gaze flicked to hers, there was no hiding the gleam of laughter he fought to suppress.

Merilyn smirked, satisfied, and trailed a step back into the shadows where a servant was meant to stand. But the warmth of their secret amusement hummed between them, a current neither the kings nor their daughters could touch.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Arthur’s chambers were dim when Merilyn moved quietly about, her disguise still firmly in place. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that flickered against carved stone and the heavy curtains drawn tight against the night. She had already seen to most of the nightly tasks—fresh water poured into the basin, boots set aside near the hearth to dry, and the table cleared of goblets left behind when Arthur had retreated upstairs after the banquet. Now she stood at his bedside, tugging down the thick coverlet, her fingers smoothing the folds with the kind of domestic ease that still made her laugh inwardly at the double life she led.

Arthur was by the fire, loosening his sword belt, his back to her. He looked as he often did after a feast—every inch the prince in posture, yet wearied by the weight of masks and politics. His hand pressed briefly to the mantle as though the stone itself might steady him.

The chamber door banged open.

Merilyn straightened in a rush, her boyish illusion firmly in place, just as Erynd stumbled in. The sight of him made her mouth fall open before she could catch herself. His usually impeccable tunic was wrinkled and askew, his hair mussed as though he had been dragged backward through a hedge, and the expression on his face hovered somewhere between disbelief, fury, and horror.

Arthur turned sharply at the intrusion, brows rising high. “Erynd,” he said dryly, eyeing his manservant as if he were some bedraggled soldier fresh from battle. “By the look of you, I’d say Camelot has been invaded. Should I call the guard?”

Erynd threw the door shut behind him, his jaw clenched so tightly Merilyn thought he might crack a tooth. “Invasion would’ve been kinder,” he ground out, stalking into the room. His boots scuffed the rushes as he paced once before Arthur’s desk, raking both hands through his hair. “That woman is deranged.”

Merilyn, still clutching the corner of the turned-down coverlet, blinked wide-eyed. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, lips twitching with poorly-concealed mirth. “Vivian?” she asked innocently. “Surely not. She seemed such a delicate flower at supper.”

Arthur made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, though he covered it quickly by coughing into his hand. “What did she do?” he asked, though his eyes gleamed far too brightly for the question to be entirely sympathetic.

Erynd whirled, glaring at them both as though they had conspired in his suffering. “She cornered me. In her chambers. The moment her maid left, she—” He broke off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “—she jumped me.”

Merilyn clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort to smother her laugh. Her illusion made the gesture look boyish and clumsy, but her violet eyes betrayed the wicked delight dancing there. “Jumped?” she echoed, her voice trembling with suppressed laughter. “As in… claws and teeth?”

“Don’t encourage her,” Erynd snapped, pointing a finger in her direction. His ears were flushed crimson. “The woman practically tried to devour me whole. Do you know what it’s like to be pawed at by a spoiled princess with no concept of the word no?”

Arthur sank onto the edge of the bed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did she get a kiss at least?”

Erynd went scarlet, the color rising all the way to the tips of his ears. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Are you mad? She nearly unbuttoned half my tunic before I shoved her off! I barely made it out alive, and you’re asking if she kissed me?”

Merilyn couldn’t hold it in any longer—her laughter bubbled over, spilling bright and unrestrained into the chamber. She collapsed onto the bed beside Arthur, cross-legged like a child with a secret, her shoulders shaking as she tried to catch her breath. “Erynd, if you’d seen your face just now,” she managed between giggles, “you’d know why I’m never letting you live this down.”

Arthur’s hand, warm and steady, slid over her knee and settled against her thigh, grounding her even as his lips curved in amusement. He didn’t even try to hide it—the affectionate brush of his thumb through the fabric of her trousers was as natural as breathing. He glanced sidelong at her, his grin softening in private contrast to the wicked delight he showed Erynd. “Meri’s right,” he said smoothly. “You’ll be telling this story for years. The night you were hunted by a princess instead of a beast.”

Erynd groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Wonderful. Between the two of you, I’ll never hear the end of this.”

Merilyn leaned back on her hands, still chuckling, her illusion flickering at the edges as her violet eyes caught the glow of the fire. “You should’ve taken notes,” she teased mercilessly. “Perhaps you’d have learned a thing or two about survival.”

Arthur barked a laugh, squeezing her thigh once before releasing her. “A valuable lesson, indeed,” he agreed with mock gravity, his voice pitched toward Erynd. “Never underestimate a woman with determination.” His gaze slid back to Merilyn then, lingering for a beat too long, softening into something that made her heart catch despite the disguise she wore.

Erynd made a disgusted noise and shoved to his feet. “On that note, I’m leaving before I hear something I can’t unhear.” He stalked toward the door, muttering under his breath about spoiled princesses and scheming lovers, though his ears were still burning red.

The latch clicked softly behind him, and the chamber fell into quiet once more, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the fading sound of Merilyn’s laughter. Arthur turned fully toward her then, his knee bumping hers as he leaned in, his voice dropping to something intimate and low. “Well,” he murmured, thumb brushing across her thigh again, “I suppose I should thank Vivian for at least one thing tonight.”

Her brows arched, lips curving into a knowing smile. “And what’s that?”

He leaned close enough that his breath ghosted warm across her ear. “That she gave me something to laugh about—before I do this.” And with no further warning, he tilted her chin toward him and kissed her, stealing the breath from her lungs as thoroughly as he had stolen her composure.

Arthur’s kiss was warm, insistent, and devastating in its familiarity, the kind that unraveled her piece by piece until she forgot the ache in her leg, the burden of her disguise, the endless weight of what she carried. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone as though to remind her that he saw her—always her—and not the boy her illusion painted. The bracelet at his wrist glimmered faintly in the firelight, the enchantment she had given him long ago allowing him to see through the veil. He never saw Merlin, never the disguise; he saw Merilyn.

Her breath caught when he deepened the kiss, his free hand sliding to her waist to anchor her against him. She leaned into him helplessly, fists curling in the fabric of his tunic, drinking him in like he was the only tether keeping her upright. Weeks had passed since the grief of Avalon, since Freya’s pyre had burned across the mist, and in those weeks Arthur had been patient, steady, giving her space while still seeking her out in quiet corners, in brief moments stolen away from duty. And always, always, he kissed her as though he couldn’t bear to stop.

Tonight was no different. He eased her back onto the bed with careful hands, lowering her against the mattress as though she were fragile glass he dared not break. She went willingly, her body trembling with a mixture of longing and fear. The coverlet rustled beneath her as she sank into it, the firelight painting her pale hair in molten shades, her violet eyes wide and searching.

Arthur hovered over her, his breath ragged, his blue eyes burning with desire yet tempered with restraint. His thumb traced her lower lip, and she shivered beneath the touch. “Meri,” he whispered, the name breaking soft and reverent from his lips. 

Arthur’s whisper seemed to fill the chamber, softer than the fire’s crackle, yet heavy with all the things he never said aloud. Meri. The name, so private, so wholly his for her, made her chest ache and swell in equal measure. Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, overwhelmed, but she forced them open again because she could not bear to miss the way he looked at her—like she was both battle and sanctuary, both flame and harbor.

Her hands lifted almost on their own, brushing along the front of his tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor herself. The warmth of his body pressed close, but not heavy—never heavy. He held himself above her with that careful restraint she knew was costing him dearly. She could feel the tremor in his muscles, the thrum of his pulse where it pressed against her palm, but he made no demand, only waited, his thumb still stroking gently across her lip.

Her breath came shallow, unsteady, but she leaned up enough to press another kiss to his mouth, tentative, seeking. He met it instantly, but still with that same patience, that same endless gentleness that both calmed and unraveled her. His lips lingered, brushed, retreated only to return again, as if reminding her that he would take a thousand small kisses over forcing one step too far.

When his hand slid from her jaw to cup her cheek, she turned into it, pressing her face into his palm with a sound that was half-sob, half-sigh. The fear that had sat like a stone in her chest loosened, if only a little. He would not push her. He never had. Even when her body ached with want, even when the nights they shared ended tangled together in blankets, he always waited. Always left the choice to her.

Arthur dipped his forehead to hers, his breath warm and uneven, his voice barely more than a murmur. “I’ll never rush you, Meri. Do you hear me? Not tonight, not ever. We have time. All the time in the world, if I can make it so.”

Her eyes burned, and she reached up to frame his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over the faint stubble at his jaw. “Arthur,” she whispered, her voice breaking with all the weight she carried. “I’m… I’m terrified.”

His lips pressed to her brow, lingering there with a tenderness that made her eyes sting worse. “Then we’ll stay right here,” he said firmly. “Just like this. No further than you want. I’ll be patient, Meri—I swear it. I’d rather wait a lifetime than see fear in your eyes when I touch you.”

The tears came then, hot and unexpected, sliding into her hair as she let out a shaky laugh. He kissed them away, brushing her cheeks with his lips, chasing each tear until they gave way to softer sounds, gentler sighs. She clung to him, pulling him down until he rested fully against her, his weight comforting, his warmth surrounding her like armor.

The fire popped in the hearth, and outside the castle the wind sighed against the stone, but in Arthur’s chambers, the world narrowed to just the two of them. His kisses softened, trailing across her face, her temple, down to the edge of her throat, each one feather-light, reverent. When he finally returned to her lips, it was slower still, lingering, a promise in every brush of his mouth.

Merilyn let herself melt into him, her body easing, the fear loosening its grip. They had shared months of nights together without stepping past the line she was not ready to cross. And though her body still trembled with want, she knew—without question—that Arthur would wait as long as she needed. He always would.

When at last he pulled back enough to look at her again, his blue eyes searched hers with a softness that made her heart feel like it might burst. He smiled faintly, crooked and boyish, and bent to kiss her once more—slower, surer, as if to seal the vow he had just given.

The chamber settled into silence after Arthur’s vow, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the steady cadence of their breaths. Merilyn lay curled against him, her face pressed to the warmth of his chest, his arm draped securely around her waist. For a time, she allowed herself the luxury of stillness, of safety, of believing that the world could wait outside these walls.

But it couldn’t.

The thought returned slowly, like the tide, creeping up no matter how she tried to push it back. Beyond these walls were not only Camelot’s knights and servants, but the kings of five kingdoms and their retinues, sharp-eyed and suspicious. A single misstep, a single whisper caught in the wrong ear, and everything she and Arthur had fought to protect could unravel.

Arthur had drifted half into sleep, his breathing deepening, his hand still tangled in her hair as though he feared letting go even in dreams. She tilted her head to look at him in the low firelight—his features softened, no trace of the crown’s weight marring his brow, his lips parted slightly in rest. The sternness that court and duty demanded of him was gone, leaving behind only the boy she had first met and the man he was becoming. Her chest ached at the sight, so tender and unguarded. How she longed to stay, to let the night pass with her head on his chest and his arms around her.

But she could not.

Her fingers moved before she thought better of it, brushing gently through his hair, smoothing back the golden strands that had fallen across his brow. He murmured faintly in his sleep, a sound so soft it could have been mistaken for the sigh of the fire. She leaned closer, her lips hovering just above his temple, her breath catching as her heart pounded a truth she had carried for months.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words slipping out like a prayer, fragile and trembling, yet truer than anything she had ever spoken. He did not stir, only breathed deeper, as though some part of him heard and kept the words safe in the quiet.

Her eyes burned, but she pressed a kiss against his hair all the same, letting the warmth of him steady her for one last moment. Then, with infinite care, she slipped her hand over his, pressed her lips to his knuckles, and eased herself free. He stirred faintly, his brows twitching in protest, but after a moment he settled again, sinking deeper into sleep.

Quiet as snowfall, Merilyn slid from the bed, gathering her jacket and tugging it around her shoulders. Her disguise had frayed in the intimacy of their closeness, her pale hair shimmering faintly in the firelight. With a whispered word, she re-fastened the spell, the boyish illusion cloaking her once more. The familiar weight of Merlin’s face returned like a prison cell closing, and she straightened her shoulders beneath it.

At the door, she looked back once more. Arthur slept on, the faintest crease of a frown at his brow as though even in dreams the crown’s shadow haunted him. She touched her lips where her confession still lingered, the words that he had not heard—or perhaps had, in some quiet part of his soul. Then she slipped out into the darkened corridor, vanishing into shadow before the dawn could find her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The morning light spilled through the narrow windows of Arthur’s chambers, pale and cold, pooling across the stone floor in long shafts of gold. Outside, the square below stirred with the sounds of servants and knights preparing for the day’s duties, the clatter of buckets and the shouts of stable boys rising faintly with the winter wind. Arthur stood at the window, his hands braced against the sill, his gaze fixed on the courtyard.

Lady Vivian was there, her silken cloak trailing like spilled wine over the frost-slick stones. She was scolding a servant boy who had dared to stumble while carrying her parcels, her voice sharp and imperious enough to carry even to Arthur’s high perch. The boy bent beneath her words, shoulders hunched, face scarlet with shame. And yet Arthur—Arthur Pendragon, heir to Camelot, warrior and commander—watched her with a softness in his eyes that made no sense at all.

Erynd entered quietly, arms full of fresh linens, his boots muffled by the rushes. He paused just inside the threshold, his dark brows knitting as he took in the sight of Arthur standing there with an expression so far removed from the steel and steadiness he was accustomed to. “Good morning, Sire,” he said carefully, testing the air as one might test a blade’s edge.

Arthur turned, and the smile that lit his face was unrecognizable—wide, foolish, radiant in a way Erynd had never seen. “Never,” he declared, sweeping a hand toward the window as though to summon the whole sky as witness, “never have you been more right, Erynd. It is the sunniest, the most fragrant, the most beautiful morning I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Erynd blinked, then narrowed his eyes, gaze darting toward the frost-rimed glass where the Lady Vivian’s shrill commands still echoed faintly. He looked back at Arthur with disbelief. “You’re… dressed,” he said slowly, as though unsure if this was reality or dream.

Arthur preened at once, tugging his tunic straight, his cloak already draped over one shoulder with uncharacteristic neatness. “I am the future King of Camelot,” he announced proudly, “I do have some skills, you know.”

Erynd set the linens down on the trunk at the foot of the bed, crossing his arms. “Indeed. You are very skilled at getting other people to do things for you.”

Arthur waved the comment away with unbothered grandeur, too intoxicated by whatever madness had seized him. “That is your job,” he said blithely. “But today—today my job is to woo.”

The word dropped into the chamber like an arrow, so unexpected that Erynd almost choked. “To… what?” he asked flatly, incredulous.

“To woo,” Arthur repeated with complete seriousness, his chest puffed, his eyes gleaming with certainty. “I wish to make a proclamation of love.”

Erynd stared at him. “Really? I thought you wanted to keep your feelings… discreet.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Arthur swept past him, striding toward the table where goblets from the night before still lingered. He snatched one up as though it were a chalice of victory and lifted it in toast to an unseen crowd. “By the end of today, I will have won my lady.”

Erynd’s mouth opened, then shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “Right. Well. What will you tell your father?”

Arthur waved a dismissive hand as though Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot, were nothing more than a minor obstacle to be stepped over. “What does my father matter?”

Erynd muttered something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like, This is worse than Vivian jumping me. Out loud, however, he managed only, “Well, that’s… one way of approaching things.”

Arthur turned back toward him, his expression suddenly earnest, boyish in its intensity. “So, I need your help in expressing my feelings.”

There was a long silence. Erynd waited, expecting instruction, but Arthur merely looked at him with wide, expectant eyes, as if that were explanation enough.

“How to express my feelings,” Arthur prompted, when Erynd failed to leap into action.

Erynd’s lips pressed thin. “…Feelings.”

“Yes,” Arthur said eagerly, nodding like a man discussing battle strategy.

“Girls.”

Arthur’s smile broadened. “Girls.”

“Flowers?” Erynd offered weakly, his tone flat as a whetstone.

Arthur clapped his hands together, delighted. “Excellent. Find some. And perhaps a note as well.” His eyes gleamed with ridiculous fervor. “Something moving. Something from the heart. Something…” He gestured vaguely, as though inspiration were floating just above his head. “You’ll think of something.”

Erynd dragged a hand down his face, already envisioning the disaster this would become. Somewhere, deep in his chest, he prayed that Merilyn would appear soon—because whatever madness had possessed Arthur Pendragon, it was beyond his power alone to fix.

Arthur did not linger. With the zeal of a knight marching into battle, he swept his cloak from the chair and fastened it across his shoulders, the movement sharp and decisive. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, his blue eyes alight in a way that made Erynd uneasy.

“I mustn’t waste time,” Arthur declared, striding toward the door as though the entire day hinged on his haste. “Love waits for no man.” He glanced once at Erynd, oblivious to the incredulity written across his servant’s face. “See to the flowers. And the note. Have them ready when I return.”

And with that, he was gone. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving only silence and the faint swish of his cloak trailing in memory.

Erynd remained where he stood, staring at the door as if it had just spoken an incantation. His hand dragged slowly down his face, muffling the groan that slipped through his teeth. Whatever had overcome Arthur, it was madness plain and simple. No rational man spoke of wooing as though it were military conquest, least of all the prince who had been brooding only yesterday over the weight of peace accords.

The latch clicked again, softer this time. Erynd turned, half-hoping Arthur had returned to his senses. Instead, Merilyn stepped in. The illusion of Merlin clung to her—boyish frame, tousled dark hair, tunic a little too large at the shoulders—but the fatigue in her posture and the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the truth beneath. She carried herself like someone who had not slept, though her violet eyes gleamed through the spell, tired but alert.

“You just missed him,” Erynd said dryly, folding his arms across his chest. His tone was sharper than he intended, the strain of the morning bleeding through. “And thank the gods for that, because I don’t know how much longer I could keep a straight face.”

Merilyn’s brows rose, wary. “What do you mean?”

Erynd gave a low, humorless laugh and shook his head. “He’s raving like a bard with too much wine. Flowers, notes, proclamations of undying love.” He gestured vaguely toward the door Arthur had just left through. “What did you do to him last night?”

The words landed like a blade between her ribs. Merilyn froze where she stood, her lips parting soundlessly. For a heartbeat she could only stare at Erynd, her breath caught, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack bone.

He meant it as a joke—she could hear it in the dry twist of his voice—but it cut all the same. She had crept from Arthur’s bed only hours ago, after whispering words she had never dared before. I love you. She had brushed the hair from his brow, kissed him in sleep, and left him warm in dreams she prayed were of her. 

Erynd dropped heavily into the nearest chair, his long legs sprawling as if the effort of holding himself upright against Arthur’s madness had been too much. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, still wearing that baffled expression that suggested he had just walked away from a battlefield where the enemy had been invisible.

“Did he say who the flowers and note were for?” Merilyn’s voice came low, quieter than she intended, as she crossed to the bed. Her hands moved automatically, gathering the blankets and sheets Arthur had left in disarray, smoothing fabric that still held the faint warmth of his body. The motion steadied her, though each fold and crease reminded her of his weight beside her, the press of his mouth, the vow he had whispered into her skin. He’d told her he’d wait a lifetime if she needed it. And she—she had finally told him she loved him, words she had never dared to speak while he was awake.

Now she asked the question as though bracing herself for a blow, though Erynd, oblivious, only leaned back with a sigh and a faint, wry smile.

“Who else?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You, of course. Who else could he possibly mean? You’re all he thinks about these days. Gods, I’ve seen soldiers with fewer battle plans for their campaigns than Arthur has for stealing a kiss from you.”

Her breath faltered, hands stilling on the blanket. For a moment, hope and dread tangled together inside her chest until she thought she might choke on them. Erynd’s assumption should have been comforting—should have reassured her that last night had not been a dream, that Arthur’s tenderness had been real. And yet…

Her gaze flicked toward the window, where faint laughter carried from the square below, Lady Vivian’s high-pitched trill threading through the morning air. Arthur’s eyes had been fixed there when she entered, his smile dazed, unnatural, bewitched. She had seen longing before in his face—longing for her, for freedom, for things neither of them dared voice aloud. This had not been that.

Merilyn bent her head quickly, focusing again on stripping the bed before Erynd could see the turmoil in her eyes. She tugged at the coverlet with sharper force than necessary, the fabric whispering across the mattress. “Did he… say my name?” she asked at last, the words careful, measured, as if she were testing for cracks in stone.

Erynd frowned, his brows knitting. “No. But he didn’t need to. Who else could he possibly be wooing?” He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Arthur Pendragon, writing love notes like some green boy chasing a maid at harvest. I thought I’d seen everything.” 

“I should get these to the wash.” She muttered before leaving her Seer confused by her hurried escape. 

Merilyn didn’t go straight to the laundress. She carried the bundle of linens down the back stair and out through the narrow passage that led into the Lower Town, her pace quick, head bowed beneath the weight of her disguise. The morning air bit cold against her cheeks, damp with the smell of woodsmoke and wet stone, but she hardly noticed. Her hands were trembling too badly, the fabric pressed against her chest not enough to stop the shiver that wracked her.

By the time she reached her cottage, her breath came sharp and uneven, her heart still thrumming with the echoes of Erynd’s words. Flowers. A note. Wooing. She had wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to clutch to the idea that Arthur’s strange mood had been for her, not the king’s daughter whose laughter still rang in her ears. But as she pushed open the door to her home, the sight waiting on the small wooden table stole that hope from her.

A neat arrangement of flowers lay there, gathered with more care than Arthur ever spared for such things, their stems bound by a length of ribbon. Beside them sat a folded piece of parchment, the wax seal pressed haphazardly as if done in haste. The scent of the blooms filled the small space, sharp and sweet all at once, cloying in the still air.

She closed the door behind her with a click that seemed too loud, then crossed to the table on unsteady legs. Her hand hovered over the flowers before finally brushing one bloom, the petals soft against her fingers, betraying no malice in their beauty. She almost laughed. Arthur Pendragon, the man who couldn’t keep his armor polished for more than a day, had sent her flowers.

She unfolded the note with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. The words inside were tidy, steady, chosen with care: Your beauty eclipses the dawn. My heart is yours until the end of time.

Her mouth twisted. It wasn’t Arthur’s hand—not really. The cadence was wrong, the sentiment too carefully shaped. She had spent months reading the things he never said aloud, learning his voice in silence and glance, in half-finished thoughts spoken only to her. This wasn’t him.

It was Erynd.

She let the parchment fall back to the table, rubbing both hands over her face. “Gods help me,” she whispered, a humorless laugh breaking in her throat. “Of course it was him. Arthur would rather face down a wyvern than write poetry.”

The latch to the door rattled. She started, her hands dropping just as Erynd burst in, breathless and flushed, his cloak crooked over one shoulder. His eyes found the flowers instantly, then the note, and confusion crossed his face so plainly it nearly stole her breath.

“You’ve got them,” he said, half to himself, as though the sight alone confirmed a suspicion he’d been unwilling to name. His gaze snapped back to her, sharp. “But—I spoke to him and he claimed they were for Lady Vivian.”

“What are you talking about?” She asked. 

Merilyn’s voice came out sharper than she intended, the question striking the air between them like a blade against stone. She hadn’t meant it to sound defensive, but her chest already ached, her throat tight with a weight she didn’t know how to carry.

Erynd shut the door behind him with more force than was necessary, leaning back against it for a moment as if he needed the wood to steady himself. His dark eyes flicked between the flowers, the discarded note, and her pale face, his frown deepening with every heartbeat.

“I mean exactly what I said,” he answered finally, his voice low but taut. “Arthur swore this morning that the flowers and letter were meant for Vivian. He’s besotted—at least, that’s how it looks. I barely kept from shaking him by the shoulders to knock sense into him.”

The words struck like cold water. Merilyn’s stomach twisted, her hand tightening around the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. She had half-suspected, had seen the dazed way Arthur had looked down into the courtyard at Vivian’s preening figure, but hearing it spoken aloud left no space for denial.

Her gaze dropped to the flowers, their colors suddenly garish against the worn wood of her table. They mocked her with their prettiness, their ribbon tied too neatly, the words in the letter too carefully chosen. None of it felt like him. And yet—he had claimed them for another.

She swallowed, forcing her voice steady though it wavered at the edges. “Then he’s only doing what’s expected of him. Vivian is a king’s daughter. She can offer him alliances I never could.” She folded the parchment carefully, her hands slow, deliberate, as if by controlling their movement she could keep her heart from unraveling. “Heir to Camelot cannot wed a servant—least of all one who isn’t truly what she seems.”

Erynd pushed away from the door, frustration etched into every line of his face. “Meri—don’t do this.” His tone was rough, but there was something almost pleading beneath it. “You know him better than anyone. Whatever madness has taken hold of him, it isn’t real. Not the Arthur who has spent months stealing every quiet moment with you, not the man who looks at you as though the rest of the world could burn and he would not care.”

Her chest tightened at his words, but she shook her head, violet eyes shimmering through the edges of her spell. “And yet he told you otherwise. He sent you for flowers and a note for her. Not me.”

Erynd crossed the room in two strides, his hands braced on the table between them. His voice dropped, fierce. “Do you hear yourself? You think the man who holds you every night, who wears the bracelet you gave him so he can see you—only you—is suddenly in love with Olaf’s spoiled daughter? You think that’s truth?”

She faltered, caught between wanting to believe and the sharp edge of reality. The memory of last night pressed against her skin: Arthur’s breath warm against her ear, the gentleness of his vow, the way he had whispered Meri like a prayer. But that memory warred with the sight she had witnessed at dawn, his gaze fixed on Vivian as though she were the sun itself.

Her lips curved into a bitter smile, fragile as glass. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Erynd. Even if it is some madness—some spell or trick—he is still Uther’s heir. He’ll marry where politics demand, not where his heart strays. And it cannot stray to me.” She pressed her palm flat to the table, steadying herself as though the wood might anchor her. “Better I remember that now than dream of something impossible.”

Erynd’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. He looked as though he wanted to argue, to shout sense into her, but the grief in her voice stopped him cold. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes dark with unspoken truths, then stepped back, shoulders heavy.

“Impossible,” he echoed quietly, though the word sounded like a curse on his tongue.

Merilyn gathered the flowers, lifting them with trembling hands, and carried them to the hearth. She laid them gently on the stones, their ribbon trailing like a silken mockery, and turned her back to them.

“They’re beautiful,” she said softly, her voice hollow, “but they were never mine.”

The cottage felt too small once Erynd left, his boots crunching down the lane until the sound faded into the hush of the sleeping Lower Town. Merilyn stood motionless in the center of the room, staring at the flowers where they lay abandoned at the hearth. The ribbon curled prettily against the stone, catching the last glow of the fire like a jewel. The petals had already begun to droop, their heads bowing as though mourning a fate they hadn’t chosen.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, willing the burn behind her eyes to still. But her hands shook, betraying her. The note still sat on the table, its parchment creased from her grip, the words etched there like thorns. She could almost hear Erynd’s voice in them, steady and crafted, but Arthur’s name had been the one stamped into her heart.

Her chest ached with the memory of the night before—his mouth against hers, his vow whispered into the shadows, the warmth of his body pressed close enough to banish every fear. She had told him she loved him at last, the words torn from her in a rush of courage she hadn’t known she possessed. And he had held her as if he had heard them, as if he had known all along.

Now, by the cruel light of day, he had looked at another woman as though she were the dawn.

Merilyn turned from the hearth, tugging her jacket tighter around her shoulders. Her disguise weighed heavily, the boyish illusion settling over her like a chain. She had never felt it so keenly—never so acutely aware that every breath, every moment of freedom in Arthur’s arms, had been borrowed.

He was Uther’s heir. She was a servant, a sorceress in hiding, a woman who had no right to even dream of a crown. Whatever Arthur whispered in the dark, whatever vows he spoke when the world was shut out, daylight belonged to politics. To duty. To Vivian.

She drew in a long, steadying breath, forcing herself to look at the flowers one last time. Their beauty was undeniable, but it was not hers to claim. With careful hands, she lifted them from the stones and set them back on the table. The ribbon slid loose, its silk catching on her fingers before it fell away, limp and lifeless.

“They were never mine,” she whispered again, quieter now, as if confessing to the silence itself.

Then she snuffed the last of the fire, plunging the cottage into shadow, and turned away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Arthur’s chambers were dim, the fire in the grate sunk low, throwing a restless glow over the carved beams and scattered armor. The feast of the day still clung to the air—roasted meat, spiced wine, the faint perfume of foreign silks—and yet here, in the prince’s own rooms, it had soured into something heavy. Arthur lay sprawled across his bed in full sulk, half under the coverlet, his tunic unlaced, his hair still stubbornly golden and untidy despite his attempts to flatten it with restless fingers. He looked less like a warrior who had faced battles and more like a boy who had been denied a sweet.

Merilyn stood at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled back, her hands busy with the nightly routine. She folded his cloak, brushed mud from his boots, and stacked his discarded belts with meticulous care, all with a silence that carried the sharp edge of disapproval. Her illusion of Merlin held steady, the boyish guise masking the tension in her face, but her violet eyes burned faintly beneath the spell.

Arthur groaned, rolling to one side and propping his head on his fist. “Go on,” he muttered, voice low and sullen. “Say it.”

Merilyn didn’t look up from the boots she was setting by the hearth. “Say what?”

“That you don’t think I should pursue my love,” he said, dragging the words out with theatrical misery.

She straightened slowly, brushing her hands down her jacket, and fixed him with a stare so flat it could have scraped the gold from his tunic. “Do whatever you want, Arthur. I don’t care.”

His mouth fell open, affronted. “You don’t—? Merlin, you always have something to say.”

“Not tonight.” Her voice was clipped, final, each syllable hammered into iron. She turned to the basin, splashing her hands in the cold water as if it might cool the flush threatening to break through her disguise.

Arthur pushed himself up on his elbows, the pout deepening into indignation. “You’re meant to advise me. That’s your job.”

She spun back, her eyes flashing, the illusion trembling faintly around the edges. “My job,” she said tightly, “is to keep you alive, to patch up your armor, to follow you into battles where no one else dares. If you want someone to guide your love life, Sire, perhaps ask the minstrels. They seem better at spinning pretty lies.”

The last word cracked sharper than she intended, and Arthur blinked at her, caught off guard. His lips parted as though to retort, but no sound came. For a moment, the silence between them was thick, broken only by the hiss of the fire and the rush of her breath.

He fell back against the pillows with a sigh, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Gods, Merlin,” he muttered into his palms. “You’re insufferable.”

Merilyn bit back the bitter laugh clawing at her throat, turned sharply on her heel, and busied herself with the lanterns. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep from betraying the hurt twisting in her chest.

Arthur shifted restlessly, rolling onto his side as though the bed itself had betrayed him. His hand slid beneath the pillow, seeking comfort in the familiar weight of down and linen, when his fingers snagged on something silken. He frowned, drawing it out into the dim firelight.

A lock of hair—golden, curling, tied with a delicate ribbon. Vivian’s.

Arthur sat up, holding it aloft as though it were some prize plucked from the battlefield. His brows rose in mild reproach, and he fixed Merilyn with a look that was equal parts exasperation and condescension. “What on earth?” he asked, shaking the ribboned curl slightly as if to scold her with it. “You really need to start paying attention to the details. My love left me a token, and you failed to notice it?”

Merilyn froze mid-step, the lantern still in her hands. For a moment the world narrowed to that single gleam of hair—too bright, too convenient, too damning. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering in her ears. She had heard of such things: tokens placed beneath pillows, charms woven into ribbon and silk, enchantments crafted to twist a man’s heart until it bent to another’s will.

And suddenly it all fit. The dazed smile, the foolish declarations, the talk of wooing Vivian with flowers and verse when only yesterday his lips had sworn patience, sworn her name into her skin.

Her hands trembled so violently she nearly dropped the lantern. She forced it down onto the nearest table with a clatter that made Arthur glance over, puzzled. His face—his beloved face—was softened in that strange, distant way, blue eyes dazed as he looked at the ribbon as though it were the most precious jewel in Camelot.

It broke her.

“Arthur,” she said, her voice tight, low, dangerously thin. “That isn’t—” She stopped herself before the words could fully form. He would not hear them. Not like this. Not with his mind tangled in another woman’s hair.

He smiled faintly, still lost in the charm’s hold. “She thinks of me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing reverently over the curl. “Even in the smallest things, she thinks of me.”

Merilyn’s heart clenched so hard she thought her ribs might crack beneath it. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no words came. There was no use railing against an enchantment while it still held him; it would only make her sound like the bitter servant who envied her master’s love.

So she bit the inside of her cheek until the copper taste of blood steadied her, smoothed her face into something carefully neutral, and bowed her head. “Then I’ll… see to it next time,” she managed, her voice steady though her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Arthur tucked the curl carefully back beneath his pillow, as though it were a sacred relic, before lying back once more with a sigh of contentment. Within moments, his eyes drifted closed, his lips curving faintly as though he dreamed already of Vivian.

Merilyn stood in the dim glow of the chamber, the fire spitting low embers, her throat raw and her chest hollow. She did not move until his breathing evened into sleep. Only then did she turn back to the lantern, adjusting the flame with sharp, deliberate care, her hands shaking despite her every effort.

Inside, though, the truth seared itself into her bones. Arthur was not himself. He was ensnared.

And she would have to be the one to free him.

Arthur’s chambers still smelled faintly of smoke and spiced wine, but Merilyn carried none of it with her when she slipped through the darkened halls. All she carried was the ribboned curl, wound so tightly in her fist that the edges cut her palm. Each step seemed louder than it was, echoing against her ribs, the weight of betrayal and fear dragging at her bones. She didn’t pause until she reached the door of Gaius’s chambers, and only then did she breathe out, steadying herself before pushing inside.

The old physician was bent over his workbench, mortar and pestle in hand, the sharp tang of crushed valerian root thick in the air. He looked up at once, his keen eyes narrowing at the sight of her—her boyish guise still cloaked about her, but her face pale, drawn, and trembling at the edges.

Without a word she crossed the room, set the lantern down, and uncurled her fingers. The lock of hair tumbled onto the table, gleaming gold in the lamplight, the ribbon catching with a sickly sheen.

“I knew something wasn’t right,” she whispered, her voice raw.

Gaius reached for it carefully, his hands steady though his jaw tightened. He turned it over, thumb pressing lightly against the ribbon, and the air hummed low and sour, like a plucked string left to shiver off-key. His brow furrowed. “Arthur’s enchanted.”

Merilyn exhaled shakily, dragging her hands over her face. “I should have realized. He had magic—of course he did. No one can conjure butterflies from nothing.”

“Trickler,” Gaius said grimly, naming the fool with no trace of humor.

Merilyn’s head snapped up, violet eyes burning faintly through the edges of her spell. “But why? Why Arthur? Why would he want him to fall in love with Vivian?”

The physician set the curl back onto the workbench, as though it were a venomous thing that might bite. “An advance from Arthur would be enough to spark outrage. Lady Vivian is Olaf’s daughter. Any dishonor to her would ignite his temper—and with it, the peace accords.”

Merilyn’s mouth twisted. “A war kindled with stolen hair.”

Gaius gave a heavy sigh, sinking onto his stool. “It is the sort of cowardly trick one would expect from Alined. Cowardly, but clever. He lets the fool do his work, plants the poison, and stands back to watch the fire spread. No blood on his hands, not at first.”

Merilyn braced herself against the edge of the table, her knuckles white. The image of Arthur’s dazed smile seared behind her eyes, the way he had stroked the curl as though it were a relic. He had said she thinks of me with a devotion that was not his own. Her stomach churned. “Then we need to find a way to turn him back to normal,” she said, each word sharpened to steel.

Gaius studied her with quiet concern, but he only nodded, his voice grave. “Before it’s too late.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, half a groan, half a plea. “Why am I always the one that has to save his ass?”

Gaius’s brows arched, though the corner of his mouth twitched with something perilously close to amusement. “Because,” he said, returning to the curl of hair with a pair of iron tongs as though it were venom incarnate, “if you didn’t, no one else would.”

Merilyn dragged her hands down her face, groaning into her palms. Her illusion rippled faintly with her exasperation, her boyish mask trembling around the edges as her true self pressed against it like a storm straining to break free. “He throws himself into danger headfirst, and I’m expected to play mop and bucket. And now? Now I’m supposed to undo a spell because he can’t tell the difference between love and lunacy?” She flung her arms toward the offending curl. “Hair, Gaius. Hair!”

The old physician gave a grave nod, utterly unbothered by her outburst, as though he’d expected it to come sooner or later. “Such is the nature of enchantments. The simplest things are often the most dangerous. Locks of hair, drops of blood, words whispered at the right moment…” He turned the curl over once more and winced at the sour thrum that hummed against his fingertips. “And the most difficult to untangle without leaving a scar.”

Merilyn slumped onto the nearest stool, resting her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. Her voice came muffled, dripping with sarcasm. “Brilliant. Just what I always wanted—to save the future king from the tragic fate of falling head over heels for a girl who thinks Gwen isn’t fit to lace her corset.”

“Better a spell than genuine poor taste,” Gaius remarked dryly, which earned him a startled bark of laughter from her, sharp and broken but laughter all the same.

She lifted her head, her violet eyes glimmering faintly beneath the illusion’s veneer. The exhaustion clung to her, but so did a brittle determination. “Fine. I’ll do it. Again. But when this is over, someone owes me an apology. Preferably one on bended knee, with flowers, and without another woman’s hair involved.”

Gaius gave her a long, patient look. “Perhaps you should save the kingdom first, child, before you start planning your recompense.”

Merilyn blew a strand of hair from her face, her mouth twisting into something between a pout and a grimace. “Details.” She pushed up from the stool, scooping the curl back into her palm with all the distaste one might afford a dead rat. “Always the details.”

And with that, she squared her shoulders, turned toward the door, and muttered, “If Arthur doesn’t owe me his life twice over by the end of this week, I swear I’ll let the next enchantment finish the job.”

The physician’s chambers smelled of ink and ash and sleeplessness. Parchment littered the worktable in uneven stacks, tomes left open with their spines groaning as though in protest at being forced to stay awake longer than their reader. The candle stubs had guttered low in their brass holders, wax pooled across the wood, and smoke still curled faintly in the air. Merilyn slumped forward across the pages, her illusion clinging stubbornly to her, but the droop of her shoulders and the faint shimmer of her hair where the spell frayed betrayed just how thin she was stretched. Her cheek was pressed to a diagram of runic symbols for “binding affections,” ink smudged faintly along her jaw where she had shifted in her restless doze.

Gaius shuffled in from the hearth, carrying a small tray with bread and a wedge of cheese, his robe trailing like a weary shadow behind him. He set the tray down with a deliberate thump, the sound loud enough to rouse her. “Breakfast,” he announced, his tone firm, as though it were an order rather than a suggestion.

Merilyn stirred with a groan, blinking blearily as she pushed herself upright. Her violet eyes, dulled with exhaustion, still gleamed faintly through the thin veil of her disguise. She rubbed at them with the heel of her hand before gesturing toward the sea of texts spread before her. “Breakfast can wait. There are over six hundred and thirty-six love spells catalogued in these books alone. And do you know how many of them involve a lock of hair?” She snatched up a parchment and waved it accusingly, her voice hoarse. “Over a hundred and fifty.”

Gaius raised his brows, unimpressed, and reached past her to press the bread into her hand as though she were a stubborn child. “Is there no way we can narrow them down a bit?” he asked dryly, his eyes scanning the sprawling chaos of books with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.

Merilyn bit the bread only because he all but shoved it to her mouth, chewing with the air of a martyr. “I have narrowed them down,” she muttered around the crust, slumping back in her chair. She gestured to two particularly weighty tomes at her elbow, both marked with ribbons. “If I choose this one,” she jabbed the first book with her finger, “and it’s wrong, Arthur will end up as a toad.” She shoved the second toward him, her mouth twisting grimly. “And if I choose this one, Vivian will lose all her hair.”

Gaius stared at her for a long moment, then rubbed his temple with two fingers. “Olaf might not declare war for that,” he admitted at last, his voice weary but threaded with dry humor. “But she certainly would.”

Merilyn groaned and let her head drop back against the chair, the bread forgotten in her hand. The fire hissed in the grate, the only witness to the battle between despair and determination that warred in her chest.

The chamber had just settled into the dull rhythm of Gaius grinding herbs—stone against stone, steady and grounding—when the door banged open with enough force to rattle the jars on the shelves.

Erynd stormed in, his cloak half unfastened and his hair mussed in a way that said he had been either running or tearing at it in frustration—possibly both. His expression was thunderous, the kind of look that usually preceded him dragging a drunk knight out of a tavern brawl.

“Someone,” he snapped, slamming the door shut behind him, “needs to fix him. Now.”

Merilyn jolted upright, nearly upsetting the inkpot with her elbow. She blinked at him, wide-eyed and sleep-bleary, her violet eyes shining faintly through the edges of her illusion. “What happened?”

Erynd threw his hands into the air, pacing the width of the room like a caged beast. “What happened? He tried to serenade Vivian. In the training yard. With half the garrison looking on.” He spun back toward them, incredulity burning in every line of his face. “And when that failed, he attempted poetry. Poetry, Meri. The heir to Camelot was quoting lines about her eyes being brighter than the moon while Sir Leon nearly dislocated his jaw trying not to laugh.”

Gaius coughed delicately, though his mouth twitched at the corner. “Poetry, you say?”

Erynd rounded on him. “Not poetry—whatever ungodly jumble of words fell out of his mouth when he decided rhyming ‘Vivian’ with ‘radiant’ was a good idea.” He dragged a hand down his face, muffling a groan. “If this keeps up, we’ll be at war by morning. Olaf looked ready to draw his sword just listening to it.”

Merilyn pressed both hands over her face, a muffled sound escaping her that was equal parts despair and reluctant laughter. When she dropped them, her expression had hardened into something taut and brittle. “It’s worse than I thought,” she whispered, her gaze darting toward the lock of hair still sitting on Gaius’s workbench. “The spell isn’t just bending his heart—it’s twisting his sense.”

Erynd stopped pacing, planting both hands on the edge of the table and leaning toward her. “Then undo it. Whatever you have to do, do it before he starts composing ballads about her teeth.” His voice cracked with something that might have been laughter if it weren’t drowned in desperation.

Merilyn exhaled sharply, pushing one of the tomes across the table toward him. “Unless you’d like Arthur as a toad, you’ll let me read a little longer.”

Erynd glanced down at the book, his lips curling. “At this point, a toad might be an improvement.”

That cracked her composure; a laugh burst free before she could stop it, wild and half on the edge of hysteria. Gaius shook his head, resigned, though his eyes softened faintly as he turned back to his herbs.

“Find the right spell,” Erynd muttered, sinking heavily into the nearest chair, “because I swear by the gods, if I have to hear him sigh about Lady Vivian’s ‘sunlit curls’ one more time, I’ll throw myself off the battlements.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Arthur’s chambers smelled faintly of leather, smoke, and steel—the scents of a prince who left behind a trail of chaos as naturally as he breathed. Merilyn—Merlin, to anyone who might ask—was midway through restoring some semblance of order to the wreckage. His boots, scuffed and mud-stained, had been polished back to a dull shine. His gauntlets were stacked neatly on the trunk at the foot of the bed, each piece balanced with the precision of habit. She had bent to gather the heap of tunics Arthur had abandoned by the hearth, shaking the soot from one before folding it with brisk, practiced hands. The illusion still cloaked her like a second skin, presenting the narrow-shouldered boy with tousled dark hair, though the shadows beneath her eyes—the weary drag of sleepless nights and heavier burdens—were hers alone.

A sudden knock rattled the door.

Merilyn froze, the folded tunic clutched tight in her hands. Arthur was nowhere to be found—off sparring with Leon, she guessed, or sulking somewhere in the courtyard about Vivian’s cold indifference. Whoever sought him would find only her, and duty demanded she answer. With a muttered curse under her breath, she tossed the tunic onto the trunk and strode across the chamber, tugging the door open just far enough to peer out.

Lady Vivian stood there as though framed by a painter’s hand, the torchlight gilding her figure. Her silken gown slipped perilously from one shoulder, revealing more than propriety allowed, while her golden curls tumbled loose in artful disarray. Her cheeks were flushed with the glow of wine or longing—or perhaps both—and her eyes shone with a feverish gleam that made Merilyn’s stomach drop.

“I wish to see Arthur,” Vivian declared without preamble, brushing past the threshold as though her presence alone constituted invitation. Her tone carried the weight of command, but her lips curved with a dreamy smile that belonged more to a lovesick maiden than to a princess. “Your master. My lord.”

Merilyn blinked, momentarily wrong-footed by the sheer absurdity of the declaration. “Your what?” she asked, her voice edged with disbelief.

“My heart’s delight,” Vivian sighed dreamily, pressing her hands together in the posture of a swooning prayer. Her lashes fluttered with exaggerated grace, as if her own words were enough to send her spiraling into some gilded vision of romance spun only in her mind.

Merilyn groaned softly, a sound dragged from her chest before she could stop it, the weight of dismay pressing down on her shoulders. “Oh, no,” she muttered under her breath.

Vivian, oblivious or willfully deaf, swept her gaze around the chamber with eager anticipation, her eyes roving every corner as if Arthur might leap out from behind the carved screen or rise gloriously from the tangle of his unmade bed to sweep her into his arms. “Where is he?” she demanded, her tone sharp with entitlement.

“He’s not here,” Merilyn snapped quickly, stepping forward to plant herself firmly between the princess and the bed. Each word was clipped and deliberate, the voice of someone desperately trying to impose authority where she had none. “Which is a very good thing, I believe.”

“Then I shall wait.” Vivian’s reply was immediate and absolute, her voice carrying the imperious finality of a queen upon her throne.

The declaration made Merilyn’s blood run cold. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she protested, her composure slipping as the princess drifted deeper into the room. Her hands gestured wildly, words tumbling over themselves in frantic succession. “You—you’re not even dressed.”

Vivian glanced lazily down, as though only now noticing the scandalous state of her gown. With a careless tug at the sleeve slipping down her arm, she dismissed the matter entirely. “My love does not care what I wear,” she declared loftily, “only that I am near.” Turning back with melodramatic flourish, her eyes blazing with feverish conviction, she lifted her chin like an actress playing the final scene of a tragic romance. “Now fetch him.”

Merilyn folded her arms tightly across her chest, bracing herself as though facing down a storm she could not stop. Her violet eyes glimmered faintly through the edges of the boyish spell as she met the princess’s fever-bright gaze head-on. “I cannot,” she said, her voice flat, final.

Vivian’s eyes flashed, the enchantment twisting her features into something imperious and cold, as if her father’s throne itself lent her authority. “You will.”

“Shan’t,” Merilyn shot back before she could stop herself, the retort sharp as a knife’s edge.

For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled, taut with Vivian’s obsession and Merilyn’s growing exasperation. The princess’s nostrils flared, her lips curling into a determined sneer, and then she swept toward the bed in a rush of silk and golden curls.

“As he commands you, I command you!” she declared triumphantly, throwing herself onto Arthur’s coverlet with reckless abandon, her movements the picture of a woman utterly consumed.

Merilyn’s jaw dropped. She could only stare as Vivian sprawled across the bed, her skirts tangling, her body twisting in an undignified attempt at seduction. “I am asking you to leave,” she managed, her voice rising in disbelief.

“I want my love,” Vivian moaned theatrically, clutching one of Arthur’s pillows to her chest as though it were the man himself. She buried her face into the linen, inhaling with a deep, shuddering breath, her voice muffled but dripping with devotion. “I need my love. I want to see him now.”

Merilyn staggered back a step, appalled, her entire body recoiling as the princess rolled languidly across the bed, her hands curling into the sheets like a cat marking its territory.

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” she muttered, raking a hand through her illusion-dark hair, her patience stretched past breaking. “Arthur’s going to kill me when he sees this.”

But Vivian ignored her entirely, sighing blissfully into the pillow, her cheeks flushed, her lips parting in a smile of dreamy surrender. The fire popped in the grate, its sparks the only sound beyond Vivian’s muffled lovesick murmurs.

Merilyn pressed the heel of her hand against her brow, exhaling hard through her teeth. She had faced sorcerers with bloodied hands, assassins who struck without warning, and beasts pulled from the depths of nightmare—but nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared her for the sight of Lady Vivian tangled in Arthur’s linens, whispering his name like a prayer.

The princess shifted atop the bed with languid dramatics, arranging herself with the artful care of a painted courtesan in some minstrel’s bawdy tale rather than with the dignity expected of a king’s daughter. She plumped one of Arthur’s pillows and clutched it tight against her breast, inhaling deeply as though the mingled scent of sweat, steel, and smoke were sweeter than roses. With a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul, she stretched herself languorously across the coverlet, arching into the linens as though she were already the queen of the chamber. The sound she loosed was halfway between a lover’s murmur and a cat’s purr—scandalous in its intent, though so absurd in practice that it would have been comical if it weren’t so alarming.

Merilyn groaned aloud, the noise torn from her throat with helpless exasperation. Dragging both hands down her face until her palms scraped her cheeks, she muttered into the empty air, “I am going to barf.” The words were quiet, half swallowed by the crackle of the fire, but her disgust was plain enough. Vivian, of course, remained oblivious. The enchantment had hollowed her into a vessel for obsession, and she was far too lost in the thrall of her fantasy to notice—or care—that her behavior teetered between lunacy and humiliation.

Then, from the corridor beyond, a bellow shattered the air like the swing of a battle axe. The sound was rough, unmistakable, a command born of authority and thunderous fury. “Where is he?!” King Olaf’s voice reverberated through the stones of the chamber, the sheer force of it rattling the iron hinges of the door and quaking the walls as though the castle itself feared his wrath.

Merilyn’s head snapped toward the noise, her pulse leaping painfully in her throat. “What’s that?” she whispered, though she already knew. Darting forward, she cracked the door just enough to peer out. Her violet eyes—buried beneath the illusion of her boyish guise—caught sight of Arthur striding down the corridor, his cheeks still flushed with that foolish, lovesick daze, his step brisk with purpose.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, slamming the door half-shut again before her gaze could linger.

She pivoted, craning her neck the other way, and her heart sank further still. Olaf himself was storming down the opposite hall, guards flanking him like shadows, his jaw set and his broad shoulders bristling with outrage. His fury rolled ahead of him like stormclouds before a tempest, and with every stride it seemed inevitable that he would batter down any obstacle in his path.

“Oh, no,” Merilyn repeated, louder this time, the words escaping as a strangled gasp.

She slammed the door shut, back pressed against the wood as though she could hold off two oncoming disasters with the strength of her spine alone. Spinning on her heel, she whirled toward the bed where Vivian still lounged, her golden hair spilling across the pillow like a river of sunlight, her lips curved in that same dreamy, besotted smile.

“Okay, you need to go!” Merilyn hissed, rushing across the chamber in a flurry of panic. She tugged futilely at Vivian’s arm, trying to lift her from the bed.

But Vivian only rolled lazily onto her side, her hands caressing the pillow as though it were flesh and bone instead of linen and feathers. “You cannot keep us apart,” she intoned, her voice heavy with enchantment, her eyes unfocused but burning with madness. “It is written in the stars. Vivian and Arthur. A love for all time. A love stronger than time. A love—”

“Stop!” Merilyn snapped, panic sharpening her tone until it cracked like a whip. She raised her hand, the runes beneath her skin sparking faintly in warning, and her voice lashed out the incantation. “Swefe nu!”

The spell leapt from her tongue with an almost physical force, quick and sharp as a blade. Vivian’s voice cut off mid-sentence, her limbs slackening at once. She slumped into the mattress in boneless surrender, her breaths falling into the deep, rhythmic cadence of enchanted sleep.

Merilyn didn’t waste a second. She hooked her arms beneath Vivian’s shoulders, grunting at the surprising weight of the princess’s silken-clad frame, and half-dragged, half-carried her across the chamber. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the sound of Olaf’s boots pounding closer and Arthur’s approaching footsteps from the other direction. Stumbling the last few feet, she hauled Vivian upright and shoved her into the wardrobe, the princess tumbling across the pile of cloaks within. With a sharp shove, Merilyn slammed the door just as the latch of the outer chamber turned.

Arthur strode inside, tugging at his tunic as he crossed the threshold, the very picture of ridiculous self-importance. “Why are you hanging around with a bad smell?” he asked, wrinkling his nose as though the world itself conspired against him. He gave his sleeve a brisk shake, his tone haughty with affected disdain. “It’s me who needs to bathe. I’m not going to win my love stinking like an old kipper.”

Merilyn, chest heaving with the effort of concealment, pasted on the blandest servant-expression she could manage. She forced her hands still, hiding the tremor that threatened to betray her, and said in the flattest tone she could muster, “No, my lord.”

The reprieve lasted only a heartbeat before another roar split the corridor, Olaf’s fury crashing through the stone walls like thunder rolling across the mountains. “Where is he?!” he bellowed, his voice closer now, vibrating through the very air with the promise of violence. “I know she’s in here, Arthur! Hand her over—or feel my wrath!”

Arthur turned in confusion, his brows knitting as though he had misheard, his voice bewildered but steady. “What’s he talking about?”

Before Merilyn could form an answer, Trickler’s oily tones slid through the half-open doorway, carrying all the smug satisfaction of a fox circling a henhouse. “She wasn’t even dressed,” he purred, his words dripping with malicious delight.

Arthur stiffened at once, indignation flashing in his eyes. He straightened his spine, his tone ringing with affronted honor. “If I have dishonored you in some way, then by all means, provide me with proof, and I’ll face the consequences.”

Olaf’s eyes blazed, hot with outrage, his face mottling crimson as his chest heaved with every furious breath. “Trickler here has told me that the Lady Vivian is in your chambers.”

Arthur spread his hands wide in gallant exasperation, the very picture of a wronged nobleman. “If only that were true.”

The words barely left his lips before Olaf surged forward, meaty fists closing around the front of Arthur’s shirt. He hauled the prince close, so near their noses nearly touched, his bulk radiating menace, his grip tight enough to strain the fabric of Arthur’s tunic.

Merilyn’s heart seized in her chest, panic clawing at her ribs, but her tongue moved faster than thought. She stepped forward, her voice smooth and cutting, sharp enough to slice through the tension. “If only that were true,” she added quickly, her tone calm, almost bored. “You would not look so foolish.”

Olaf froze, suspicion and doubt warring across his features. Slowly, grudgingly, he released Arthur, his fists loosening until the fabric sagged back into place. He straightened with a growl deep in his throat. “Search the room!” he barked to his guards. “You’d better hope I don’t find her.”

Merilyn’s fingers twitched at her side, her pulse hammering. She whispered a charm, softer than a breath, nearly drowned beneath the clatter of armored men moving through the chamber. “Behæpse fæst.” The wardrobe shuddered as though struck from within, then sealed itself tight, its lock glowing faintly with runic light before fading into stillness.

Trickler darted forward at Olaf’s command, his bony hands seizing the handle. He yanked once, then again, tugging with the desperation of a fool who felt his schemes slipping through his fingers. The door did not budge.

“That hasn’t opened in years,” Merilyn said flatly, folding her arms across her chest, her voice as unimpressed as her expression.

Olaf’s face purpled, fury rising to match his humiliation. He whirled on his jester, seizing Trickler by the collar and shaking him so violently the man’s hat tipped askew. “You buffoon!” he roared, his voice cracking with the force of it. “You’ve made an idiot out of me!”

He shoved Trickler so hard the fool stumbled across the rushes, landing in a heap before scrambling to his feet and scurrying out of the chamber, red-faced and trembling.

The king turned back, his chest heaving, his expression straining for dignity though humiliation still burned in his eyes. “I am… er… so terribly sorry, Arthur,” he managed, his tone stiff, every word dragged out like a confession. “To have disturbed you in this way. I… I do hope that you will forgive me.”

Arthur waved the apology aside with the easy grace of a man trained since birth to conceal more than he revealed. “Of course,” he said smoothly, though the faintest trace of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.

Olaf snapped his fingers at his guards, his embarrassment transmuting swiftly back into command. “Check on the Lady Vivian! And remain outside her room!” he ordered, his voice harsh as steel. With a final scowl, he swept from the chamber, his entourage following in his wake like a retreating tide.

The chamber fell into uneasy quiet, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint scrape of armor retreating down the hall.

Arthur, however, seemed utterly untouched by the tension that had nearly spilled into violence. He turned toward the door with a dreamy sigh, his eyes distant, his lips curved in a dazed smile. “If only the Lady Vivian were in my room,” he mused aloud, voice dripping with wistful yearning. “How delightful that would be. Eh, Merlin? Merlin? Merlin?”

Merilyn stood rooted to the floor, her palms still prickling from the remnants of magic, her face locked in a mask of calm that barely concealed the scream building inside her chest. Her throat ached with it, but she said nothing. She couldn’t.

From inside the wardrobe, muffled but undeniable, came the soft sound of Lady Vivian’s enchanted snores.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

The hour was late, and Camelot lay steeped in a hushed stillness broken only by the distant echo of a guard’s boots on stone. In Gaius’s chambers, the air was dense with the scent of vellum and parchment worn soft by centuries, mingled with the sharp tang of herbs left too long to dry in their bowls. The fire had burned low, its amber flicker chasing shadows across the walls, making them writhe like restless spirits.

Merilyn sat hunched at the physician’s workbench, shoulders curved under the weight of exhaustion. The illusion of Merlin still clung to her, but it was unraveling at the edges—strands of pale white-blonde hair slipping through where her boyish dark locks should have been, violet eyes glowing faintly against the dim. She dragged a hand through her hair, and the magic faltered again, revealing her true self in momentary flashes. Ink stained her fingers, and her sleeves bore the fine dust of crushed herbs, the quiet badges of a battle fought not with sword but with stubborn persistence.

She turned another page of cramped, spidery script, her eyes tracing each rune as though they might rearrange themselves into salvation if she willed them hard enough. Then, abruptly, she stopped. Her breath caught, her gaze sharpening. With a decisive snap, she slammed the book shut, the sound cracking like thunder in the still room. “That’s it!” she burst out, voice raw but laced with triumph. “I’ve got it!”

Gaius, bent over his mortar and pestle, nearly dropped both. His bushy brows flew upward as he turned, peering at her over the rims of his spectacles. “Are you sure?” he asked, tone cautious though hope sparked in his eyes despite himself. “You’re not about to turn Arthur into a hunchbacked camel or—” he sniffed, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial mutter—“a horny-eyed toad?”

The image was so absurd that despite her fatigue, Merilyn laughed. It came out cracked and uneven, a bark of sound that startled her as much as it eased the tightness in her chest. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head as the corners of her lips curled upward. “No. Not this time.” She tilted her head, feigning solemn thought. “I’ll… save that for another day.”

Gaius huffed, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed amusement. He set the pestle aside and shuffled to her side, leaning over the workbench to peer at the page she had marked. Candlelight glimmered across the scrawled runes, their shapes curling with an age older than memory—an incantation meant for clarity of mind, for severing enchantments spun from desire.

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, steady and warm, the weight of it grounding her. “Then we’d best hope this is the right one,” he said gently. “Because if it isn’t, child, it won’t just be Arthur’s heart at stake.”

Her hand splayed across the page, fingers trembling slightly, as though she could anchor her resolve there. Firelight kissed the edges of her face, gilding the lines of fatigue, yet in her eyes burned a sharp, unyielding determination. “It will work,” she said, her voice steadier now. “It has to.”

The room fell quiet once more, the only sound the wind pressing against the shutters, making them rattle faintly in protest. And for the first time in hours, something other than despair filled Merilyn’s chest—something fierce, something steel-true. Determination.

The corridors of Camelot stretched before her in a blur of firelight and shadow, each torch throwing a restless glow across the cold stone walls. Merilyn’s boots struck the flagstones in sharp, hurried rhythm, the sound echoing back to her like the pounding of her own heart. The guise of Merlin still cloaked her, but it wavered with every stride, the edges fraying under the strain of exhaustion and panic. Strands of pale, moonlit hair flickered through the illusion like ghosts escaping their bindings, and her violet eyes burned far too brightly to remain hidden, flaring with every ragged breath.

She clutched the spell in her mind as if it were a blade. The syllables pulsed on her tongue, each rune carved so deep into her memory it felt as though her skin itself carried them. She mouthed them silently as she ran, desperate to keep their power steady, desperate not to falter when the moment came. Yet doubt gnawed at her with every step. What if she was too late? What if Vivian’s enchantment had already sunk its claws so deep into Arthur’s soul that nothing could pull him free? She had fought sorcerers, faced monsters, stared death in the eye—but nothing, nothing, felt as terrifying as the thought of losing him to a lie wrapped in another woman’s hair.

At last she reached his chambers. Her hand pushed against the heavy oak door, its hinges groaning as it gave way. “Arthur?” she called, her voice tight, violet light flickering faintly beneath the mask of her illusion. She stepped inside, her pulse a hammer in her ears. “Arthur!”

The sight that met her eyes stopped her cold in the doorway.

Arthur was not waiting for her. He was not girding himself for battle or bent in thought as she had prayed he might be. He was wrapped around Lady Vivian, their bodies pressed close, their lips locked in a feverish kiss that made Merilyn’s stomach twist to ice. His strong hands tangled greedily in the spill of her golden curls, while Vivian clutched at his tunic with clawing desperation, sighing into him as if she meant to devour him whole. They moved together with the reckless urgency of lovers who believed themselves chosen by fate, blind to the truth—that it was nothing but a false dream bound with ribbon and hair.

“No,” Merilyn whispered, the word ripped raw from her chest. The sound tasted of heartbreak and rage all at once. Her body trembled with it, but she forced herself forward, lifting her hand as her voice cracked like a whip through the chamber. “Abuge áglǽccræft!”

The words struck the air like lightning. Power rippled from her tongue, sharp and sure—but nothing happened. The enchantment clung like a parasite, unmoved. Vivian only moaned Arthur’s name, dragging him closer, her lips swollen and greedy.

Merilyn’s hands shook violently. Her pulse screamed in her veins, but she raised her voice again, louder now, desperate enough to shred her throat. “Abuge áglǽccræft!” Still nothing. Arthur did not stir, did not even flick his gaze toward her; his entire world was the girl in his arms, his body swaying in time with a love that was not his own.

Tears stung hot in Merilyn’s eyes, though she blinked them furiously back. She spread her fingers, runes blazing faint beneath her skin, and screamed it one last time, pouring every ounce of her strength into the words. “Abuge áglǽccræft!”

The chamber shuddered with her cry—but the spell held. Arthur’s lips moved against Vivian’s with all the fervor of a man possessed.

And then the door slammed open with a crash that made the floor tremble.

King Olaf stormed inside, his presence a tempest that filled the room to bursting. His eyes were a thunderhead of fury, his great shoulders squared like a man ready to strike. Behind him trailed King Alined, smug and sharp-eyed as though already savoring the chaos; Uther, his face carved into thunderous disapproval; and Trickler, scurrying at the edges like a rat who knew the feast was about to turn bloody.

“I knew it!” Olaf’s roar tore through the chamber like a storm, rattling the beams above and vibrating in the stones beneath their feet. His eyes, wild and furious, locked upon his daughter where she clung to Arthur, her lips swollen from kisses, her gown askew, her golden hair falling in tangled curls about her flushed face. She looked less like a princess and more like some wild thing, intoxicated by her obsession. Olaf’s voice cracked again, jagged with rage. “I knew it!”

Merilyn staggered back a pace, her throat tight, the spell still burning raw at the back of her tongue. Her hands trembled helplessly at her sides, useless now that her incantations had failed her. The sight before her blurred with the sting of tears she refused to shed. Her lips parted, and the words slipped out in a whisper that felt like a prayer she didn’t believe would be answered. “I don’t believe it.”

Vivian clung tighter to Arthur’s arm, her eyes wide and glittering with lovesick devotion, her voice pitched high and fragile. “Father! We’ve got something to tell you.”

“Arthur!” Uther’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade drawn in anger, heavy with command. The single word rang against the stone walls, a warning and a rebuke.

Olaf’s fury surged hotter. With a guttural snarl, he yanked the glove from his hand and hurled it down. It struck the rushes at Arthur’s feet with a sharp, snapping sound, leather against straw, ringing louder than steel in the charged air. A gauntlet cast in challenge—formal, undeniable, a call to blood.

Vivian tried again, her voice tremulous but sweet, desperate to soothe. “Father—”

But Olaf silenced her with a glare so cold it could have frozen rivers. His voice thundered, each word steeped in wrath and wounded pride. “You once said, Prince Arthur, that if you ever truly offended my honour, then you would happily pay the price. What say you now?”

Arthur’s head lifted slowly. His blue eyes gleamed with devotion that was not his own, his smile dreamlike, distant. He drew Vivian closer, his arm wrapped around her as though she were both treasure and shield. “How have I offended your honour?” he demanded, his voice proud and clear. “Surely not with my love alone?!”

“Love?!” Olaf spat the word as though it were poison. His massive frame shook with fury, each breath gusting like the bellows of a forge. “You don’t know the first thing about love! You dare to stand before me and take advantage of an innocent girl?!”

Vivian’s voice trembled again, her hands tightening in Arthur’s tunic. “Father—”

“Arthur!” Uther thundered, louder now, his voice harsh as iron striking an anvil. But his son did not so much as flinch.

Arthur’s gaze remained locked on Vivian, his voice ringing with the false conviction that cut Merilyn like a blade. “I assure you, my feelings for your daughter are as real as they are strong.”

Olaf’s rage boiled higher still, his chest rising and falling like a storm-swept sea. His fists curled as though already preparing for battle. “Unhand her, or suffer the consequences! Is this truly worth risking your life for?”

Vivian gazed up at Arthur, her eyes shining, her lips trembling with adoration. “Arthur?” she whispered, her voice soaked with enchantment.

Arthur’s expression softened, tender and steady, and for one terrible heartbeat Merilyn saw in his face the look he had once reserved for her alone. The softness that had once been hers was now turned upon another. “Indeed it is,” he declared firmly, his voice unwavering, eyes alight with conviction that was not his own. “I would rather die than deny my feelings. I love your daughter with all my heart.”

The words landed like hammer blows. Before anyone could react, Arthur bent again, sealing the proclamation with another kiss pressed fiercely to Vivian’s lips. The chamber seemed to hold its breath in that instant, the hush deafening, the sound of their lips meeting striking Merilyn like the crack of a whip. When he drew back, there was no hesitation in him. With the same reckless courage that had seen him through battlefields, Arthur stooped and plucked Olaf’s glove from where it lay on the floor, lifting it high as though he were grasping destiny itself.

Merilyn’s nails dug into her palms until sharp pain stung through her skin, her violet eyes burning with fury and despair. He was lost—utterly consumed by the enchantment’s grip—and if she failed to free him, he would throw his life away for a love that wasn’t even his.

The chamber felt smaller than ever, the air so thick and heavy it pressed against her chest, as if the very stones bore witness to this folly. The fire in the grate guttered low, its light reduced to sullen embers that threw long, crooked shadows against the walls. Father and son stood in silent opposition, the tension between them taut as a drawn bow. Arthur remained near the window, shoulders squared in princely defiance, his eyes still softened by that cursed spell, while Uther paced like a caged beast, his dark cloak flaring with each furious turn, every strike of his boots echoing like thunder.

At last Uther stopped, his voice edged with anger but heavy with resignation. “It’s no good,” he said sharply, his tone brimming with contempt. “I’ve spoken to Olaf. He will not rescind the challenge. He says his honour has been tainted. He demands recompense.”

Arthur’s chin lifted, defiance sparking even through the haze of false devotion. “You didn’t have to do that, Father.”

The king’s eyes blazed, his temper barely held in check. “The fight is to the death, Arthur. What did you think you were doing?” His voice cracked like a blade striking stone, fury threaded with the cold fear of a father who could not comprehend such recklessness.

Arthur did not falter. He looked past his father, eyes distant and dream-struck, as though Vivian herself hovered there in the air before him. “You cannot help who you fall in love with.” His voice carried that same misplaced reverence, so foreign to the Arthur Merilyn knew that her stomach knotted in protest.

Uther’s disbelief rang sharp as he rounded on him. “You do realise your actions threaten the peace talks? That this folly may yet bring war upon Camelot?” His hands flexed into fists at his sides, the cords of fury standing out in his neck.

Still Arthur’s voice remained calm, almost serene, though it rang with a fire that was not his own. “I am happy to fight for what I believe in.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The weight of it pressed down until Merilyn thought her ribs might crack with the effort of holding her breath. Her illusion held, the boyish mask still shielding her, but beneath it her pulse thundered, her chest tight with dread.

Uther’s gaze snapped suddenly toward her. His eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious, his voice biting like frost. “What’s happened to him?”

For a heartbeat Merilyn could not move, her throat parched, her mind blank. She opened her mouth, but before any words could form, Arthur spoke again, his tone filled with the same dreamy conviction. “Lady Vivian. Nothing more. And yet, who could wish for more?”

Uther’s face hardened, fury and disgust warring across his features. He threw up his hands with a snarl of exasperation, muttering under his breath as he strode from the chamber. His cloak snapped behind him like a dark banner, the door slamming with a reverberating crack that left silence in his wake.

Arthur sighed, sinking down onto the edge of his bed with the dreamy air of a man untouched by consequence. His lips curved faintly, his hands lax in his lap, as though nothing of weight had transpired. He did not see Merilyn’s hands trembling where she stood, nor the way she backed away slowly, her breath caught tight in her chest, grief and frustration twisting together until they threatened to crush her.

She could not stay. Not while he was like this.

Slipping out quietly, her boots whispering against the flagstones, Merilyn kept her head bowed. The illusion shielded her face, but every shadowed corner seemed to hold eyes, every turn another threat that might unravel her disguise. By the time she reached the physician’s chambers, her chest ached from the effort of holding herself together.

Inside, Gaius was bent over his workbench, lamplight pooling across his lined face and the scattered books and vials spread before him. The sharp scent of herbs lingered in the air, bitter and grounding. Merilyn burst in without ceremony, her breath unsteady, her arms full of heavy tomes gathered from every shelf she could reach. She let them spill across the table, their spines thudding heavily against the wood.

“I don’t understand it,” she said, her voice raw with frustration. She pressed her palms flat against the pages, her violet eyes gleaming faintly beneath the spell. “Trickler’s magic is strong, but surely it can’t be stronger than mine?”

Gaius glanced up, his gaze steady but troubled. “These love potions are strange things,” he said gravely. “They do not obey the same rules as fire or wind. They twist the heart, not the flesh, and the heart is more difficult to guard.”

Merilyn shook her head, thumbing furiously through the brittle pages, her voice rising with desperation. “We need to go to Uther. If he knows magic is involved—”

“No,” Gaius cut her off sharply, his tone firm enough to still her hands. His gaze was piercing, full of the weight of years. “If Uther realises that one of the kings is using sorcery to manipulate his son, there will be war. He will not hesitate, Merilyn. And Camelot is not ready for that fight.”

Her chest heaved, her hands curling into fists above the pages. “It’s a fight to the death!” she cried. “Arthur doesn’t even see what’s happening to him, and Olaf won’t back down. If nothing changes, he’ll die for a lie.”

Gaius rose slowly, his movements measured, as though grounding her with every gesture. He placed a hand over hers, steadying her fingers against the page. “Then the only way out of this situation is to unenchant Arthur,” he said quietly, his voice full of gravity. “And unenchant him fast.”

Merilyn closed her eyes, drawing in a breath that trembled against her ribs. When she opened them again, there was no trace of hesitation—only steel beneath the exhaustion.

“Then we’ll find a way,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

The tournament grounds thrummed with noise, the air sharp with the clang of steel, the roar of the crowd, and the smell of trampled earth churned beneath hundreds of boots. Winter sunlight cut across the field, cold and pitiless, glinting off banners that snapped in the wind. On the raised dais, Uther’s voice carried above the din, hard and final as an executioner’s blade.

“King Olaf has demanded recompense,” he proclaimed, his gaze sweeping the assembled lords and knights. “And by the ancient laws of Camelot, the matter will be settled by a tourney with three stages. The weapons chosen are quarterstaff, mace, and sword. The fight will be by the Knights’ Rules—and to the death. Are we all clear?”

The crowd erupted, half in excitement, half in dread. Merilyn stood at the edge of the lists, her heart battering against her ribs so hard she thought it might break free. She kept the mask of Merlin firmly in place—tousled dark hair, narrow frame, boyish features—but her violet eyes burned beneath the glamour, betraying the storm raging inside her.

Arthur strode forward to take his place, every inch the golden prince in gleaming armor, though his expression was maddeningly serene, almost dreamy. He carried the quarterstaff with confidence, but even from a distance Merilyn could see the daze in his eyes, the way they strayed again and again toward where Vivian sat, pale and perfumed, simpering behind her father’s shadow.

The first clash was brutal. Arthur met Olaf with skill, the crack of their quarterstaves ringing out across the grounds. For a moment, pride swelled in Merilyn’s chest—he was holding his own, fighting like the man she knew, the warrior who had faced sorcerers and monsters at her side. But then, in the midst of the exchange, Arthur faltered. His gaze slid away from the fight, snagged on Vivian’s smile as though it were the sun itself. His grip loosened, his guard dropped.

“Arthur!” The name tore from Merilyn’s throat, though she bit it back into silence, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. She could only watch as Olaf swung low, his staff cracking against Arthur’s knees. The prince went down hard, dirt spraying, and before he could recover, Olaf brought his weapon down again, splintering Arthur’s quarterstaff and driving the broken length into his ribs.

The crowd gasped. Merilyn’s vision went white with rage and terror. Her body screamed at her to run forward, to throw herself between them, to tear the magic apart with her bare hands if she had to. But she couldn’t—not with half the kingdoms of Albion watching. Not with Uther’s eyes like knives from the dais.

Her gaze darted to Arthur’s wrist, to the bracelet she had given him long ago, the enchanted band that should have shielded him from this kind of manipulation. It was meant to protect him from illusions, from enchantments that preyed on the heart. It should have burned the spell away like fire through cobwebs. And yet—there he was, smiling through the pain, gazing at Vivian as if she were salvation itself.

Her stomach twisted into a knot so fierce she nearly doubled over. The amulet wasn’t working. Her gift—the one thing that was supposed to keep him safe from this kind of sorcery—had failed. And Arthur was paying the price.

By the time the knights dragged him from the field, blood darkening the edges of his tunic where Olaf’s strike had landed, Merilyn’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely keep the illusion steady. She followed, silent and rigid, into the tent where Gaius was already waiting.

The physician’s hands were steady as he probed Arthur’s side, though his face was grim. “One of your ribs is broken, Sire.”

Arthur only laughed, his eyes hazy with enchantment, his smile infuriatingly soft. “Nothing can hurt me today. I’m invincible. Love really can conquer all, Gaius. It’s true.”

Merilyn’s throat burned with words she couldn’t say. Her fists curled at her sides, the weight of helpless fury pressing down until she thought it might crush her.

Gaius leaned close, his voice a low whisper meant only for her. “This can’t go on. The fight’s not fair. Arthur’s head’s in the clouds.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered back, the words breaking out of her like shards of glass. She had scoured every book, muttered every counter-spell, and still the enchantment clung to him like a parasite.

“Then find someone who does,” Gaius said firmly, his eyes sharp despite the softness of his tone.

Merilyn nodded, though her jaw ached from the force of holding back tears. She couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not when Arthur was one step away from dying for a woman he didn’t even truly love.

The cave thrummed like a living thing, as though the mountain itself carried a heartbeat. The low hiss of water dripping steadily through unseen cracks mingled with the heavy rasp of vast wings shifting in the shadows. Heat pressed close, thick with the tang of smoke and the scorched scent of fire long since burned out. Merilyn stood at the mouth of the cavern, her shoulders tense, her breath uneven. Here, the boyish mask of her illusion was pointless—Kilgharrah had never been fooled by such tricks. His molten eyes pierced straight through, reflecting back her pale hair, her violet gaze, and the tremor she could not quite still in her hands.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, raw with desperation that tasted of iron on her tongue. “Everything I’ve tried has failed.” She clenched her fists at her sides, nails digging crescent moons into her palms. “Every counter-charm, every spell of undoing—it slips through him like water through a sieve. Nothing holds.”

Kilgharrah’s laugh rolled through the cavern, deep and echoing, like stone splitting under the strain of earth. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils, carrying with it the sharp heat of charred air. “This is magic indeed,” he rumbled, the words reverberating from wall to wall.

“It isn’t just magic!” Merilyn snapped, the last thread of composure snapping loose. Her voice rang against the stone, sharp with fear. “It’s his heart—it’s twisted everything. His heart is controlling his mind.”

The dragon lowered his massive head, the bronze ridges of his face catching the faint light like hammered metal. His eyes glowed with terrible patience. “Then you already understand why your spells cannot touch it. There is no magic that can break this enchantment.”

Her stomach lurched, but she shook her head fiercely, pale hair falling loose from its binding, the strands glowing faintly in the dragon’s firelit gaze. “There must be. There has to be. I cannot let Arthur die. I will not.”

The great beast stirred, wings shifting with a noise like thunder rolling through the deep. His next words came slowly, heavy with the kind of patience that scraped her nerves raw. “Patience, young warlock. The solution lies not in the charms you weave, nor in the power you drag from the air. It lies in a force greater than you or I can command, a force that has puzzled wiser minds than yours for ages uncounted…”

Merilyn stepped forward, her hands trembling, her voice rough with urgency. “Please. I have so little time.”

Kilgharrah’s eyes gleamed, amused, the sound of his chuckle shaking dust from the cavern roof. “…a force…”

Her temper frayed, panic bleeding through every word. “Just tell me!”

His laughter deepened, vast and terrible, though not unkind. “Why, it is the greatest force of all: love.”

The word struck her like a physical blow, hanging in the smoke-heavy air, too fragile and too immense all at once. Merilyn stared up at him, her chest tightening until she could barely breathe. “Love?” she echoed, her voice little more than a whisper.

“You must find the one Arthur truly loves,” Kilgharrah said, his heat-soaked voice rolling over her like a tide. “And then one kiss from her will shatter the enchantment. He will desire Vivian no more.”

Her heart stuttered violently, breath catching as though her ribs had turned to iron. For a long, frozen moment she could only stare at him, the weight of his words carving through her like a blade. The answer was so simple, impossibly simple, and yet cruel in its clarity.

She exhaled shakily, pressing her lips together to keep from crumbling, and managed a single nod. Without another word she turned on her heel, boots striking hard and fast against the stone as she fled the cavern. Kilgharrah’s laughter followed her, echoing in the dark like smoke curling after flame, a sound she could not shake even as the cold night air swallowed her whole.

The bite of winter struck her lungs as she burst from the cave’s mouth, damp air stripped away by the sharp edge of frost. She ran hard, her boots hammering against the frozen path, her cloak snapping behind her with every frantic stride. The words pounded in her skull like the toll of a bell, over and over until they were all she could hear. The one Arthur truly loves. One kiss from her will break the enchantment.

There was no question. No riddle left unsolved. No name that could fill that place but her own.

It’s me.

The thought seared through her like fire racing through dry tinder, hot and terrifying, nearly enough to make her falter mid-stride. Gwen’s quiet kindness, Morgana’s sharp beauty, Vivian’s empty charm—all of it meant nothing. None of it had ever touched the core of him. Arthur had whispered her name in the dark, had held her as though she were the anchor keeping him steady in the storm. He wore her bracelet still, so that even through the blur of magic and deception he might see her when the world could not. The ribbon and the curl of Vivian’s hair beneath his pillow might have sparked this madness, but it was not what bound him. That bond had been forged long before, in the secret spaces between them.

It was her. And now that bond was the only thing that could save him.

Merilyn forced her legs to move faster, weaving through the bodies pressed along the tourney railings, the crowd thick as brambles. Their cheers and cries rose and fell like a storm tide, each roar cutting sharper than the last, until her heart felt as though it was beating in time with the thunder of their voices. The scent of churned earth and trampled grass hung heavy in the air, mixed with sweat, iron, and the metallic tang of blood drifting from the arena. She swallowed hard against the dread twisting in her stomach. He was still out there. Still fighting. Still bleeding. Still tethered to a love that wasn’t real.

By the time she reached the row of pavilions, her lungs burned and her breath tore ragged through her throat, every inhale like fire. She shoved her way past the last of the squires milling near the entrance and found the tent she sought, its canvas walls trembling with the echo of the battle just beyond.

Erynd was there, standing like a sentinel before the entrance, arms folded tight across his chest. His sharp gaze snapped to her the instant she appeared, and she knew by the way his posture shifted that he had read the panic etched plain on her face.

“What is it?” he demanded, pushing away from the tent pole. His voice carried its usual calm weight, but beneath it hummed the taut wire of urgency, coiled and ready to snap.

Merilyn’s throat worked as though the words themselves scraped raw against it. “I know how to break it.”

His brows drew together, eyes narrowing in focus. “The spell?”

“Yes.” Her breath caught, jagged, but she forced herself to keep going, violet light flickering faintly beneath the edges of her illusion. “It has to be me. Only me. If I kiss him—if I can reach him—it will break.”

For a heartbeat the world seemed to hold still. The clash of steel and the roar of the crowd beyond the arena pressed against the silence between them, each sound magnified until it rang like thunder. Then Erynd’s jaw set, his shoulders squaring, and he gave a single sharp nod. “Then go.”

Her hand shot out before she realized it, gripping his arm with a strength born of desperation. “No one can see. No one can interrupt.”

Erynd’s dark eyes softened just enough for her to glimpse the man beneath the soldier. He covered her hand with his own, steady, grounding, his warmth an anchor against the storm clawing inside her. “I’ll keep them out,” he swore, voice like tempered steel. “With steel if I must.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of gratitude and fear swelling until she thought it might split her apart. She gave his arm one fierce squeeze, letting her fingers linger as though to steal strength from him, then forced herself to let go. Without another word, she ducked past him, slipping into the dim interior of the tent.

The sounds of the battle bled faintly through the canvas walls—cheers, gasps, the metallic ring of blows—but all of it fell away when she saw him. Arthur sat hunched on the bench, battered and bleeding, his armor smeared with dirt and sweat, his face pale with pain. Yet his eyes, still glazed from the spell’s pull, carried that same maddening devotion for a woman who was not her.

Her heart clenched until it hurt to breathe. This was the moment. She, Merilyn, who had hidden herself behind masks and shadows, who had whispered her love only to him in sleep, would have to risk everything now. One kiss. One chance. And if she failed—Camelot would lose its prince, and she would lose the only man she had ever loved.

The air inside the tent was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, leather, and crushed herbs. Outside, the roar of the crowd swelled and ebbed like the tide, a steady reminder that the tournament waited for no man—not even Camelot’s heir. Arthur sat on the edge of the cot, his armor half-fastened, his jaw set in stubborn determination. His ribs were bound tightly where Olaf’s quarterstaff had caught him, yet he held himself with the careless bravado of a man convinced he was invincible.

“As long as I have Vivian to gaze at,” he declared with dreamy certainty, tugging on his gauntlet as though the leather itself might fuel him, “I can conquer the world. Besides—” his mouth quirked into a boyish smirk—“the mace is my forte. You’ll see.”

Gaius stood before him, hands folded around a clay jar of salve, his lined face tight with concern. “Arthur, you’re in no condition to carry on,” he said, voice low but edged with urgency. “One of your ribs is already broken. You can barely stand straight, and you speak of conquering the world?”

Arthur waved him off with exaggerated confidence, though his movement was stiff, betraying the pain he refused to acknowledge. “Nonsense. Love makes me invincible.”

It was at that moment the tent flap stirred, and Merilyn slipped inside. Her disguise still clung to her like a second skin—Merlin’s boyish face, the dark tousle of hair, the narrow shoulders—but her eyes, her true eyes, burned violet through the spell, bright with fear and fire. She took in the sight before her—Arthur strapping himself into armor he had no business wearing, Gaius hovering like a storm about to break—and her stomach twisted into a knot.

Her voice cut through the tense quiet, steadier than she felt. “Gaius,” she said, meeting her uncle’s gaze with all the weight she could summon, “can you give us a minute?”

The physician hesitated, his brows furrowing as though he could already read the desperation in her tone. For a long breath he studied her, then Arthur, then back again. Something in his eyes softened, though his frown did not ease. With a curt nod, he set the jar down on the table. “Don’t be long,” he warned quietly. Then he gathered his robes and slipped past her, the flap of the tent falling closed behind him.

Arthur did not look up when the tent flap fell shut. He was fussing with his breastplate straps, his lips still curved in that lovesick smile that twisted something sharp in Merilyn’s chest. He looked so sure, so certain, so utterly blind.

Merilyn moved toward him, each step heavier than the last, her hands trembling where she tried to steady them at her sides. She could hear Kilgharrah’s words echoing in her mind—one kiss from her will break the enchantment. It was so simple, impossibly simple, and yet her heart pounded as though she were marching into her own execution.

Arthur finally glanced up at her, eyes still dazed with Vivian’s spell. “Merlin,” he said warmly, as though speaking to a brother-in-arms, a friend—never the woman who burned for him. “Isn’t she beautiful? You’ve seen her smile, haven’t you? With that smile beside me, there’s nothing I can’t do.”

Her throat closed. She couldn’t listen to another word. Before her courage failed, she crossed the space in two swift strides, caught his face between her hands, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, nothing like the gentle patience they had shared in stolen nights. She poured everything into it—her anger, her grief, her love so deep it threatened to drown her. For a heartbeat, he stiffened beneath her touch, hands caught halfway to fastening a strap. And then the spell broke like glass underfoot.

Arthur gasped against her lips, the fog tearing away so violently it left his body reeling. His chest hitched as though he had forgotten how to breathe, his arms snapping up to clutch at her, not Vivian, not some enchanted dream—but her.

And with that clarity came agony. The foolish, enchanted smile that had clung to his face shattered, replaced by a strangled sound as the pain in his ribs surged back with merciless force. Arthur doubled forward, the weight of it buckling him into her. His hand clamped hard against his side, fingers digging into the bindings, while his other arm caught her shoulder as though it were the only thing holding him upright. The color drained from his cheeks in a rush, leaving him pale and shaking, his breath breaking into ragged gasps.

“Meri—” His voice was hoarse, stripped raw, but no longer clouded by false devotion. He pressed his forehead to hers, desperate for balance, his words stumbling out on broken air. “Gods, what—what happened? What am I doing?”

Her hands framed his face, steadying him though her own pulse thundered like a war drum in her chest. Her thumbs brushed over the hard edge of his jaw, grounding him as her violet eyes glimmered faintly through the boyish mask. She leaned close, her whisper fierce, urgent, and unyielding. “You’re in a fight, Arthur. To the death. And you’re losing.”

He blinked rapidly, confusion and shame warring in his gaze as the truth of her words struck him. His palm pressed harder to his ribs, each movement jagged with pain, the enchantment’s fog dissipating with every shuddering breath. “But—”

“There’s no time to explain.” Her forehead pressed briefly to his, their breaths tangling, her voice cracking beneath the weight of everything she longed to say but couldn’t. “Just live for me, Arthur. That’s all I ask right now. Just live.”

The words seemed to anchor him, pulling him back from the brink. His shoulders squared, his jaw tightened, but the agony in his chest still dragged his breath ragged, his armor creaking as he fought to mask how close he was to crumbling.

Merilyn swallowed hard, her decision sharp and immediate. Before he could pull away, she let one hand slip from his cheek, sliding down to press firmly against his ribs. Beneath her touch, the runes carved into her very bones stirred awake, threads of faint light winding through her veins until her fingertips glowed against the fabric of his tunic.

Arthur stiffened, his breath catching in a startled gasp as heat bloomed beneath her palm. It struck sharp at first, biting like fire, then sank deep into sinew and bone, knitting together what had been torn. The fracture drew closed—not whole, but steadier—until the break eased into a deep, angry bruise. The pain dulled from a knife’s edge to a throbbing ache, no longer enough to topple him. His chest expanded with a fuller breath, his lungs unchained.

The effort cost her. Light bled out of her in thin rivulets, her skin paling as her strength leached into him. Her body trembled, her knees threatening to give way beneath the drain.

His hand shot up, gripping her wrist with sudden urgency, his eyes wide as realization dawned. “Meri—” His voice broke on her name, torn between protest and awe.

“Don’t argue with me,” she whispered, fierce even through the tremor in her lips. Her gaze held him with unflinching intensity. “You need it more than I do.”

They stayed locked together for a heartbeat that stretched too long, her hand pressed firm against his side, her vitality pouring into him, and his fingers anchoring her wrist as if he feared she would vanish. The glow at last faded, leaving only the steady throb of shared breath and the echo of her sacrifice between them. She sagged slightly, withdrawing her hand with a shaky exhale, her chest hollow from the cost.

Arthur’s breath came easier now, his color returning. Though the pain remained, it no longer crippled him. The dazed glaze was gone from his eyes, replaced instead with a fierce focus, sharpened by both clarity and gratitude. He gave her a tight nod, jaw set with grim resolve.

She forced herself to step back, pressing the swell of emotion into the knot in her throat just as the tent flap stirred. Gaius returned, carrying fresh bindings, his brow furrowed as he took in the sudden change in Arthur’s color and composure. His gaze flicked to Merilyn, suspicion briefly narrowing his eyes, but he said nothing.

Arthur adjusted his armor with renewed determination, his movements sharper, more grounded, every line of him bent toward survival. And this time, when he stood ready to face the arena, it was not Vivian’s spell that steadied him. It was her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

The tournament grounds throbbed with noise, the air electric with the roar of the crowd. Sunlight blazed off steel helms and banners alike, the colors of Camelot and Olaf’s kingdom snapping high above the arena. The churned earth smelled of sweat, blood, and iron, every stomp of boots and clash of arms feeding the fever of anticipation.

Arthur strode toward the arena, his armor gleaming despite the bruises already mottling his ribs beneath it. Each step was steady, measured, though the stiffness in his body betrayed the pain he carried. At his side, Merilyn walked in the guise of her illusion, but her violet eyes burned faint through the cracks of the spell. Her heart raced with every step he took toward the sand, each stride dragging him closer to the edge between life and death.

He slowed, glancing toward her as they reached the arena’s gate. His voice dropped low, softer than the crowd’s din, meant only for her ears. “Meri,” he murmured, his gaze sharp despite the strain in his features, “should anything happen to me…”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t let him finish. She forced a smile, steady and sure, and pressed his helmet into his hands. “It won’t,” she said firmly, the words cutting through both their fears.

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, something unspoken flaring between them—her vow, his trust, their bond holding stronger than any enchantment could twist. Then Arthur slid the helmet over his golden hair, the steel glinting in the sun, and stepped out onto the field.

The crowd erupted, their cheers a tide that rolled over the sand as Olaf entered opposite him, the foreign king’s bulk heavy in his armor, his eyes blazing with the fire of pride and vengeance. The air between them seemed to tremble as they faced one another, two kingdoms balanced on the clash of their blades.

The signal was given.

They met in the center with a crash of steel, the sound ringing through the stands like a struck bell. Olaf’s strength was formidable, his blows heavy and relentless, each strike pounding against Arthur’s defenses with bone-rattling force. Arthur gritted his teeth, every movement costing him, the bruised rib screaming with each twist of his torso. He staggered once under the weight of a blow, pain flaring white-hot—but then his gaze found her.

Merilyn stood at the edge of the arena, her fists clenched at her sides, her violet eyes locked unflinchingly on him. He drew breath through the pain, his resolve hardening like tempered steel. For her, he could not fall. Not here. Not now.

The fight raged on, the sand scuffing beneath their boots as Olaf pressed him back. At last, Olaf slammed him hard across the chest, knocking him to the ground with a force that drew gasps from the crowd. For a moment Arthur lay there, the sky spinning above him, his ribs ablaze. Olaf raised his blade for the finishing strike.

But Arthur’s training, his will, and the fire burning in his chest surged together. He rolled sharply, the sword’s edge striking only earth, and in a single fluid motion he swept Olaf’s legs out from under him. The larger man hit the ground with a thunderous crash, his sword flying free. Arthur was on his feet in a blink, his own blade leveled, gleaming in the sun as he held it poised above his fallen opponent.

The crowd went silent, the tension a live wire strung across the arena. One thrust would end it. One thrust would seal Olaf’s defeat in blood.

Arthur stood there, chest heaving, his sword arm steady. His gaze flicked to Merilyn once more, and something softened in his eyes. He drew in a breath, lowered his blade, and shook his head.

“This,” he declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the stands, “is no way to achieve peace.”

With that, he extended his hand to Olaf, offering him honor instead of death.

The crowd erupted into cheers, a wave of sound that shook the arena to its foundations. The roar carried on the wind, swelling with triumph and relief. Olaf stared up at him, stunned, before slowly clasping his arm and hauling himself to his feet.

Arthur nodded once, a warrior’s respect, then turned toward the stands. His gaze found Merilyn where she stood at the edge of the arena, her chest still heaving from the terror of watching him fall. He inclined his head to her, subtle but deliberate, a gesture meant for her alone.

She smiled back through her disguise, the weight of everything they had survived shimmering in her eyes.

The roar of the crowd swelled and spilled over the arena, a tide of voices chanting Arthur’s name. Camelot’s banners whipped high in the wind, their crimson and gold burning bright in the sun as though the kingdom itself rejoiced. Knights thumped gauntlets against their breastplates, courtiers clapped and cheered, and even the foreign kings grudgingly rose to their feet at the display of mercy that had spared Olaf’s life.

Olaf stood, his great chest still heaving from exertion, and clasped Arthur’s arm once more in a warrior’s grip. The tension between them shifted—not gone, not forgiven, but edged now with respect that could not be denied. “You fight well,” he admitted, his deep voice carrying despite the din. “Perhaps… too well for a boy blinded by love.”

Arthur only inclined his head, blue eyes clear now, no longer glazed with Vivian’s enchantment. He said nothing, but the faintest twist of his lips betrayed the truth: he knew. He had been ensnared. And now freed, the weight of that realization pressed heavy on his shoulders.

Merilyn watched from the sidelines, her heart in her throat. Relief poured through her like water breaking a dam, leaving her weak-kneed and trembling. He was alive. The spell was broken. He had chosen mercy over blood. For a moment she let herself breathe, let herself imagine what it might feel like to stand openly at his side as he was hailed not just as a warrior, but as a king in the making.

But reality pressed in quickly. The cheers weren’t for her. The glances cast her way were not friendly—they skimmed over her boyish disguise without thought, but she knew how fragile that safety was. And only days ago, they had been nearly exposed in town because of Freya, her heart split wide open in public view where it should have been guarded.

They needed to be careful. Very careful.

As the crowd swarmed toward Arthur, nobles and knights alike pressing forward to clasp his hands, to shout their praise, Merilyn slipped back into the shadows of the tents. She kept her head low, her shoulders hunched, letting the illusion swallow her again. Each cheer felt sharper than a blade, each chant of his name both a balm and a reminder: he belonged to the world, and she could only ever belong to him in secret.

By the time she cleared the tournament grounds, her chest ached. She walked fast, almost running, past the outer walls and into the woods beyond Camelot. The cool air struck her face, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, sharp and grounding after the suffocating crush of the arena. The forest wrapped around her, shadows dappling through the branches, the noise of the world falling away until only her boots and her ragged breath remained.

She stopped at last by a narrow stream, the water slipping over stones with soft, constant music. Her disguise faltered with her exhaustion, her pale hair gleaming like moonlight, her violet eyes glowing faint in the gloom. She sank to her knees on the mossy bank, pressing her hands to her face. The images still haunted her—the way Arthur had kissed Vivian, had sworn love for her with words he had never dared to speak aloud to Merilyn. She knew it hadn’t been real, knew it had been nothing but ribbon and stolen hair, but the echo of it still cut like glass.

She whispered to the water, her voice shaking. “Gods, I almost lost him. Again.”

The bond stirred before she heard the footsteps—the quiet, thrumming connection she shared with her Guard. It was faint at first, like the brush of fingers at the back of her mind, but it carried warmth and worry all the same. She lifted her head just as the branches parted and a figure stepped into the clearing.

Isolde.

Her armor gleamed in the fractured light, though she had left her helm behind, her braid trailing over one shoulder. Her dark eyes softened the moment they found Merilyn, and though her stance remained steady, her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword—a reflex, not a threat.

“I felt you,” Isolde said gently, her voice carrying the strength of a soldier but the tenderness of a sister. “Your fear. Your anger. It was strong enough to shake me out of my patrol.”

Merilyn turned back to the stream, her fingers trailing absently over the moss. “I didn’t mean to send it through the bond,” she murmured, her throat raw. “I thought I’d buried it.”

Isolde crossed the clearing slowly, her steps quiet over the leaves. She crouched beside Merilyn, her hand resting lightly against her arm. “You can’t bury things like that. Not with us. Not with me.”

Merilyn laughed softly, the sound breaking. “It’s dangerous, Isolde. For him. For all of us. If anyone had seen—if anyone had guessed—it could have been over today.”

Isolde’s grip tightened, her dark eyes fierce now. “And yet it wasn’t. He lived. You saved him. And whatever spell they threw at him, it wasn’t strong enough to sever what you two have.”

Merilyn’s chest ached, her tears hot against her palms as she finally let them fall. “He told her he loved her,” she whispered. “And even knowing it wasn’t real—it still hurt.”

Isolde said nothing at first, only shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Merilyn’s shoulders and pulling her against her with quiet strength. “Of course it hurt,” she murmured into her hair. “But you know the truth of his heart. He’s never said those words to you because he’s never needed to. Everything he does—everything he is with you—already speaks it. And one day, when the time is right, he’ll say it. To you. Only you.”

Merilyn closed her eyes, leaning into the comfort, letting herself breathe again. For the first time since the chaos began, she felt steady, anchored not only by Arthur’s stubborn will to live, but by the bond that tied her to the women who had sworn to guard her—even from herself.

The woods closed around them, the hush of wind through branches and the quiet trickle of the stream giving them a solitude Camelot never could. Isolde didn’t press, didn’t ask for words Merilyn wasn’t ready to give, only kept her arm firm around her shoulders until the ragged edge of her grief softened into something she could bear. At last, Merilyn pushed back, swiping at her face with the heel of her hand, embarrassed by the dampness on her cheeks.

“I hate when it slips through,” she muttered, her voice rough. “I didn’t mean to send it—any of it. I try so hard to keep myself walled off, but sometimes it just… leaks. And you all feel it, don’t you?”

Isolde rose with her, brushing moss from her greaves, her expression thoughtful rather than reproachful. “Yes. We feel it,” she admitted simply. “Sometimes it’s faint—like a shift in the wind. Sometimes it hits like a hammer to the chest. Today…” She shook her head, dark braid slipping forward across her shoulder. “Today was closer to the hammer.”

Merilyn winced, guilt twisting in her gut. “I’m sorry. It isn’t fair. You swore to protect me, not drown in my feelings every time I stumble.”

Isolde caught her hand before she could tuck it against herself, turning it palm up. With her thumb, she brushed lightly across the pale line of a scar that marred Merilyn’s skin—the mark left by their blood oath. “Don’t apologize,” she said firmly. “We chose this. All of us. When we bound ourselves to you, we knew what it meant. Blood ties don’t just link bodies. They link hearts. Souls.”

Merilyn’s eyes burned again, though softer this time, and she tried to look away. “I never wanted to burden you with me. With all of this.”

“You don’t burden us,” Isolde countered, her tone fierce now. “You lead us. Even when you don’t mean to. Even when you’re breaking apart. The emotions you send—whether you intend to or not—remind us why we swore what we did. They remind us you’re human, not some untouchable figure draped in prophecy. That makes you worth fighting for, not less.”

They walked then, slow along the stream’s edge, the canopy dappling them in shifting light. Merilyn trailed her fingers over the bark of an oak, her voice quiet but edged with shame. “Sometimes I feel like I’m bleeding pieces of myself into you. You all carry enough without my fears clawing up the bond.”

Isolde slowed, turning so Merilyn had to meet her gaze. “Do you want to know what I felt today?”

Merilyn hesitated, then nodded.

“Love,” Isolde said simply. “Not anger, not jealousy, not despair—though those were there too. What struck me hardest was love. Fierce, relentless, terrifying love. It nearly stole my breath, how strong it was. That’s what you sent us, Meri. And if that’s the weight we bear, then I’ll carry it gladly.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Merilyn’s throat worked, words catching before she managed to breathe them out. “You make it sound like a gift.”

“It is,” Isolde replied, her hand brushing her arm once more before falling away. “The bond runs both ways, remember. We’ll always feel you—but you can feel us too, when you let yourself. And when you do, maybe you’ll see what I already know: you’re not alone in this, and you never will be again.”

The forest seemed to hold its breath with them, leaves whispering overhead as if in agreement. Merilyn closed her eyes briefly, letting the weight of Isolde’s words settle into her bones. She had spent so long trying to hold everything in, afraid of spilling too much, afraid of dragging her Guard into her storms. But perhaps, just perhaps, the blood oath wasn’t only a chain. Perhaps it was a tether—one that bound them all together so none of them would ever drift too far.

She exhaled slowly, some of the tension unwinding from her shoulders, and glanced sideways at Isolde with the faintest ghost of a smile. “You always know when to find me, don’t you?”

Isolde smirked, dry and warm all at once. “That’s what bonds are for.”

The forest path bent beneath their feet, roots coiling like old scars across the earth, the air rich with damp moss and the faint sweetness of pine. Neither of them rushed; their steps fell into an easy rhythm, the silence between them no longer heavy but companionable. The earlier storm in Merilyn’s chest had gentled, though the ache of it lingered like bruises beneath the skin.

After a while, she glanced sidelong at Isolde, her voice quieter, softer now. “Tell me something good,” she said. “Something not about battles or oaths or… my endless catastrophes.”

Isolde arched a brow, lips curving faintly. “Something good?”

“Yes.” Merilyn nudged her with an elbow, almost playful despite the exhaustion in her eyes. “You. Have you found anyone yet? Someone to share your life with?”

Isolde’s expression flickered, caught between amusement and a touch of shyness. She looked ahead down the winding trail, the corners of her mouth tugging into a secretive smile. “There is someone,” she admitted at last. “A druid. His name is Cian.”

Merilyn’s eyes widened, and for the first time that day, genuine warmth spread through her chest. “A druid?” she repeated, wonder threading through her voice. “Isolde, that’s—gods, that’s perfect. You’ve always had the patience for them. Tell me about him.”

Isolde’s stride slowed slightly, her gaze drifting toward the trees as though she could see him there, waiting. “He’s quiet,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “Not timid, but… deliberate. The kind of man who listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, every word feels like it’s been weighed and chosen. He knows the old ways, the forest paths, the songs that make the birds still their wings. There’s a steadiness to him. Like standing beside a river—always moving, always alive, but never unmoored.”

Merilyn smiled, a wistful ache rising in her throat. “You sound like you already love him.”

Isolde’s smirk returned, dry but softened by honesty. “I said I was fond of him. Love… that’s a bigger thing. But perhaps.” Her eyes slid back to Merilyn, steady and warm. “Perhaps when all this madness ends, I’ll have the chance to find out.”

The thought settled between them like an ember, small but glowing, a reminder that even in the shadow of war and enchantments, there could still be beginnings. Merilyn reached out, brushing her hand briefly against Isolde’s arm, her smile tinged with both gratitude and longing. “You deserve that chance,” she said. “More than most.”

They walked the rest of the way with the ease of sisters—sometimes silent, sometimes trading small, ordinary words about the curve of the riverbank or the owl that startled from a branch overhead. By the time Camelot’s torches came into view through the trees, the weight on Merilyn’s shoulders felt lighter. Not gone, never gone, but shared—and sharing made it bearable.

Isolde glanced at her once more as the castle walls loomed closer, her voice low but steady. “We’ll face whatever comes next together. Don’t forget that.”

Merilyn nodded, violet eyes catching faintly in the torchlight as she whispered, “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

The little cottage was hushed when she returned, the stillness broken only by the soft creak of the door as she eased it shut behind her. Her skirts clung damp with dew from the meadow, and her mind still wandered in the tangled paths of her walk with Isolde, full of words half-spoken and feelings half-formed. She expected the same familiar welcome as always: the faint crackle of coals banking low in the hearth, the bitter-sweet perfume of herbs drying in bunches overhead, the small, steady rhythm of her solitary space. But instead, something unfamiliar greeted her—an unmistakable scent, lush and startling in its intensity. Roses.

Her gaze snapped to the table.

What she saw rooted her to the spot. A heap of blooms—red and white alike, tangled and imperfect—lay sprawled across the worn surface of the wood. They had not been arranged with care or thought; no careful hand had tied them in ribbons or settled them in a vase. Instead, it looked as though someone had raided every bush in the palace gardens and then deposited their spoils here in reckless triumph, stems and thorns and all. Among the blooms, half-buried in petals, lay a folded scrap of parchment. The edges were smudged, the ink blotched, the handwriting uneven and hurried. She recognized it instantly. His hand.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She reached for it, thumb brushing lightly over the letters, her fingers trembling as though she feared the words might vanish if she touched them too roughly. The message was simple, unadorned, and yet it carried a weight that knocked the air from her lungs: Come to my chambers tonight. No signature. No apology. Not even an explanation. It was both command and plea at once, as though he had laid his heart bare in the fewest words he could manage.

By the time the torches in the lower town guttered low and the castle itself sank into its evening hush, Merilyn found her feet carrying her through the stone corridors despite every warning in her head. The illusion of Merlin clung to her like armor, the boy’s face and lank dark hair shielding her from watchful eyes, but it did little to settle the nervous twist of her stomach. Each step felt too loud, each shadow seemed to lean too close. How many might see her slip into his chambers? How many whispers could undo everything they had risked so far? And yet, caution could not hold her back. Something stronger than fear pulled her forward.

Arthur’s door was unlatched. She pressed her palm to the heavy wood, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The sight that met her stopped her where she stood, breath catching in her chest. Arthur’s chamber, so often a battlefield of clutter and carelessness, bore the unmistakable signs of effort—awkward, uneven, but effort nonetheless. His boots, normally left strewn by the hearth or abandoned wherever he had kicked them off, were shoved together into something that almost passed for a pair. The gauntlets that usually sprawled across every surface in chaotic disarray had been stacked into crooked towers on the trunk, leaning dangerously as though they might collapse at the slightest nudge. Even his desk, forever buried under maps and parchments, had been cleared, save for one stubborn curl of parchment that refused to lie flat.

And the candles. Gods, the candles. They were everywhere—on the sill, the mantel, the table, crowding every ledge and corner like an army of tiny flames. No two holders matched, and many bore lopsided rivers of wax cascading down their sides, but together they filled the chamber with a golden glow that softened the cold stone into something almost warm, almost welcoming. The air smelled faintly of smoke and melted wax, layered over the familiar scents of leather and steel, yet for once, those harsher edges felt muted.

In the center of it all stood Arthur Pendragon. He wore no armor, no cloak embroidered with the crest of Camelot, nothing that spoke of rank or station. Only a plain tunic, its sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows, his hair mussed from restless fingers that betrayed the hours he must have spent pacing. For once, there was no polished smirk, no shield of arrogance. He looked raw—unguarded and achingly human, a man stripped down to truth.

He turned when she entered, blue eyes flashing with something like relief and dread in equal measure. The words burst from him before she could shape her own, cracking with urgency, tumbling out as though they had been trapped inside him all night. “I don’t know poetry,” he confessed, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “I don’t know spells or charms. But I do know—” His jaw tightened, throat working visibly as if he had to shove the truth through sheer force of will. “I know that every part of me belongs to you. Not to anyone else. You.”

Her throat closed, a sharp ache burning through her chest. For a moment her disguise wavered, the illusion fraying at the edges, pale strands of hair flickering through as though her pulse alone might unravel it.

Arthur stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as though each pace was measured against the weight of what he risked. The space between them narrowed, the heat of him reaching her like a hearthfire in the still chamber. He did not touch her—not yet—but the air trembled with the want of it, with the nearness of what he could no longer keep hidden. His voice softened, dropping low, almost unsteady. “I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, and the honesty bent his shoulders more than any armor ever had. “A blind, stubborn fool, expecting you to mend everything I break, to carry every burden, to patch up every reckless choice I make.” His eyes sought hers, unflinching, begging her to meet him there in the open. “I’m sorry for that. I don’t want you to always be the one fixing me. Tonight—just tonight—let me take care of you.”

Her lips parted, her tongue heavy with all the words clawing to the surface, but not one made it past the cage of her throat. The air in her lungs was too thick, her heartbeat too frantic, rattling her chest like a drum. Whatever syllable she might have formed dissolved before it could take shape. And so, when he finally reached for her, she didn’t resist. She yielded, stepping into the circle of his arms with the ease of someone who had been waiting her whole life to be caught. His warmth closed around her, steady and certain, the surety of him dissolving the knot inside her until she felt it unravel all at once.

The first kiss he gave her was tentative, almost reverent, his mouth brushing hers with the careful awe of a man afraid she might vanish if he pressed too hard. Then came another, surer, tasting of firelight and apology, a confession in the only language he could manage. The third was fiercer, desperate, so raw it dragged a soft sound from her throat—half a sob, half a sigh—only for it to be swallowed by his lips. The world outside fell away, collapsing until there was nothing but the heat of him and the certainty of his touch. His hands, calloused and sure, framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks with a tenderness that broke her in ways no blade could. When he slid them down, one cupping the curve of her waist, the other settling at the small of her back, she answered with equal urgency, her fingers knotting into the fabric of his tunic and pulling him closer still, as though she could fuse herself to him and never let go.

When at last they tore apart, gasping for breath, Arthur rested his forehead against hers. His breath came ragged, but his words were steady, carved from something deeper than pride or passion. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession rough and unpolished but all the more real for it. No spell, no dream, no enchantment. Awake. Intentional. Irrefutable. His lips hovered close, his voice breaking as he forced the truth free. “I should have said it long ago. But I love you, Merilyn. And I’ll find a way—whatever it takes, whatever Uther decrees, whatever the court whispers—I’ll make us safe. You won’t have to bear this alone anymore.”

The weight of it broke her. Tears stung her eyes, blurring his features into gold and shadow, though she bit them back fiercely, unwilling to let him see the way they fell. Instead, she pulled him down to her once more, sealing her trembling with a kiss that was slower, lingering, unhurried. This one was no plea, no desperate grasp at something fleeting. It was a promise, binding and certain, threaded through with everything she could not yet say.

The fire snapped in the grate, spilling sparks across the hearth, but the noise was lost in the quiet rhythm of their breathing. She curled her fingers into the linen of his tunic, clinging not from fear but from the fierce relief of finally being allowed to hold him without pretense. His hand splayed across her back, steadying, grounding, until she felt her whole body soften against him, her defenses melting away like wax in the heat of the candles.

When at last they pulled apart, she caught his face between her palms, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. Her violet eyes glimmered through the ragged veil of her illusion, unhidden in the intimacy of his chambers. “You can’t promise safety against the world, Arthur,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with the ache of wanting to believe him. “Not against your father. Not against what I am.”

Arthur closed his hand over hers, pulling it down to rest against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded strong and steady beneath her palm. “Then I’ll promise this,” he said, his eyes unwavering, clear as the steel of his blade. “That no matter what comes, you’ll never face it alone. Not while I breathe.”

Her throat tightened, her lashes lowering as tears threatened again, but his lips caught them before they could fall—pressing quick, tender kisses at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks, the edge of her mouth until her ragged breaths softened into laughter. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the smallest laugh.

“And hopelessly in love with you,” he returned, his grin crooked, boyish, softened only by the earnestness in his gaze.

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow slit of the chamber window, pale and hesitant, spilling in thin ribbons across the stone floor. The candles Arthur had lit the night before had guttered down to stubs, leaving only the faint smell of melted wax and smoke clinging to the air. The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, glowing faintly like the last heartbeat of the night.

Merilyn stirred beneath the coverlet, the weight of warmth at her back anchoring her before she even opened her eyes. For a blissful moment she did not move, letting the haze of sleep blur the edges of memory—candles, roses, his voice rough and certain as he finally said the words she had longed to hear. She might have thought it a dream, had it not been for the steady pressure of an arm curled around her waist and the brush of lips against her bare shoulder blade.

Her breath caught. Arthur.

The kisses were feather-light at first, warm breaths fanning against her skin in the hush of dawn. One pressed low between her shoulder blades, another tracing higher, grazing the curve of her neck. Each one was unhurried, reverent, as though he thought she might vanish with the morning if he did not remind himself she was still there. His stubble rasped faintly against her skin, a contrast to the softness of his mouth, and the sensation sent a shiver rippling through her even as her heart ached with tenderness.

She let her eyes flutter open, violet glimmers flickering through the thin veil of her illusion in the dim light. The chamber was still, golden where the dawn brushed across stone and shadow. She turned her head slightly on the pillow, her lips curving despite herself. “You’re awake indecently early for a man who fought half of Olaf’s fury yesterday,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.

Arthur’s chuckle rumbled low against her back. He shifted closer, tightening his hold around her waist as his lips curved into another kiss just below her ear. “Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, his voice husky from sleep yet carrying that same stubborn warmth he had shown her the night before. “Not with you here. Not when I’ve wasted so many mornings not waking beside you.”

Her throat tightened, emotion swelling against her ribs, but before she could answer he kissed her again—slow, deliberate—between her shoulder and her neck, as though the words he had no practice for could be spoken through touch alone.

Arthur’s lips lingered at the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin as his thumb brushed along the dip of her waist where the coverlet had slipped aside. His hand was tentative at first, tracing small circles, as though reacquainting himself with the reality of her, but the longer he touched her, the surer he became. He shifted closer, chest pressed to her back, his body curved protectively around hers, the heat of him soaking through every inch of her.

Merilyn’s breath hitched, a quiet sound that seemed to embolden him. His mouth moved again, feathering kisses along her shoulder before he nipped softly at her skin. She shivered, curling instinctively into his touch, and his arm tightened around her as though to anchor her against him.

“You don’t know,” he murmured against her, voice husky, each word half-swallowed by her skin, “how many nights I’ve wanted to do this. To wake like this. To feel you like this.”

Her eyes slipped shut, lashes damp against her cheeks, and she tilted her head to give him more space, the invitation wordless but undeniable. He kissed his way up to the line of her jaw, slow and reverent, while his hand splayed wider at her waist, fingertips brushing over the curve of her hip with a tenderness that made her tremble.

She twisted in his arms, turning onto her back so she could see his face in the fragile dawn light. His hair was a mess, golden strands falling into his eyes, and his expression was unguarded, fierce and aching all at once. For a moment he only looked at her, as if committing her to memory, then he dipped down and captured her mouth in a kiss that was nothing like the hesitant ones of the night before.

This one was deeper, surer, filled with a hunger he had tried too long to deny. His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb stroking along her cheek as his mouth coaxed hers open, stealing the air from her lungs until she was gasping softly against him. She gripped his tunic, pulling him down, needing him closer, needing him real.

When he broke away, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice was rough with longing. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered, the promise trembling at the edges, half-plea, half-vow. His fingers brushed lightly against her collarbone, tracing the neckline of her shift with almost unbearable gentleness, as if asking without words for permission to go further.

Arthur’s thumb lingered at her collarbone, circling lightly as though memorizing the delicate rise and fall of her breath. His blue eyes searched hers, unguarded and fierce, carrying all the weight of what he had confessed the night before. When she gave the faintest nod—barely more than a shiver of consent—he exhaled as though releasing something he had carried for far too long.

His mouth followed where his hand had led, trailing kisses across the hollow of her throat, down to the curve of her shoulder. Each brush of his lips was patient, deliberate, as though he were mapping sacred ground. Merilyn gasped softly, the sound spilling unbidden, her fingers curling into the sheets beneath her. He paused at every sound, gauging, learning her the way a knight learns a new blade—carefully, reverently, until each movement was sure.

She had never been touched like this. Not with such intent, not with such single-minded devotion. Every kiss felt like a vow, every press of his hand a promise that she was safe here, that her body was something to be cherished rather than hidden or hardened against the world.

Arthur shifted lower, lips trailing in a slow descent that made her breath stutter, that left a path of warmth blooming across her skin. He treated every inch as though it deserved attention, as though she were made of something rare and precious. Her body responded without permission, arching toward him, a helpless plea in every movement.

Arthur’s mouth hovered just above the curve of her breast, his breath warm against her skin, his hesitation almost reverent. When he finally lowered his lips, it was with aching care—his kiss soft, exploratory, as though he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard. Merilyn gasped, her hand flying to his shoulder, not to push him away but to steady herself against the sudden rush that coursed through her.

He drew back just enough to glance up at her, his blue eyes darkened with heat but still searching, asking without words if she wanted this. The answer trembled through her body before it could form on her lips—her back arched, her breath sharp, her fingers curling tighter into his tunic. That was all he needed.

Arthur’s mouth closed over her, his lips molding to her with a tenderness that made her tremble. His tongue flicked in a slow, careful tease, and the sound that broke from her throat was raw, startled, too honest to disguise. He groaned in response, the vibration shivering through her, as if her pleasure fed something deep in him.

He lingered there, savoring each reaction, his hand splayed wide against her side to hold her steady as she writhed beneath his touch. When he moved to her other breast, it was with the same deliberate reverence, as though refusing to leave any part of her unexplored, uncherished. Each kiss, each slow draw of his mouth, felt like a vow carved into her skin.

Merilyn’s chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her violet eyes fluttering open only to fall shut again as sensation overwhelmed her. No one had ever touched her like this. No one had ever given without asking, had ever worshipped her body as though it were the only altar worth kneeling before.

Arthur’s hand slipped lower, tracing the line of her waist, his thumb brushing over the quiver of her stomach as though grounding her even as he unraveled her. He raised his head briefly, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, his voice husky, almost ragged. “You’re so beautiful, Meri. You don’t even know.”

Her heart stuttered, tears prickling hot behind her eyes, but she couldn’t speak. Instead, she lifted trembling hands to frame his face, dragging him back up to kiss her with all the fire she couldn’t voice. His mouth met hers hungrily, but still with that same thread of reverence, as though every moment between them was a promise not to be broken.

And then, slowly, he began to trail lower again, his kisses resuming their downward path, each press of his lips a pledge that he would not stop until she had been given everything she’d been denied before.

Arthur’s kisses trailed lower with unrelenting patience, his mouth worshipping every inch of her as though she were something holy. Across the flat of her stomach, down to the soft plane just above her hips—he treated her body as a map he had sworn to learn by heart. His hands steadied her, thumbs drawing circles against her waist, guiding her through the tremors he coaxed from her with each brush of his lips.

Merilyn’s breath faltered, her chest rising unevenly as anticipation coiled sharp and sweet within her. She had never been undone like this, never allowed herself to be so wholly vulnerable, and the weight of it pressed tears to her lashes even as heat flushed through her. Every time she whimpered, Arthur groaned softly in return, as though her sounds were the very breath he craved.

When his mouth pressed lower still, her entire body jolted. She clutched the sheets, her knuckles whitening, a startled cry breaking free before she could stifle it. Arthur paused instantly, his hand sliding to her thigh, thumb stroking gently as he raised his gaze to hers. His voice came husky but gentle, breaking through the haze that threatened to drown her.

Arthur froze at once, his breath warm against her skin, but his movements stilled completely as his hand continued its steadying path over her thigh. His blue eyes found hers in the half-light, raw concern flickering through them. “Too much?” he asked softly, his voice low and careful, as though any wrong note might shatter her.

Merilyn’s whole body shook, trembling so violently it surprised even her. She had faced blades, fire, and sorcery without faltering, yet here—under his mouth, under his care—she shook as though she had been struck to her very core. Her lips parted, but words failed her, only a broken gasp slipping free. She didn’t mean to tremble, didn’t mean for the fear and need tangled inside her to spill out, but her body betrayed her with every shiver.

Arthur shifted higher instantly, abandoning his descent, pressing a line of soft, anchoring kisses back up her stomach, over her ribs, until he reached her mouth. His lips brushed hers gently, reverently, as if to tether her back into the moment. “Meri,” he whispered against her, his hand cupping her cheek with such tenderness it made her ache. “You don’t have to let me do this. You don’t have to let me do anything you’re not ready for.”

Her lashes fluttered, damp with tears she hadn’t realized had gathered. She shook her head, a soft, desperate sound spilling from her throat. “No… no, it’s not—Arthur…” Her fingers fisted in the linen of his tunic, dragging him down as though afraid he might pull away completely. Her voice broke, fragile and raw. “It startled me. That’s all. I… I’ve never…It's only ever been forced."

"I know." Arthur’s hand stayed cradling her cheek, his thumb drawing slow circles that steadied where words could not. The rasp in his voice gentled as he leaned in, forehead to hers, their breaths evening together until the frantic edge began to soften. “I know,” he said again, not as an answer to the past but as a promise to the present, each syllable careful as if he were setting stones across a river for her to cross at her own pace. “We go slow. You lead. If you lift a hand, I stop. If you laugh, I laugh. If you only want to lie here with me and let dawn find us like this, then that is all we do.”

Her chest hitched and steadied, the tightness in her jaw unclenching as sensation returned to her fingers. She flexed them against his tunic and then slid them higher, palms framing his face. The tremor in her touch remained, but it no longer ruled her. “I want you,” she whispered, the honesty of it making her voice huskier than any seduction. “I want to finish what we started. I want it to be ours.”

Something fierce and aching moved through his eyes, and then he kissed her—unhurried, anchoring, the kind of kiss that let her feel every intention before he followed through on any of them. He did not dive; he returned, retracing the ground that had steadied her before: the sweep of her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, the line of her jaw he’d already learned could make her sigh instead of startle. His hands stayed where she could sense them—one spread warm at her waist, the other lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, lingering there as if reminding her she could name every place he touched.

Her breath smoothed, hitching now for gentler reasons. When he began his slow journey downward again, he paused after each kiss, letting her choose whether he stayed or moved. At her throat she tipped her chin, giving him more. At her collarbone her fingers curled in silent encouragement. When his mouth found her again where he knew she wanted him, he eased rather than pressed, listening for the smallest change in her breathing, answering it with patience that felt like devotion.

Her body learned him as he learned her. The first ripples of pleasure rose not like a wave crashing over stone but like warmth catching in kindling—the heat building in slow, steady licks, brightening with every careful pass of his mouth, every murmured “tell me” shaped against her skin. She answered not in clever words but in the music he had asked for: the low sound that meant “there,” the stuttering inhale that meant “wait,” the trembling exhale that meant “again, just like that.” When the edge of fear brushed her, he stayed where he was and changed nothing, letting the gentleness of consistency wear the fear down to nothing. When the edge of want overtook her, he followed, but never so far that she could not reach him with the lightest touch.

Time lost its measure, narrowed to the rhythm they made between them. The world beyond the curtains—kingdoms and courts, accords and threats—fell away until there was only flickering gold across stone, the soft rasp of dawn wind beneath the door, and the low sound of her name in his voice like a prayer he did not know he knew.

When the crest finally rose, it did not seize her; it gathered her. Her hands found his shoulders and then his hair, holding without clinging, guiding without pleading. The tight coil inside her unwound strand by strand until the release took her in a shiver that broke into breath and then into a sound that surprised her with its sweetness. She trembled, not with panic now but with the tenderness of being met so completely that there was nowhere in her body left to brace. He did not hurry past it, did not press for more; he held there with her, mouth and hands gentling as the crest ebbed, praise and comfort and quiet pride threaded through every breath he drew against her skin.

He lifted to her only when she tugged him up, when her shaking became laughter, soft and stunned. He kissed the smile on her lips like a secret, then the corner of her mouth, then the damp lashes that fluttered open to find him watching her as if he had just seen dawn for the first time. “Meri,” he murmured, the word rough with reverence. “Are you with me?”

She nodded, the motion small and luminous. “I am,” she whispered, voice unsteady but bright. “I’m here.” Her fingers traced his jaw, lingering over the familiar scar near his ear, then slid down to rest over his heart. “I’m here.”

The latch lifted with a soft clack—too soft to be the barked summons of a guard, too sure to be a servant guessing at his luck—and the door swung inward on a wash of cool corridor air. Arthur reacted before thought could catch him. He gathered Merilyn to his chest and swept the coverlet up and over her in one deft motion, tucking the wool beneath her chin with a soldier’s efficiency and a lover’s care. She folded instinctively into him, face pressed to the warm hollow beneath his collarbone, her breath a quick flutter against his skin. By the time the hinges finished sighing, there was nothing visible of her but a pale hand, and even that he covered with his own.

Erynd froze on the threshold. The candle-stubs guttered to curls of smoke, the riot of wax pooled along the mismatched holders, the prince bare to the waist with the fiercely possessive set of a man who had already decided who he would die protecting—he took it all in with one sharp glance before his ears went scarlet. His mouth worked once, but nothing emerged. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

“Close the door,” Arthur said mildly, as if he were merely correcting a draft.

Erynd obeyed at once, easing it shut until the latch clicked home. He kept his gaze fixed on the bedpost with the determination of a soldier sighting down a spear haft. “Sire,” he managed, the word clipped.

Arthur’s arm tightened around Merilyn, his palm smoothing along the blanket where he knew her ribs lay. His voice was unruffled, clear, the authority of command wrapped in calm. “A bath, Erynd. Hot, enough for two. Breakfast as well—bread fresh from the oven, fruit, honey if the kitchens will part with it. And new linens. Towels. Plenty of them.” His mouth twitched, a boyish glint breaking through. “A scandalous number of towels.”

“Yes, sire,” Erynd said, still intent on the bedpost. But the blush had begun to fade into something steadier, his usual dry composure returning. He inclined his head slightly. “And the morning drills?”

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Tell Leon he’s in charge for today.”

Erynd’s mouth curved just slightly, the hint of a smirk flickering before he tucked it away. “Very good, sire. I’m sure Sir Leon will be… delighted.”

Beneath the blanket, Merilyn’s shoulders shook once, her laughter muffled into Arthur’s chest. His hand pressed lightly over the back of her head, both to soothe and to hide the sound. Erynd heard anyway. His eyes flicked just briefly to the bundle in Arthur’s arms, sharp as ever, and then back to the bedpost.

“Shall I also inform Gaius you are… indisposed, my lady?” he asked, tone deliberately neutral.

For the space of a heartbeat, silence pressed heavier than the stone walls around them. Then Merilyn shoved the coverlet down just far enough to free her head, violet eyes flashing through the veil of her illusion like stormlight breaking through cloud. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks flushed, and yet her glare carried all the authority of a queen in her own right.

“Erynd,” she hissed, her voice low but sharp enough to cut.

Arthur instinctively pulled the blanket higher again, tucking her back against him with a scowl of his own, but not before Erynd caught the full force of her expression.

The sworn guard’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite contrition—something sly caught between the two. He dipped his head in mock gravity, though the mischief glinted plain in his dark eyes. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, his voice pitched to deference even as it betrayed amusement. “I only meant to confirm you were… comfortable in your present circumstances.”

Arthur’s blue eyes narrowed, his grip on Merilyn firming. “That will be enough,” he said, steel threading through his tone.

Erynd’s gaze slid back to the bedpost, shoulders straight as if at parade rest, but the smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, sire.” He bowed slightly, though the angle of it was meant more for Merilyn than her prince. “The bath and breakfast will be seen to. And you may rest assured—I will tell Sir Leon the morning drills are yours to reclaim… another day.”

Merilyn groaned softly into Arthur’s chest, mortification and fury tangling as she clutched the coverlet higher, hiding herself once more. Arthur’s hand stroked her back in quiet reassurance, but the look he shot Erynd was equal parts warning and promise.

Arthur held Erynd’s gaze for a beat longer, until the weight of command settled between them like a drawn line in the sand. Only then did the guard incline his head with proper solemnity and withdraw, the door shutting firmly behind him. The chamber exhaled with his absence, leaving behind only the muffled crackle of the embers in the hearth and the faint perfume of roses still clinging to the air.

Merilyn stayed burrowed against Arthur’s chest, her face hot where it pressed into his skin. “Comfortable in my present circumstances,” she muttered, her voice muffled, half-furious, half-humiliated. “I’ll kill him.”

Arthur’s chuckle rumbled low against her ear, warm enough to dissolve the sharpest edges of her ire. He smoothed his palm along her spine, fingers trailing in lazy circles that soothed even as her body thrummed with mortification. “He wouldn’t dare let anyone else know,” Arthur murmured, his tone a blend of certainty and reassurance. “And if he did, he’d have to get past me first.”

That earned him a muffled sound that might have been laughter, might have been despair. She tilted her head just enough to peek up at him through a tangle of pale strands, her violet eyes narrowed. “He enjoys this too much.”

Arthur bent his head, brushing his lips briefly to her temple in something between comfort and claim. “Then let him. Let him grin in the corridors and smirk at the drills. He’s loyal, Meri, and he’d cut out his own tongue before letting the truth slip to anyone else.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, tipping her face back toward him. “Besides,” he added, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, “you look rather beautiful when you’re ready to murder someone.”

She huffed, shaking her head, but her body softened against him, the worst of her mortification ebbing. The chamber was still bathed in that fragile dawn light, gold spilling over stone and catching on the edges of their tangled blankets, turning the ordinary into something almost sacred.

Arthur pressed a final kiss to the crown of her head, holding her close against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His lips lingered there, his breath stirring the strands of her hair as he whispered into the morning hush, rough and certain as a vow:

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

The knock came scarcely half an hour later, discreet and measured. True to his word, Erynd returned only long enough to direct the servants, never crossing the threshold himself. A pair of maids carried in trays heavy with food—fresh bread still steaming, bowls of honey and clotted cream, sliced apples glossed with dew, and a pitcher of watered wine. Behind them, footmen maneuvered a steaming copper tub into place near the hearth, filling the chamber with a rich warmth that fogged the cold edges of the morning.

Arthur dismissed them with a curt nod, and the door was shut once more, leaving them in a world that smelled of fruit and fire, wax and water.

They lingered over breakfast first. Arthur tore the bread in half and pressed the better piece into her hands without a second thought, as though it were natural law that she deserved it more. Merilyn laughed when he smeared honey across his thumb and tried to lick it clean, only for her to catch his wrist and do it herself, her lips brushing the sticky skin until his breath caught. They fed one another in turns—an apple slice held to her lips, a morsel of bread slipped between his teeth—until the plates lay scattered with crumbs and only the dregs of wine remained.

When Arthur finally pulled her toward the waiting bath, his grin was boyish, almost mischievous. He stripped without ceremony, not as a prince accustomed to being dressed but as a man eager to share the simplest of luxuries with the woman in his arms. Merilyn, flushed and laughing softly, let him guide her into the steaming water, the heat closing around her like an embrace.

They sat close in the copper tub, knees bumping, shoulders pressed together, the water lapping gently at their skin. Arthur’s hands moved with surprising gentleness, cupping water over her shoulders, smoothing it through her pale hair until the strands clung like silver ribbons. In turn, she reached for the cloth and swept it along the curve of his arm, over the breadth of his chest, laughing when he leaned into her touch as though she’d bewitched him.

There was tenderness in every movement. When she closed her eyes and leaned back, he combed his fingers carefully through her damp hair, untangling the strands as though each one deserved his patience. When she rinsed his shoulders, he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, eyes glinting in the haze of steam.

By the time the water had cooled and the morning sun had stretched fully into the chamber, they rose reluctantly, drying one another with the “scandalous number” of towels Arthur had demanded. He wrapped her in one first, tugging the ends snug about her shoulders before tending to himself. There was laughter again when she scolded him for dripping across the floor, and a kiss stolen when she reached to smooth his mussed hair.

Eventually, though, the spell of the dawn broke. Merilyn pulled her illusion back into place—dark hair, lean shoulders, Merlin once more—her expression sobering as the day’s weight pressed upon her. She gathered her cloak and kissed Arthur softly, one last brush of lips that tasted of honey and wine.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered, a promise tucked into the ordinary rhythm of her words.

Arthur caught her wrist before she slipped away, tugging her back just enough to press his forehead to hers. “Be careful,” he murmured, the plea low, private. Then he let her go.

The storm pressed close around Camelot, wrapping the city in its relentless fury. Rain hammered against shutters until the wood shuddered, cascading in rivulets that carved channels through the cobbled streets of the lower town. Wind whipped through the alleys like a prowling beast, rattling thatch from rooftops and slamming loose shutters until they banged like drumbeats in the dark. The hiss of water was broken only by the clatter of unseen hooves on sodden stone, a restless rhythm that seemed to echo the storm’s anger.

In her cottage, tucked snug against the curve of the outer wall, Merilyn slept as heavily as a woman finally claimed by exhaustion. Weeks of ceaseless vigilance had left her body worn thin, and for once her mind had surrendered, slipping into the rare balm of dreamless dark. Her breathing was steady, her limbs loose with the weight of fatigue, her very soul grateful for the stillness.

Until the voice came.

It did not come from outside her door, nor from the restless whisper of the storm beyond the shutters. It was not a sound at all, not truly. It bloomed inside her head, sharp and sudden, curling into her thoughts like a blade slipped between ribs.

Take the north door straight ahead. Keep going.

Her breath caught as if she had been struck. She lurched upright, the blanket tangling around her waist, heart thundering in uneven jolts. The echo of the words still vibrated against her ribs, leaving her trembling as though she had been woken not by sound but by the touch of something unseen. The voice was young—urgent and unfamiliar—yet so piercingly close she swore it had been whispered directly against her ear.

Her hand rose to her temple, trembling. “Who’s there?” she breathed into the empty room, her voice a thread lost against the roar of rain. No answer came aloud. Instead, another whisper threaded through her skull, sharper this time, insistent.

Keep going. Hurry!

Her stomach dropped like a stone. This wasn’t a dream. This was telepathy—powerful, raw, so strong it scraped against the wards she had laid around the cottage and made her chest ache as though something had clawed too close to her heart. Whoever it was, they were near. Too near.

Merilyn shoved the blanket aside and stumbled to her feet, her bare toes recoiling from the chill of the stone floor. She didn’t bother with boots. Her cloak was slung over the chair, and she snatched it up with fumbling fingers, tying it at her throat even as her pulse roared louder in her ears. The voice came again, thrumming through her skull like a tether that yanked at her very bones.

At the end of the corridor. Morgana’s chamber is next.

Morgana.

The name hit her like a blow to the chest, stealing the air from her lungs.

She bolted for the door, instinct overriding reason, her body moving before her mind could even catch up. There was no time to think, no space for hesitation or doubt. The storm struck her like a living thing the instant she wrenched the door open, a wall of wind and water that stole her breath and plastered her hair to her scalp. Her cloak clung heavily to her shoulders as rain soaked the fabric in seconds, weighing her down with each step, but she pushed forward regardless. Water streamed over her face, blurring her vision until it seemed as though the very heavens were weeping, yet still she ran, feet slapping hard against the cobbles, the world narrowed to the pounding in her chest and the voice still echoing mercilessly in her skull.

The lower town stirred despite the hour, roused by the storm and the chaos it carried with it. Lanterns bobbed uncertainly through the rain, guards bellowed orders that the wind tore to pieces, and the steady clash of armored boots rang out against wet stone. Their shouts were fleeting, swallowed almost as soon as they rose, leaving only fragments carried on the gale. Merilyn flew past them like a shadow barely seen, her bare feet slipping and catching on the slick cobbles, her cloak snapping and whipping behind her like the wing of some half-seen specter. She barely registered the startled cries that followed her—her world had narrowed to the thread of magic still tugging her forward, pulsing in time with her heart, urgent and merciless.

It was both command and warning, the voice shaping itself into an inexorable pull she could not resist. She did not know who it belonged to, but she felt its weight pressing into her bones. Every syllable carried a terrible certainty, driving her onward with the knowledge that disaster lay just ahead if she faltered now.

By the time she reached the steep incline that led to the castle gates, her lungs burned with the strain, every breath tearing raggedly from her throat. The rain clung to her skin like ice, and yet she felt flushed, feverish from the surge of magic still reverberating through her body. Guards shouted from beneath the arch, their commands muffled by the storm, demanding she halt. She did not. One raised a hand, squinting through the sheets of rain, recognition dawning dimly. To him she was only Merlin, a servant out of place at a dangerous hour. He let her pass with a curse about wayward boys, and she seized the chance without looking back.

The torchlit corridors closed around her like a labyrinth, shadows leaping and stretching in every flicker of flame. She sprinted on, water dripping from her hair in steady rivulets, leaving a trail of dark streaks across the flagstones with every stride. Each turn brought her closer to the source. She could feel it now—no longer words alone, but emotion bleeding through the tether. Urgency. Fear. A spark of determination that flared so achingly familiar she nearly stumbled.

Too familiar.

She skidded to a halt at the next corner, her palm bracing hard against the cold wall as her breath hitched and caught. The truth hovered at the edge of recognition, terrifying in its clarity. She knew this presence. She had always known it, from the moment she first saw the boy in the druids’ camp, from the ache in her chest every time his gaze found hers, from the bond that defied explanation. It had never been chance.

It was blood.

Mordred.

Her son.

The realization buckled her legs, forcing her to press harder into the stone to stay upright. His voice had woken her, had pulled her from sleep like a summons. His voice was guiding Alvarr through Camelot’s very halls. He was here. And there was no time—no time to untangle the how or the why, no time to ask the questions that threatened to unravel her. Only time to run.

The clang of warning bells split the storm, each strike a merciless toll that reverberated through stone and marrow alike, echoing down the corridors as if fate itself had chosen this moment to deliver judgment. The sound jarred her from the edge of collapse, and with a desperate shove from the wall, Merilyn forced her body into motion once more. Her cloak streamed behind her, heavy with rain, as she sprinted headlong toward Morgana’s chambers. Every breath tore raggedly at her throat, her chest raw with the effort, but she did not dare slow.

The bells still thundered in her ears when she careened around the corner, her hair plastered to her face, lungs burning with the storm she had carried inside with her. Arthur’s voice cut through the chaos ahead, clipped with fury and sharp with command, slicing through the confusion like the edge of a blade. “What do you mean you lost them?! They could be dangerous!”

Merilyn skidded to a halt just as he stormed past with a knot of guards tight at his back, his expression thunderous. His eyes caught hers—no, Merlin’s—and before she could draw breath to speak, his hand shot out like steel. He slammed her against the wall with a force that rattled her teeth, fingers closing around her throat.

“Arthur—” she gasped, nails digging instinctively into his wrist, the sound strangled by the chokehold.

Recognition flared almost instantly. His eyes widened, blue with shock, and guilt flashed hot across his face as he released her at once, stepping back with a sharp exhale. “Merlin?”

She coughed, dragging air into her lungs, her illusion-frayed voice cracking in her throat. “Morgana’s chamber…” The words came in ragged bursts as she pressed a hand to her neck. “They’re… in Morgana’s chambers.”

Arthur stiffened, his entire frame hardening in an instant, the disbelief in his gaze giving way to steely determination. He didn’t wait for her to explain further. With a sharp gesture of his arm, he bolted down the corridor, his guards scrambling to keep pace with his long strides. Merilyn staggered after him, rubbing at her throat, forcing her legs to obey though every breath seared her chest. She couldn’t let him go alone. Not when she knew whose voice had drawn her here. Not when she knew who waited behind Morgana’s door.

The upper corridors were thick with torch smoke, each sconce guttering as the storm outside rattled the narrow windows until the glass shivered in its lead frames. Shadows leapt long and unsteady across the stone walls, the castle itself seeming to tremble beneath the weight of the storm. Arthur’s stride never faltered. His boots struck the flagstones in sharp, purposeful rhythm, the sound carrying like a drumbeat of command. Merilyn pushed herself harder to match his pace, though her body screamed in protest, her heart pounding from more than exertion.

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur demanded at last, his voice low but honed sharp as a blade.

She swallowed hard, the truth burning like fire on her tongue. She longed to tell him—I heard him, I felt him, my son is here—but the words curdled into poison in her mouth. She forced them down, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. “Definitely,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I… I saw them with my own eyes.”

Arthur’s frown cut sideways at her, suspicion sharpening the already hard lines of his face. “And what, exactly, were you doing down there?”

She faltered for half a breath, her mind scrambling. “I heard voices in my…”

“In your?” Arthur’s brows rose, his expression keen and unrelenting, his eyes narrowing with the sharp edge of suspicion.

Merilyn’s pulse stumbled, the lie catching in her throat before she forced it out. “…In my chambers. I thought I should investigate.”

It was flimsy—thinner than parchment and far too fragile to stand against Arthur’s scrutiny—but his attention was already turning forward, bent on the greater danger that pressed down on them. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head in mild disbelief, the motion taut with irritation. Yet, despite his doubt, a faint twitch of his mouth betrayed a reluctant concession. “Frankly, Merlin, it’s hard to believe. But—” his voice softened into dry humor, the faintest thread of reluctant amusement weaving through the steel—“for once, you’ve shown some real initiative.”

She had no chance to answer. They had reached Morgana’s chamber, and Arthur stilled with sudden purpose. He lifted a hand, gesturing for silence, then pressed his ear to the heavy oak door. The guards shifted restlessly behind them, gauntleted hands tightening on their hilts, their torchlight casting long, uncertain shadows across the stone.

Without warning, Arthur drew back and drove his boot hard against the door. The wood shuddered beneath the force, bursting open with a thunderous crack that echoed like a war cry through the hall.

The chamber erupted into startled chaos. Morgana bolted upright in her bed, her nightgown pooling around her as she clutched the covers to her chest, eyes flashing wide with alarm. Guards spilled in at Arthur’s back, their torches flaring as they swept through the room, blades half-drawn, the sudden light catching on gilt and fabric. Arthur was already scanning the shadows, his stance rigid, shoulders squared as he searched for movement.

Merilyn lingered in the doorway, clutching her soaked cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes darted over every corner, every flicker of shadow, straining past the veil of silence. She could feel it—Mordred’s presence, close enough that her chest ached with the echo of it—like a heartbeat muffled behind stone. But there was nothing to see.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” Morgana’s voice sliced through the chamber, sharp as a blade honed on anger.

Arthur straightened, caught between apology and defiance. “I—” He faltered, his gaze flicking around the chamber again, finding nothing but the princess herself. “I had reason to believe there was an intruder here.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed, fury sparking in the depths of green. “Right now, Arthur, the only intruder is you.”

“Camelot has been infiltrated,” he pressed, tension wound tight in every line of his body. “Did you not hear the warning bell?”

“Of course I did!” she snapped, pressing a hand against her chest as though to calm a racing heart, her breath quick with feigned alarm. “I was hoping I’d be safe in my chambers.”

“Then permit me to search—”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Her voice rang out, loud enough to make the guards hesitate. She rose from the bed with regal fury, every inch the King’s ward and no one’s fool. “Arthur, do you truly think if there was someone in my room I would not know?”

Arthur froze, his jaw tightening as his options narrowed to none. He knew Morgana well enough to recognize that pressing further would yield only wrath, not truth. At last he exhaled and inclined his head stiffly, forcing courtesy into his voice. “Please accept my apologies.”

He gestured to the guards, ushering them out before pulling the heavy door closed behind him.

In the corridor, his composure cracked into storm. He rounded on Merilyn, his face dark with thunder, his voice edged with biting anger. “I don’t understand.” His words dripped with sarcasm as he pressed on. “Oh, I’m sorry—which bit didn’t you understand? The part where you made a fool of me, or the part where you made a fool of yourself?”

“There was someone in there,” Merilyn whispered, her throat tight with the weight of what she could not say. “I know there was.”

Arthur’s glare hardened further, his voice dropping to a cold warning. “A word of advice, Merlin. In the future, stick to what you do best: nothing.” He spun sharply on his heel, his cloak snapping out behind him as he strode down the corridor, the guards scrambling to follow his pace.

The silence that followed rang louder than the bells had. Merilyn sagged back against the cold stone wall, her lip caught hard between her teeth to keep the cry locked inside her chest. Every nerve still thrummed with the echo of Mordred’s presence, so close and yet slipping further into the shadows. She pressed her back into the wall, fighting to steady her breath, but the weight of her secret pressed heavier than ever.

The corridor emptied quickly, Arthur’s footsteps fading into the distance with the rhythmic echo of his guards following close behind. The torches along the wall hissed and guttered, their flames guttering against the drafts that prowled through the stone passage. For the first time since she had woken to that voice, the world around her stilled.

Merilyn sagged further into the cold wall, the weight of her sodden cloak dragging heavily at her shoulders. She dragged one trembling hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, her fingers pressing hard against the ache building behind her eyes. A headache bloomed there, sharp and merciless, like hot iron being driven into her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pounding to stop, willing the silence to return. But there was no silence.

Mordred’s voice pulsed at the edges of her mind, insistent, relentless, gnawing like teeth against bone. Keep going. Hurry. At the end of the corridor. Morgana’s chamber is next. The words she had already heard continued to loop back over themselves, as if his presence were lodged inside her skull, refusing to be dislodged. It wasn’t simply sound. It was sensation. It was the scrape of his urgency against her chest, the echo of his fear tangled with his defiance. It was him, bleeding through her very blood.

Her breath shuddered out of her, lips parting on a soft gasp as the realization she had fought to smother rose again. He was close—closer than he had ever been. And he was hers. Her son. That truth hammered with every echo of his voice until it threatened to break her apart.

She pressed her thumb and forefinger harder into her brow, fighting the sting of tears and the rise of nausea in her throat. If she gave in to it, if she let herself truly feel the bond, she feared she would collapse right there in the corridor. Already her knees threatened to give beneath her, her legs quivering from the exertion and the weight of revelation.

But worse than the pain was the gnawing certainty that his words were not finished. That he would return, again and again, to haunt her. That no wall, no disguise, no distance within Camelot could ever shield her from him. The tether was forged now, and it pulled at her with every heartbeat, dragging her toward a fate she did not know how to escape.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

The rain had eased by morning, but the castle still bore the storm’s residue. Water slicked across the stone steps in dark rivulets, dripping from eaves with a steady plink into barrels below. The air was heavy with the tang of wet stone and faint smoke, as though the storm had dragged the hearth-fires out into the corridors. Servants moved quietly through the passages, their voices pitched low, trading fragments of rumor as though the walls themselves might be listening. The castle felt subdued, uneasy, as if every eye and ear strained for whispers of what had transpired in the night.

Merilyn pushed open the door to the physician’s chambers with a stiff hand, her shoulders heavy, every limb weighted with exhaustion. The illusion still clung to her like a second skin, but even in the guise of Merlin she looked worn thin. The hollows beneath her eyes had deepened to bruised shadows, her skin pale beneath the torchlight, her steps lacking their usual careless energy. It was as though she carried something heavier than the storm’s aftermath, something no amount of rest could ease.

At the workbench, Gaius glanced up from his task, his spectacles perched low on his nose as he sorted fennel seeds into a glass jar. His sharp gaze softened at once when it fell on her, the line of his mouth easing into quiet concern. “Late night?” he asked, his voice gentle, though touched with the kind of knowing that left little room for denial.

Merilyn winced, pressing her fingertips to her temple before forcing a crooked smile that did little to disguise her fatigue. “You could say that,” she murmured.

The physician studied her a beat longer, his own smile fading into something more serious. “I hear there was a disturbance. An intruder in the city?”

She nodded and sank onto the nearest stool, her cloak pooling around her like a shadow. “More than a disturbance,” she said softly. “There was… magic. I heard it.” Her voice dropped lower, barely more than a whisper, as though naming the word aloud might summon Uther’s wrath through the very walls.

From his place against the shelf, Erynd shifted. He had been leaning with his arms folded, listening in silence, but now he lifted his head. His eyes glinted in the dim light, sharp and watchful. “Heard it?”

Merilyn’s throat tightened. She rubbed her palms against her knees, restless, trying to will away the tremor in her fingers. “Not with my ears,” she admitted. “In my head. A voice—it woke me out of sleep and kept pulling me toward the castle.” She hesitated, her chest aching as the memory pressed against her. My son’s voice. The truth hovered dangerously close to the surface, threatening to break free, but she swallowed it down with effort, forcing the words into safer shape. “It was Mordred.”

Gaius froze mid-motion. The jar of seeds tilted, spilling across his workbench in a soft patter, forgotten as his gaze snapped to her. “The druid boy?” His brows knit together, worry carving lines deeper into his face. “What on earth is he doing here?”

Erynd’s gaze sharpened, his jaw flexing with tension. “Are you certain?”

Merilyn nodded once, her fingers curling into her knees until her knuckles whitened. “I’d know it anywhere. He was guiding someone—telepathically. I could feel the strength of it. He led them straight to Morgana’s chambers.”

The chamber went still, silence pressing into every corner until it seemed the very air held its breath. Even the flames in the hearth had burned low, reduced to embers that ticked faintly as they cooled, each crackle a reminder of time slipping past. The weight of that silence bore down on Merilyn until her chest felt tight, until she could scarcely draw a full breath. It was the kind of silence that magnified every thought, every fear, until even the shadows seemed to lean closer, waiting for her to break.

At last, Gaius spoke, his voice measured and deliberate, though concern edged every syllable. “You’re sure it was him? Mordred and Morgana… they had a kind of bond.”

“Yes,” Merilyn answered too quickly, the sharpness of her tone betraying the storm inside her. She pressed her eyes shut, forcing herself to inhale through her nose before speaking again, her voice lower now, frayed but steady enough to pass for composure. “Yes, but this—this was more than that. This wasn’t a boy sneaking through the corridors to see a friend. He was leading them. Purposeful. Steady. Deliberate.” Her throat closed around the words she could not say, choking her into silence. As though his blood called to mine. She exhaled shakily and shook her head, as if the very motion might dislodge the thought, force it back into the dark where no one else could see it. “As though he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Erynd finally shifted, the scrape of leather against stone loud in the hush. Merilyn’s eyes flicked to him, catching the unreadable weight in his expression. His gaze was steady, but his eyes were dark with unspoken thoughts, his silence pressing harder than words. When his voice came, it was calm, almost soothing, like a hand braced against a ship tossed on waves. “Then whoever he was guiding must be dangerous.”

The name slipped from her lips like poison, bitter and unavoidable. “Alvarr. It had to be him. He’s the only one reckless enough, desperate enough, to walk Mordred straight into the lion’s den.”

Gaius’s mouth drew into a thin, grim line, the expression that always preceded bad news. “If they’d been caught…”

“They were prepared to die for it,” Merilyn finished for him, her voice quiet but certain, carrying the hollow weight of truth. She hunched forward, elbows braced against her knees, both hands pressing into her brow as though she could hold her head together against the mounting pressure. “Whatever they’re after, it isn’t something small.”

Erynd pushed away from the shelf, his footsteps soft but sure across the chamber. He came to stand beside her and laid one steady hand on her shoulder, the touch grounding her against the tide threatening to pull her under. “Then we find out what it is,” he said, his voice certain, unshaken. “And we stop it.”

Merilyn lifted her head slowly, her eyes shadowed, her features drawn tight with fatigue. She gave the smallest nod, but her heart twisted in her chest. Stopping it meant standing against Mordred. And standing against Mordred meant standing against her own blood.

Arthur’s chambers were still in the pale wash of morning light, the air tinged with the sharp scent of oiled steel from the armor stands and the faint musk of well-worn leather. The fire in the grate had burned down to nothing more than a scatter of dull embers beneath a skin of gray ash, leaving the room cool and hushed. Merilyn lingered in the doorway for a long moment, her cloak heavy across her shoulders, her steps uncertain. Her thoughts were still tangled in the echo of Mordred’s voice from the night before, replaying in her mind until her ribs felt bruised by the memory of it. She had barely slept—every time she closed her eyes, she heard him again, felt that terrible bond gnaw at her, sharp as a knife driven too deep.

Movement at the far side of the chamber snapped Merilyn back into the present, her senses sharpening in an instant as her gaze found Morgana. The young woman moved with the practiced grace of someone long accustomed to concealment, gliding from the shadows near the wardrobe with an elegance that seemed too deliberate for the hour. Her hand reached without hesitation for the ring of keys left carelessly on Arthur’s table, her fingers curling around the iron as though they belonged to her. The faint chime of metal against metal broke the stillness, subtle yet sharp enough to lodge itself in Merilyn’s chest. Morgana’s gown whispered faintly as she turned, her posture composed, her expression cool with determination—until her eyes lifted and froze upon the figure in the doorway.

“Merlin!” she exclaimed, her voice rippling with surprise that smoothed too quickly into composure. In the space of a heartbeat, her tone shifted into something measured and casual, the faintest smile curving her lips, though her eyes glinted with something harder. “I was looking for Arthur.”

Merilyn’s heart lurched violently. Her first instinct was to cry out, to demand an explanation, to summon the guards and drag the truth into the open light. Yet the weight of her own secrets crushed the words in her throat before they could escape. To speak would be to unravel more than Morgana’s treachery—it would unravel her. She forced her expression into the harmless, bumbling mask that Camelot expected from Arthur’s servant, her voice steady only through sheer will. “He’s out training,” she said carefully, the words even and bland.

Morgana’s lashes lowered, her sharpness softening into the picture of contrition. “Of course.” The word was simple, but the way her voice curved around it sounded practiced, too polished to be wholly sincere.

Merilyn forced herself to nod once, her throat tightening as she swallowed against the constriction there. “He—er—he trains every day. Same time, same place.” Even to her own ears the voice of her disguise sounded clumsy, stilted, but it bought her precious seconds to steady her racing thoughts.

Morgana hesitated, and for a moment Merilyn swore she saw calculation flicker in her eyes. The keys were already tucked away into the folds of her skirts, hidden as though they had never left the table. “I—I just wanted to apologise for last night,” Morgana offered, her tone light, her body already shifting toward the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

She swept past with effortless poise, her perfume trailing faintly in the air behind her. It was a cloying sweetness, a floral veil that failed to conceal the sharp, acrid tang of betrayal beneath it. Merilyn turned her head slightly as she passed, every nerve screaming at her to speak, to act, to do something. But she did not. She could not. Her silence weighed heavier than any chain.

She stood rooted in place long after the door had closed, her fists curling helplessly at her sides until her nails bit into her palms. She had seen the keys. She knew with a clarity that scorched her bones exactly what Morgana intended. And yet—like with Mordred—her tongue held still, locked by fear, by loyalty, by love twisted into something unbearable. To name the truth aloud would be to condemn them both, and perhaps herself along with them.

The following evening passed in brittle quiet. Arthur’s chambers, usually warmed by his presence and the blaze of a fire, felt subdued in the pale wash of torchlight. The meal had been simple—roast meat and bread, the sort of fare Arthur always insisted upon when he tired of banquets weighed down by formality. Merilyn sat across from him, her fork idly moving through the food without appetite, her thoughts adrift and far from the chamber. Every clang of a goblet against the table, every sigh of wind rattling the shutters seemed to echo with the memory of Mordred’s voice, with the image of Morgana’s slender fingers curling around Arthur’s keys. She had barely spoken through the meal, but Arthur had not pressed, content instead to fill the silence with idle complaints about training drills, Leon’s optimism, and the petty grievances of the day.

Then the warning bells shattered the quiet.

The sound rolled through the castle like thunder, urgent and unrelenting, rattling the cutlery on the table until the plates trembled in their place. Arthur was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping sharply against the floor as his hand closed over the hilt of his sword. His face hardened into instinctive resolve, eyes flashing as he barked, “Come on!”

Merilyn dropped her fork with a clatter, the sound drowned immediately by the bells. Her stomach twisted into a hard knot as she scrambled to follow, every nerve in her body already telling her what the bells meant. She knew before they had even reached the lower corridors that the truth she dreaded was about to be laid bare.

The vault was a cold and cavernous chamber buried deep beneath the castle, its air heavy with damp stone and a faint metallic tang that spoke of centuries of hoarded relics and chained secrets. Torches guttered along the walls, their flames struggling against the chill, throwing jagged shadows across iron-bound chests and coils of heavy chain. Arthur strode directly to the great pedestal at the heart of the room, his cloak whispering around his legs, his expression carved into grim lines. Merilyn’s eyes followed the sharp set of his shoulders and knew what he would find before he reached it.

The pedestal was empty.

“The Crystal of Neahtid,” Arthur muttered, his jaw clenched so tight she could hear his teeth grind. His hand ran over the untouched iron lock, his frown deepening as he noted its condition. “The locks are not damaged.”

Merilyn’s throat tightened until she thought she might choke. She forced her voice into the bumbling lilt of her disguise, her words fumbling as if she were only Arthur’s hapless servant. “What does that tell you?”

Arthur turned sharply, his blue eyes blazing like cold fire. “It tells me somebody stole my keys.”

The words cut straight through her, sharper than any blade, and for a heartbeat the vault seemed to tilt beneath her feet. In her mind’s eye she saw Morgana as clearly as if she were still standing there: her hand curling around the stolen keys in Arthur’s chamber, the faint glint of iron catching the candlelight, the trace of perfume lingering in the air as she swept past with feigned innocence. The memory burned behind Merilyn’s eyes until her temples throbbed and her vision blurred, her pulse hammering so violently she thought she might collapse under the pressure of it. She could speak now, could lay the truth bare before Arthur and the guards, could stop this before it spiraled any further out of control. The words hovered at the edge of her tongue, trembling there with the promise of protection—for Arthur, for Camelot, for all that might yet be spared if only she told him.

But to speak would be to condemn Morgana, and that thought rooted her tongue to the back of her teeth. To accuse her openly would mean Uther’s wrath descending upon his ward, suspicion falling like a guillotine, the threat of chains and fire waiting at the end of it. It would mean betraying her dearest friend to a fate Merilyn could not bear to imagine. The choice bound her in silence, and in that silence the truth curdled bitter on her tongue, her heart twisting under the unbearable weight of all she would not say.

Arthur’s pacing quickened, his anger burning hotter with every word. His boots struck against the stone with sharp finality as he snapped, “Of course it was precious. It wouldn’t be down here otherwise, would it?”

Merilyn nodded faintly, forcing the single word past lips that wanted to tremble. “Right.”

“Whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for.”

“Apparently.” The word came out flat, her voice dulled into something empty, a flimsy shield against the storm raging inside her chest.

Arthur’s head snapped toward her, blue eyes blazing with disbelief and fury. “Apparently? That’s all you’ve got to say?” His voice rose, each syllable cutting deeper as he strode closer, anger spilling over into command. “Tell me, Merlin—whose job is it to ensure my chambers are locked at all times? Whose job is it to ensure that something like this never happens?!”

The words struck harder than he could ever know. Guilt lashed through her chest like fire, searing her from the inside out. She flinched despite herself, her body betraying the truth she fought so desperately to hide. But she forced her expression to remain slack, her shoulders hunched in the posture of the servant he thought she was. He could not see how close he had come to uncovering everything. He could not see the crack in her heart widening beneath the strain. She bowed her head low, her voice no more than a thread. “Sorry.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face, his exhale sharp through clenched teeth. The sound was one of frustration, but beneath the steel of his fury, Merilyn glimpsed something else—fear. He did not understand what the Crystal truly was, but he knew enough to recognize its importance, knew enough to feel the danger thrumming around it. And worse still, he knew the price of failure. If Uther discovered that the relic had been stolen while under Arthur’s watch, the king’s wrath would not fall lightly.

Merilyn lowered her gaze further, letting the curtain of her dark lashes shield the storm rising in her eyes. She had failed him—not in the duties of a servant or the guise of Merlin, but in the deeper promise she had made to herself, the one that tied her to him more fiercely than any vow. She had failed him in honesty. Yet what choice did she have? To tell the truth would be to destroy Morgana, to drag her into Uther’s fire, and in doing so perhaps unravel Mordred as well. She could not do it. She would not. And so she bore the silence like a chain wrapped tight around her throat, her heart twisting in agony as Arthur’s anger settled heavy between them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

The council chamber was thick with torchlight, flames burning low in their sconces and throwing restless shadows that stretched and shivered across the vaulted ceiling. The air smelled faintly of wax and smoke, heavy as the tension pressing down on the room. Uther stood like a thundercloud at the head of the long table, his crimson cloak hanging from his shoulders like a banner of wrath, his face carved into harsh lines of fury that seemed older and deeper than the stone walls themselves. Arthur braced before him, broad shoulders squared and spine straight, the very image of a knight standing firm under judgment, his posture unflinching despite the storm bearing down on him. Merilyn lingered half a step back, the illusion of Merlin wrapped tightly around her like armor that felt suddenly fragile, her hands clasped behind her back to hide the tremor running through them.

“You’re sorry?” Uther’s voice cracked through the chamber like the lash of a whip, sharp enough to sting the air itself. “That’s not good enough. Did they force their way in?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened until the muscles there twitched. His voice, when it came, was steady as stone. “No, Sire.”

“Then how did they gain access to the vault?” Uther demanded, his tone rising, eyes narrowing with suspicion that seemed to scour the chamber for the culprit.

“They stole the keys.”

Uther’s fist slammed down on the table, the impact rattling the goblets and sending parchment fluttering. “How is that possible?!”

Arthur did not flinch. “Someone broke into my chambers.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling and lingering long after they had been spoken. Merilyn’s throat constricted painfully, her breath catching as an image burned across her mind’s eye: Morgana’s hand slipping the keys into the folds of her skirts, the faint chime of metal, the lingering trail of perfume that had followed her from the room. The memory stabbed sharper than steel. Arthur knew it, too—he had to—but he would never speak it here, not in front of his father.

“This is a grievous loss, Arthur,” Uther thundered, his fury rolling through the chamber like a storm. “The Crystal of Neahtid was locked away for good reason.”

Arthur’s voice shifted, softening but carrying an unyielding edge. “Why is it so important?”

For the briefest moment, Uther’s gaze flickered, a rare crack in his unshakable façade. Unease ghosted across his stern features before he masked it with iron control. “It is an instrument of magic. In the days of the Purge, a great many sorcerers died trying to protect it. Whatever it is, it matters to them. That is reason enough.”

Arthur inclined his head, the motion controlled, but the grim set of his features betrayed his frustration. “I’ll search the town. Find out what I can.”

“You must,” Uther replied, his tone sharp and commanding, a king’s decree that brooked no argument. “This crystal cannot fall into enemy hands.”

Arthur’s reply was clipped, his voice carrying a soldier’s discipline. “Yes, Sire.” The chamber emptied with the scrape of boots on stone, and when the doors closed behind them the corridor felt at once quieter and yet no less charged. The silence here was different, taut as a bowstring rather than thunderous as it had been under Uther’s eye. The storm outside had passed, but tension still lingered in the castle walls like the echo of lightning, and Arthur’s stride carried all of it in each sharp step that rang against the flagstones. His cloak flared with his movement, his presence a storm barely restrained.

Merilyn hurried to keep pace, her lungs still tight from the weight of the exchange, her mind a tangle of truths she could not speak. “Arthur?” she ventured, her voice hesitant.

He turned his head just enough that she could see the hard line of his profile, all jaw and shadow and simmering thunder. “What is it?”

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words faltering even as they left her.

One brow arched, his expression incredulous but not unkind. “For what, exactly?”

She swallowed, fighting to force the words past the knot in her throat. “For… for shielding me.”

A wry breath escaped him, not quite a laugh. “Shielding you?” He shook his head, though his gaze softened as it slid sideways to catch hers. “Merlin, you have a terrible habit of putting yourself in the line of fire. I won’t always be able to stand between you and my father.”

“Yes,” she admitted, because what else could she possibly say?

Arthur slowed, then stopped abruptly, his boots halting with a decisive echo. He turned to her fully, blue eyes flashing with a mixture of frustration and something far heavier—fear threaded with care. His voice was firm, but it lacked the cruel edge it carried before the court, tempered now by intimacy. “Don’t ever put me in that position again. I can’t defend you if you keep throwing yourself into danger without thinking.” His tone dropped lower, heavy with the weight of all that was at stake. “Promise me you’ll be more careful. Because if we lose that crystal, Uther won’t just see it as Camelot’s failure—he’ll see it as mine. And I can’t risk losing you to his wrath or to what that relic might unleash.”

Merilyn nodded quickly, her head dipping low, the mask of Merlin shielding the storm of guilt twisting inside her chest. She wanted to tell him everything—that she knew who had taken the keys, that Mordred’s voice still throbbed like a brand against her very soul—but the words turned to ash before she could speak them.

Arthur’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, his eyes searching her face as though he could sense the turmoil beneath the surface. He reached out almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing lightly against her arm, a touch fleeting but grounding. Then he turned away, his cloak snapping as he strode down the hall once more, his guards falling into step behind him with the crisp precision of trained soldiers.

Merilyn followed silently, each step heavier than the last, the echo of his words and the fragile thread of his trust twisting together inside her like a blade pressed against her ribs, cutting deep in a place no magic could heal.

The physician’s chamber was cloaked in dim light, the glow of a single lamp flickering against the gloom and leaving the corners steeped in shadow. Dried herbs dangled in uneven bundles from the rafters, their outlines shifting with the slightest draft and casting long, crooked silhouettes that crawled across the walls like restless fingers. The air was thick with the familiar tang of roots, dried flowers, and old parchment, a scent that usually steadied her nerves, yet tonight even that constancy could not anchor Merilyn. She stood rigid at the edge of the worktable, her body wound tight as a bowstring, her fingers curled around the scarred wood until her knuckles stood pale against her skin. When the words burst from her lips, they carried the weight of a truth she could no longer smother, tumbling out with an urgency that betrayed how deeply they had festered within her.

“Morgana stole the crystal.”

Gaius’s head lifted sharply, his gaze snapping toward her with the swiftness of a man unaccustomed to hearing such dangerous declarations spoken aloud. His brows knit into a deep furrow as his sharp eyes fixed on her face. “Morgana?” he repeated, the disbelief in his voice striking like a hammer against stone. The name hung heavy in the air, daring her to take it back.

“I’m certain of it,” Merilyn pressed quickly, the roughened timbre of her disguise betraying her urgency. “I caught her in Arthur’s chambers. She must have taken his keys.” The words trembled but did not falter, every syllable laced with the conviction of what she had seen, what she could not forget.

The physician’s frown deepened, lines etching more firmly into his worn face as he leaned back in his chair, searching her with a gaze that seemed to peel away the layers of her resolve. “Can you prove any of this?” His question landed heavily, not curious but accusatory, as though the absence of proof were already its own condemnation.

“Not exactly, but—”

“Merlin.” His voice was sharp enough to cut, his tone firm and unyielding, silencing her before she could dig the hole deeper.

Merilyn’s chest constricted beneath the weight of his disapproval. Her heart thudded painfully, and yet she could not retreat now, not when the truth pressed so violently at her ribs. “She did it,” she insisted, her voice breaking with the strength of her conviction. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“Then that is exactly what you would be doing,” Gaius replied grimly, his voice carrying the solemn weight of a man who had seen too many rash choices end in ruin. “Accusing the King’s ward without proof will cost you your life.”

The fight drained from her shoulders as though the words themselves had pulled the strength from her body. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to swallow the protest that clawed at her throat, and dropped her gaze to the table. At last she gave the smallest nod, the gesture heavy with defeat. “I know. You’re right.”

The chamber fell into silence, the only sound the faint hiss of the lamp’s flame as it fought against the weight of the dark. Gaius rubbed a weary hand over his face, his expression folding into lines of exasperation and concern, the look of a man torn between loyalty to the king and compassion for the reckless child before him. His voice, when it came again, was quieter, tinged with bewilderment. “It doesn’t make sense,” he murmured. “Why would Morgana steal such a thing?”

“Uther said it was an instrument of magic,” Merilyn replied, her voice dulled into resignation, as though repeating the words aloud only deepened the dread pressing down on her chest.

“There are many legends about the crystal,” Gaius murmured, his eyes growing distant, clouded with the weight of memory. He seemed to be reaching into the shadows of his own mind, pulling at half-forgotten tales and fragments of lore whispered in the age before Camelot was ever conceived.

Her heart pounded harder, each beat reverberating through her chest like the toll of a funeral bell. “Is it some kind of weapon?” she asked, the words sour on her tongue, the weight of the thought suffocating her until her lungs strained for air.

“That I don’t know.” His gaze flicked back to her, steady but cautious, every word deliberate as though spoken too quickly they might conjure something they could not contain. “But I have heard of it. The sorcerers of the past believed it held the secret of time itself.”

Merilyn’s blood ran cold. She straightened, her body tightening as though a hand had clamped around her spine. The chamber suddenly seemed to shrink around her, its walls pressing closer, the lamplight dimming into a feeble glow that only sharpened the shadows. “What does that mean?” she whispered, her voice raw, her throat rasping as though the very air resisted her.

“I’m not sure,” Gaius admitted, and the sag of his shoulders carried more weight than any words. He shook his head slowly, the faint gleam of lamplight catching the curve of his spectacles, and in his eyes there was not only knowledge but unease, the resignation of a man who had lived long enough to understand the dangers of mysteries best left buried. “It is an artifact of the Old Religion, and its true purpose has been lost to most. There is only one who could tell you more.”

Merilyn’s pulse quickened, her stomach twisting violently as the name unspoken rose in her mind before he could say it. She already knew. She had always known. The thought of descending into that pit again, of facing the creature chained beneath Camelot, filled her with a dread as heavy as iron. Her skin prickled with cold even as her body burned with the knowledge of what she had to do.

The cavern beneath Camelot reeked of heat and ash, the air thick with the acrid tang of scorched stone and the faint, suffocating trace of smoke that never truly dissipated. The rough walls trembled faintly with every slow shift of massive wings in the dark, vibrations running through the ground until they thrummed in her bones. Merilyn stood just beyond the iron gate, torchlight spilling over the stone and casting her shadow long and distorted, stretching across the rock until it looked like something other than human. Her heart pounded so fiercely it seemed to fill the cavern, drowning out even the scrape of claw on stone, but she lifted her chin with determination. She forced herself not to flinch as the great head lowered into view, eyes like molten gold blazing from the darkness and pinning her with a gaze that stripped away every disguise, every pretense, until she stood bared before him.

“I need your help,” she said, her voice carrying across the cavern with the solemnity of a vow, echoing back from the high walls as though spoken in some vast and ancient cathedral.

Kilgharrah’s laugh rumbled low and deep in his chest, rolling through the chamber like an avalanche tumbling down a mountain’s face, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. “I am sure you do, child of magic. But first you must honor your promise.”

Her jaw clenched and her grip on the torch tightened until the wood groaned beneath her fingers, the heat of the flame licking uncomfortably close to her knuckles. “I said I would set you free,” she retorted, her voice striking like iron beneath the fear that coiled and twisted in her gut. “And I will.”

“When?” The single word cracked from the dragon like a lash of fire, sharp and merciless, reverberating through the cavern until it pressed against her ears and rattled in her bones.

“When I know Camelot is safe,” she answered, the words driven out of her chest like a blade thrust through stone. She forced herself a step closer to the iron bars, the torchlight catching on her determined features, her gaze locking against the molten fire of his eyes. She refused to yield. “Will you please trust me?”

“Why should I?” The cavern vibrated with the weight of his disdain, smoke curling from his jaws with every syllable.

“Because,” she said, lifting her chin higher, steadying her voice with a defiance that surprised even herself, “you don’t have a choice.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady rush of the dragon’s breath, the furnace of his lungs exhaling heat into the cavern’s dark belly. The air shimmered faintly with the intensity of it, carrying the acrid scent of sulfur and scorched rock. At last, his massive head inclined, the movement slow and deliberate, smoke spiraling upward in thick coils from his nostrils before dissolving into the shadows above. His voice dropped to a rumble that shook the ground beneath her feet. “What is it that you wish to know?”

“The Crystal of Neahtid,” she said, the name tasting heavy on her tongue. “What is it?”

The dragon’s nostrils flared wider, releasing another plume of smoke that slithered upward and spread across the ceiling like a dark shroud. “To those who know how to wield it, the crystal holds great knowledge.”

Her grip tightened around the torch shaft, the flames trembling as her hand shook. “What kind of knowledge?”

“The knowledge of what is, what has been, and what is yet to come.” His voice reverberated like rolling thunder, and the sound of it filled every hollow in the rock.

Her breath caught, sharp and uneven, her chest rising and falling as if she had been struck. “You mean—it can show the future?”

“Amongst other things, yes.”

Her throat worked as she forced the admission past lips gone dry, the words tasting like dust. “The crystal has been stolen.”

Kilgharrah’s great eyes narrowed, the molten glow within them intensifying until they burned like a forge stoked into fury. “By who?”

“The Lady Morgana.”

The dragon’s laugh cracked through the cavern, cruel and echoing, the sound bouncing from the walls until it seemed a chorus of derision. “That witch does not have the power to wield the crystal.”

Merilyn’s stomach knotted painfully, dread rising like bile. “Does the druid boy?”

“Mordred?” The dragon’s eyes flared hotter still, like coals stirred violently into flame. “It is possible. Why do you ask?”

Her voice scraped raw as she forced the confession into the air. “I believe they’re involved in this together.”

The dragon’s tail scraped against the rock with a hiss, the sound reverberating through the cavern, sending vibrations crawling up her legs. His voice was sharper now, a roar contained in measured tones. “Once before I warned you of the druid boy. It is his destiny to bring about Arthur’s doom! It may be that time is upon you.”

Her chest seized, the ache spreading like fire beneath her ribs, burning hot enough to rob her of breath. “What do you mean?”

“The ancient prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana united in evil.” The dragon’s words rolled like thunder, filling the cavern, oppressive in their inevitability. “This union must be stopped, whatever the cost.”

The words landed upon her like chains, heavy and unrelenting, binding themselves around her heart until she could scarcely move. Though the torch still burned in her hand, heat licking her skin, she felt only cold sinking through her bones.

The weight of his decree pressed into her chest until her knees threatened to give. Whatever the cost. The phrase echoed inside her skull, hollow and merciless, unraveling every thread of resolve she had tried to weave around herself. Slowly, as though her body no longer obeyed her will, she lowered her gaze. A trembling hand rose to press against her chest, as though she might still the throb of the bond that pulsed faintly there, the echo of a voice that had never truly left her. Her son’s voice. The tether between them quivered still, alive and insistent.

How could she destroy him? How could she destroy them both?

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

The physician’s chamber smelled of crushed herbs and damp stone, a mixture that usually brought Merilyn a sense of quiet familiarity, but tonight it did little to ease the storm tangled tight in her chest. The air was close, heavy with the faint sweetness of dried lavender hanging from the rafters and the sharper tang of roots ground into dust on the workbench. She perched on the edge of the wooden stool, her elbows braced against her knees, fingers twisting together restlessly as though motion alone might keep her from unraveling. Across from her, Gaius moved with the steady precision of a man who had lived too long in Uther’s shadow, measuring dried roots into a mortar. His hands did not falter, yet his eyes betrayed the weight of the conversation lingering between them.

“Alvarr has a fearsome reputation,” he said at last, the words breaking the hush of the chamber with a tone heavy with disapproval.

Merilyn’s head lifted sharply, her voice low but edged with urgency. “You know of him?”

Gaius gave a grave nod, his expression set in grim lines that deepened the furrows on his brow. “I know he’s a sorcerer, and that he and his band of renegades have threatened to overthrow the King more than once.” His hand pressed harder against the pestle, grinding the brittle herbs to powder, the rhythmic scrape loud in the silence. “He thrives on chaos,” he continued, his voice flat, each word weighted with certainty. “It is his weapon as much as any spell.”

A twist of unease pulled tight in Merilyn’s stomach, coiling like rope around her ribs. “He sounded pretty determined,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost reluctant, as her mind replayed the steel in Alvarr’s tone and the way his confidence had wrapped around every word like armor.

“He’s a fanatic,” Gaius said firmly, his mouth hardening into a thin line. “And his supporters follow him unthinkingly, blinded by his charisma.”

A humorless laugh slipped from Merilyn’s lips before she could stop it, brittle as broken glass. “Well, it worked on Morgana.”

“So it would seem,” he answered, and though his tone carried no anger toward her, there was sorrow beneath the words, a weary kind of reproach that seemed aimed at fate itself.

Her chest tightened, the ache sharper now. And Mordred, she thought, though the name was bitter ash on her tongue, something she could not bear to release into the air. Instead, she forced her voice steady. “And the druid boy. Alvarr’s using him too. He seems to think the boy can harness the power of the Crystal.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding, the silence that followed more damning than any answer. The admission carried more than speculation—it carried truth she dared not speak aloud. Mordred’s power was real, boundless, raw. The Crystal might answer him because of the blood that tied them together, because the Old Religion would recognize him in ways no one else could.

Gaius’s gaze lifted, sharp now, urgent, his eyes locking onto hers. “We can’t let this happen, Merlin.”

Her throat constricted, her breath catching as though the walls themselves had closed in around her. “But if we can’t go to Uther, what can we do?”

The physician set the pestle down with deliberate care, his movements steady, but there was an intensity in the way his fingers lingered against the stone as if grounding himself in its cool weight. He leaned forward over the workbench, the lamplight carving deep shadows into the lines of his face and catching in his eyes until they gleamed with the cautious fire of hard-won experience. His voice dropped low, quiet but deliberate, every word carrying the measured tone of a man who had survived far too long under a tyrant’s rule to waste breath on recklessness. “We can bend the truth a little.”

Merilyn’s breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering against her ribs as the meaning settled into her bones. She knew precisely what he intended. Not lies spoken outright, but misdirection carefully shaped. Half-truths, fragments of fact twisted just enough to nudge Arthur toward action without ever drawing Uther’s suspicion—or Morgana’s sharp, watchful gaze. It was survival dressed in subtlety, a skill Gaius had honed over decades in a court where truth alone could be fatal.

And yet, even as she nodded faintly in understanding, unease crawled across her skin like nettles. Bending the truth was something she herself had become far too skilled at, her life entangled in illusions, masks, and secrets. Each time she wielded deception, the weight of it pressed heavier upon her soul, and now it threatened to crush her beneath the enormity of what she carried.

The council chamber was colder than it had any right to be, the draft of stone and high arches swallowing the warmth of the fire roaring in its grate. The great table dominated the center of the room like an altar, its polished surface glinting dully in the torchlight, while faded tapestries hung heavy along the walls, their embroidered figures of long-dead kings staring down with silent judgment. Uther stood at the head, his presence as immovable as the carved throne-like chair looming behind him, his face set into lines of iron.

Gaius waited several paces away, his hands folded neatly before him, the picture of calm obedience. Merilyn kept to the shadows near the far wall, the guise of Merlin wrapping around her like armor, a mask of servitude that was safer than the truth. Beneath it her heart drummed wildly, every beat a reminder of the secrets she held pressed against her ribs.

“You know the whereabouts of the Crystal?” Uther’s voice cut across the chamber, heavy with command. Each syllable echoed against the stone, carrying the weight of law.

Gaius inclined his head, his posture deferential, his tone measured. “I believe so, Sire.”

“I see.” Uther’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion sharp and searching. “And how did you come by this information?”

The physician did not falter. His tone remained steady, his face impassive, though every word was chosen with care. “In my capacity as physician, I have dealings with many people. They hear things, Sire, and they see things. Last night I was confronted by one such man, who told me the Crystal had been stolen by a band of renegades led by a man called Alvarr.”

Merilyn’s stomach knotted so tightly she thought she might be sick. The lie slid smoothly from Gaius’s lips, spoken with the ease of a man who had spent his life weaving half-truths to protect others, but to her it rang like a bell. She lowered her gaze quickly, hiding the flicker of guilt in her eyes, but inside her chest her heart thundered. She carried a silence far heavier than Gaius’s words—Morgana’s face in the lamplight, Mordred’s voice still echoing in her head, the bond between them throbbing with a constant ache she could not name aloud.

Uther’s gaze sharpened, his tone turning cold. “Who exactly was this informant?”

“I think it would only be fair to protect their identity, Sire,” Gaius replied, his voice calm and even, unshaken by the full weight of the king’s scrutiny. His tone was measured, each word spoken with the practiced restraint of a man who had survived decades beneath Uther’s rule. “If news of the betrayal were to reach the renegades, it could indeed endanger their life.”

The chamber stilled. A pause stretched through the space, drawn taut as a bowstring, and in that silence even the smallest sound seemed amplified—the faint snap of firewood splitting in the hearth, the low hiss of the flames licking at charred logs. At last Uther gave a single, curt nod, his jaw tightening as he ground his teeth together. “Very well.”

Arthur, who had held his tongue until now, stepped forward from his father’s side, his posture straight and his expression carved from resolve. His voice rang clear across the stone chamber, carrying both determination and a restrained impatience, the weight of his oath to Camelot evident in every syllable. “Where is this Alvarr hiding?”

“He was last seen in the Valley of Chemary, Sire,” Gaius answered smoothly, his tone betraying nothing of the deception laced through the words.

Uther straightened, his eyes burning with grim purpose. “Summon the guards, Arthur. I want this matter investigated without delay.”

Arthur dipped his chin in acknowledgment, his reply sharp and steady. “Yes, Father.” He pivoted at once, his boots striking against the flagstones in crisp rhythm as he strode from the chamber, already carrying the weight of command in the set of his shoulders and the sweep of his cloak behind him.

The silence that followed pressed thickly against Merilyn’s ears until she could hear nothing but the rush of her own blood, her pulse a drumbeat that echoed too loud in her chest.

“Thank you, Gaius,” Uther said at last, his voice edged with rare warmth, an uncommon softness threading through his usually iron tone. “Once again, I am in your debt.”

Gaius bowed his head in acknowledgment, his posture humble, though Merilyn caught the flicker of shadow in his eyes—the quiet unease of a man who knew too well that this debt had been bought with lies.

Merilyn kept her own head bowed, her disguise unbroken, her face hidden in the shadows at the edge of the chamber. But inside, her thoughts churned, restless and raw. She saw again Morgana’s smile as she had slipped past with Arthur’s keys hidden in her skirts, felt the phantom echo of Mordred’s voice thrumming through her skull like a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. And behind both came the Dragon’s warning, cold and merciless, ringing in her memory with the weight of prophecy: whatever the cost.

The forest was a world apart from the suffocating chamber, yet no less tense. It lay quiet save for the steady crunch of hooves against the damp earth and the occasional rasp of leather creaking under armor. Above, the canopy formed a green vault, sunlight piercing through in broken shafts that spilled across the narrow path and dappled Arthur’s crimson cloak with shifting patches of gold. He rode ahead with easy confidence, his back straight, his presence commanding even in the stillness of the trees. When he spoke, his tone carried a sharp edge, but beneath it was the warmth of familiarity, the playful jab of a man trying to cut through tension with practiced ease.

“I don’t know why I bring you on these expeditions,” he said, glancing back at her with the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You spend the whole time terrified.”

Merilyn rolled her eyes and tightened her grip on the reins, though the twitch of her lips betrayed the truth she would not admit aloud. “I’m not terrified.”

“Yes, you are. I can tell you are.”

“No, you can’t.”

Arthur gave a short, amused snort, unrelenting in his teasing. “If you weren’t scared, you’d be talking rubbish as usual.”

“Well, I am talking rubbish as usual,” she shot back, stumbling over the words, her disguise’s voice catching awkwardly in her throat. “I mean—I am talking as usual, so clearly I’m not scared.”

Arthur’s smirk deepened, the faint gleam of mischief sparking in his eyes before he turned his attention forward again. The exchange lingered in the air like a flicker of warmth against the tension pressing on them, but the laughter that rose in Merilyn’s chest never reached her heart. The banter was only a shield, flimsy and fleeting. Beneath it her thoughts churned like storm clouds, heavy with the weight of secrets and prophecy, pressing down with every step her horse took along the narrow path.

The moment of ease dissolved as the road forked ahead, the path splitting sharply into two. One track wound into a dense sprawl of pine where the shadows fell thick as velvet, while the other faded into a darker tangle of underbrush that swallowed the light whole. Arthur reined in his horse and studied both options with the discerning eye of a soldier, his hand steady on the hilt of his sword even in stillness.

“Where now?” he asked, his voice clipped, his gaze flicking to her with expectation.

Merilyn swallowed hard. “No idea.”

Arthur shot her a look that balanced neatly between disbelief and irritation. “I thought you said Gaius gave you directions.”

“He did. He—er—he just didn’t tell me about this part.” She dismounted quickly, her boots sinking into the soft loam, the pretense of purposeful motion hiding the panic already coiling in her gut.

Because the voice was there again.

They’re coming!

She froze mid-step, the air catching painfully in her throat. Mordred’s voice struck through her skull like a bell tolling from inside her bones, sharp and unyielding.

Arthur’s voice carried dimly behind her, muffled as if he were speaking through water. “Merlin, this is your fault! …we wouldn’t be here in the first place!”

Warn the others.

Her hand shot out to the nearest tree, fingers digging into the bark as though the rough texture might anchor her, steady her against the storm rising within.

…the Crystal. Warn the others!

Arthur’s irritation sharpened, his words cutting closer now. “Merlin, I am talking to you!”

She squeezed her eyes shut, the voice pressing harder, filling her head with desperate urgency until it nearly drowned out her own thoughts.

They’re coming! Hurry!

Arthur dismounted with a thud, his boots crunching over the carpet of pine needles as he stalked toward her. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Merilyn turned slowly, dragging air into her lungs, her disguise fraying under the strain. Her eyes were wide, fever-bright, and when she spoke her voice came out low and taut, strangled by the weight of the bond pulling at her. “The renegade camp…”

Mordred’s call surged again, thrumming through her like a heartbeat that was not her own, so violent it made her chest stumble as if her heart had skipped.

The Crystal. Warn the others! They’re coming.

Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself upright. She staggered, lifting her arm with effort, pointing into the tangle of trees. “It’s that way.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, suspicion sharpening the blue steel of his gaze. “And you know this because…?”

Her lips parted, the truth clawing at her throat, demanding to be spoken. Because he told me. Because he is mine. But she forced it back down, locking it behind clenched teeth before it could escape.

“I know it because…” She faltered, her mind scrambling for something—anything—that could pass for reason. “…because of—”

She cut herself off, not giving Arthur the chance to press further. In a sudden rush she swung back into the saddle, her cloak whipping around her as she drove her heels hard into her horse’s flanks. The animal lunged forward, hooves tearing at the earth, sending clumps of dirt and pine needles flying. Branches clawed at her arms and tangled in her cloak as she plunged into the undergrowth, the desperate urgency of Mordred’s summons pounding through her veins like fire.

Behind her came Arthur’s sharp shout of protest, his voice ringing with command. A heartbeat later the thunder of hooves erupted, his knights spurring their horses into pursuit, the forest alive with the sound of their charge.

The forest closed in tight around them, the canopy above knitting so thickly that the light barely filtered through, casting the ground in a dim green gloom. Shadows pressed against the path, shifting with every movement of the branches as though the trees themselves leaned closer to listen. Merilyn’s every sense was sharpened to a painful edge, the invisible tether tugging her forward until her heart raced to match its pull. Mordred’s voice echoed inside her skull, closer now, no longer a whisper but a desperate command, urgent and frantic. They’re coming. Hurry!

She broke through a dense screen of pine, branches clawing at her cloak, and stumbled into a clearing. The air hit her like a blow, sharp with the acrid tang of smoke, fresh enough to sting her nostrils. The ground bore the signs of recent occupation: trampled earth, discarded scraps, the faint ember glow of a smoldering campfire. Arthur reined in beside her, his horse skidding slightly on the damp soil, his blue eyes narrowing as they swept the scene. Without hesitation, he thrust his sword into the ground and crouched low, his gauntlet brushing through the ash. He rubbed it between his fingers, testing its heat, his expression hardening.

“Well,” he muttered, voice taut, “whoever was here, they’re not here anymore.”

Merilyn slid down from her saddle, her boots hitting the ground with a thud that jarred through her bones. Her skin prickled with unease, because the tether still thrummed within her, alive and insistent, pulling like a heartbeat against her ribs. Her throat worked as she swallowed, the truth scraping raw. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steadier than she felt. “They are.”

The words had scarcely left her mouth when the air split with the vicious hiss of arrows. Two of Camelot’s knights gave startled cries, their bodies jerking as shafts pierced their armor. They fell hard, lifeless before the others had even drawn breath.

“Take cover!” Arthur’s roar rang through the clearing, his voice carrying the weight of command.

The woods erupted into chaos. Renegades burst from the tree line with wild cries, their blades flashing as they surged forward. The clash of steel against steel broke like thunder, men shouting, horses screaming in panic as the camp dissolved into a storm of fury and blood. The air was thick with the smell of iron and smoke, the sound of battle filling every corner of the clearing.

Merilyn darted through the melee, her cloak snapping behind her as she ducked beneath a swinging blade that whistled dangerously close to her head. She weaved between bodies, her eyes searching, not for Alvarr, not for Arthur—but for the one who haunted her every breath.

“Mordred!” Her voice tore from her throat, but it was swallowed by the din of battle.

There—at the edge of the fray. She saw him slip between two men, small and swift, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his arms wrapped tight around the Crystal pressed against his chest. Alvarr was at his side, his voice sharp and urgent, urging the boy toward the safety of the trees. Run, Mordred!

Panic surged like fire in Merilyn’s chest. She could not let him escape—not with the Crystal, not with Arthur’s life balanced so precariously on its fate. But every nerve screamed against the thought of stopping him. He was her son.

Her hand shot up of its own accord, magic spilling hot and fast from her fingertips. A branch above groaned and twisted violently, snapping down with brutal force to sweep the boy’s feet from beneath him. He hit the ground hard, rolling, the Crystal nearly torn from his grasp as it skidded across the dirt before his fingers clawed it back.

Two of Arthur’s soldiers surged toward him, their blades raised high, their armor glinting as they prepared to strike.

Mordred’s eyes flared wide, filled with a terror that curdled instantly into rage. He thrust out his hands, and the air cracked with the sound of power unleashed. Spears tore from the ground as if ripped by invisible hands, whistling through the air before striking the soldiers clean through. Their cries ended in silence, their bodies collapsing lifelessly before they even touched the earth.

Merilyn stood frozen, horror rooting her to the spot as if her very bones had turned to stone. Her breath came shallow and unsteady, every nerve in her body locked in place while the world unraveled around her.

Mordred scrambled to his feet, his small chest heaving, his frame trembling with exertion and fury. Sweat plastered his dark hair across his forehead, his fists still trembling with the echo of unleashed magic. Slowly, as though compelled by the invisible thread between them, his head turned. His gaze sought hers across the storm of chaos, and when his eyes found her, the noise of the battlefield receded into silence. The clash of steel, the cries of men, the neighing of terrified horses—all of it dulled to a distant roar, muffled and meaningless. In that heartbeat, only the tether remained, stretched taut and thrumming, so strong she thought her heart might tear from her chest.

His lips did not move, but the voice cleaved through her mind with merciless clarity, colder than forged steel, slicing through every fragile defense she had built. I shall never forgive you… mother. And I shall never forget.

The final word struck like a blade plunged straight into her heart. Her breath faltered, stuttering into sharp, ragged gasps as if she had been stabbed. The ground tilted beneath her feet, and she staggered back, one hand pressed hard against her chest, as though sheer force might hold the wound closed, might still the ache that spread like wildfire through her ribs.

And then he turned.

“No!” The cry ripped from her throat, raw and desperate, but it was swallowed at once by the storm of the battle. Her voice vanished into the din of clashing swords and shouting men, and Mordred was already running, his small figure darting into the dark embrace of the trees. In the space of a breath, he was gone, swallowed whole by the shadowed mouth of the forest.

The fight raged on, but she felt hollow, her body moving as if through water, every motion slowed by the weight of grief. Her limbs answered on instinct alone—ducking, weaving, striking when she must—but her soul remained back in the clearing where his voice had pierced her.

Alvarr was the last to stand. His fury burned unchecked, blazing in his dark eyes even as his men lay broken around him. He swung his blade with wild defiance, but Arthur pressed forward with relentless precision, his every movement sharp and disciplined, a silver arc of steel cutting through the shadows. With a final clash, Arthur knocked the weapon clean from Alvarr’s grasp. The blade skittered across the ground, ringing once before it fell silent.

“Give me the Crystal.” Arthur’s voice cut through the clamor like iron, steady and commanding.

Alvarr’s chest heaved, his breath ragged, sweat and blood streaking his face. “Why should you care?” he spat, hatred dripping from every word.

Arthur gave a sharp nod, and two of his guards seized the renegade leader, forcing him down onto his knees. Alvarr struggled, but their grip held firm, steel gauntlets pinning him in place.

“You’re a fool,” Alvarr hissed, his defiance burning even as he strained against their hold. “How many lives have been lost this day? And for what? For nothing!”

Arthur ignored him, his expression cold, his focus unwavering. His hands moved swiftly over the man’s tunic, searching with the practiced efficiency of a soldier. His fingers closed around a pouch at Alvarr’s belt, and with a single, decisive motion, he drew it free.

The Crystal glimmered inside. Even through the worn leather, its light bled out, a shard of blue that pulsed with its own heartbeat, alive with a rhythm not of this world.

Alvarr sneered, his voice cracking with contempt. “You cannot wield the Crystal. You do not have the power. None of you do!”

Arthur said nothing. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable as he turned away, the gleaming relic now clutched firmly in his hand.

Merilyn’s breath caught. Her gaze locked onto the Crystal, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The glow of it called to her, sharp and unrelenting, tugging at something deep within her chest. It was a hook sunk beneath her skin, dragging her closer even as she fought against it. The blue light whispered at the edges of her mind, its promises brushing against her thoughts—knowledge of what had been, what was, and the future she dreaded most.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

The night pressed heavy around the camp, the forest alive with the restless murmur of insects and the mournful cry of an owl echoing through the trees. Smoke from the dying fire drifted upward into the canopy, curling in ghostly ribbons that carried the sharp tang of pine and damp ash. Merilyn sat hunched close to the flames, her posture bent and weary, one hand cradling her head while the other listlessly fed thin sticks into the embers. Every muscle in her body throbbed with fatigue, yet it was not her limbs that ached most—it was her chest, burning as though Mordred’s voice had been carved into her bones, the echo of it still reverberating through her with every breath.

Arthur emerged from the shadows where he had been making his final round of the perimeter. His boots sank softly into the damp earth, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Without a word, he dropped onto the ground beside the fire, his armor creaking faintly as he lowered himself and lay back with a weary sigh. For a time, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the brittle crackle of the fire as the last flames dwindled into glowing coals.

“Merlin,” Arthur said at last, his voice edged with fatigue though still carrying the firmness of command. “Check the horses are fed and watered.”

Merilyn blinked, dragging her thoughts back from the fog in her head. “Sorry,” she murmured, the word slipping out before she could think better of it.

Arthur turned his head, one brow arching in mild reproach. “Not the right answer.”

She frowned faintly. “What?”

“Something on your mind, is there?” he asked, his tone gentler now, though his eyes still studied her with keen awareness.

Merilyn hesitated, her throat tight with words she should not speak. At last, they spilled free before she could stop them. “It’s just… when we entered the camp… it was a trap, wasn’t it? They knew we were coming.”

Arthur shrugged, unconcerned. “Yeah, so?”

Her voice sharpened despite herself. “How did they know?” The weight of her silence pressed in harder—because Mordred warned them, because he is mine.

Arthur smirked faintly, dismissing her unease as he let his eyes fall shut. “Well, they’re sorcerers, aren’t they? Probably used magic or something. Now—” He shifted, reaching down to his belt and pulling something free. “I need you to guard this with your life.”

He held out the Crystal, its sharp glow hidden beneath a dark cloth bag.

Merilyn recoiled instinctively. “Why me?”

“I can hardly guard it when I’m asleep, can I?” he countered, already sounding half done with the conversation.

“Neither can I,” she muttered under her breath.

Arthur cracked one eye open, his mouth quirking in faint amusement. “Who said anything about you sleeping?”

He tossed the bag lightly toward her. She caught it on reflex, but the instant her fingers closed around it, heat seared through the fabric. She fumbled with a sharp gasp, the bundle slipping from her hands to land with a dull thud against the earth. The faint clink of the crystal inside seemed louder than it should, vibrating through her chest like a pulse.

Arthur gave a soft laugh, already rolling onto his side to face away from her. Within minutes, his breathing evened, the steady rhythm of a man too exhausted to cling to worry.

Merilyn sat frozen, staring at the bundle where it lay against the dark earth. The fire collapsed further into itself, glowing coals spreading their dim light across her features. Shadows stretched long and restless around her, the forest thickening into deeper blackness as the night pressed closer.

At last, unable to resist the pull gnawing at her, she reached for the cloth. Her fingers trembled as she drew the crystal free.

Light flared instantly, sharp and cold, flooding across her face with such brilliance that her breath caught. It pulled at her, dragging her gaze deeper and deeper until looking away felt impossible. The surface rippled like water, then split wide open into visions that seized her whole being.

The Great Dragon, wings stretched wide, blotting out the sky. Fire spilling from his jaws, devouring the streets of Camelot. Stone towers crumbling into dust, the air split by screams. Her own figure stood amid the ruin, flames clawing up her cloak, her hands raised in helpless despair. Arthur was there too—his face vanishing into the inferno, swallowed by shadow and fire. She saw herself crying into the smoke, her voice breaking, powerless to stop the destruction that consumed everything she loved.

The vision shattered, leaving her gasping in its wake. The Crystal slipped from her hands and struck the earth with a muted thud, its glow momentarily dimming. She clutched her head in both hands, choking back a sob as her lungs burned with phantom heat, the scorch of dragonfire lingering as though it had seared her from the inside out.

The council chamber was suffocating beneath the weight of torchlight, the flames throwing long shadows that writhed along the stone walls. Smoke curled upward in sluggish tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling, where it hung like a haze, dimming the air with its acrid tang. The gathered court formed a half-circle around the center of the room—nobles wrapped in velvet and chain, their jeweled fingers twitching with unease, guards standing rigid along the walls, faces impassive, halberds gleaming in the firelight. At the chamber’s heart knelt Alvarr, his wrists bound in heavy chains. Bruises marred his face, but pride straightened his spine, and his eyes gleamed with defiance, burning hotter for every mark Uther had laid upon him.

Above him loomed Uther Pendragon, broad and imposing in his crimson cloak, his presence heavy as the crown that sat upon his brow. His voice rang through the chamber with the sharp edge of steel, each word deliberate, each syllable carrying the authority of a man who had ruled by fear and law for decades. “So, you admit to stealing the Crystal of Neahtid?”

Alvarr lifted his chin, his voice strong, unbroken. “I do.”

“You admit to plotting against your king?”

“I do.”

“And you acted alone? You were not aided or abetted by any citizen of Camelot?”

Alvarr’s jaw tightened, but his reply came swift and unwavering. “I acted alone.”

The words echoed in the chamber, but to Merilyn they rang hollow. She felt the lie reverberate like a discordant note, the truth twisting beneath the surface. Her mind replayed the sight of Morgana’s fingers closing around Arthur’s stolen keys, the phantom ache of Mordred’s voice still seared into her bones. But she stood silent, her mask unbroken, the guise of Merlin steady as stone. Beneath her sleeves, her nails bit crescents into her palms, each sting a reminder of all she dared not speak.

Uther’s verdict came swift, merciless, and absolute. “Then I find you guilty of treason. You are an enemy of Camelot, Alvarr. You are sentenced to death.”

Alvarr’s lips curved, his half-smile defiant, his voice rising with pride. “Then I die with honor. To be an enemy of Camelot is no crime.”

Uther’s eyes narrowed, hard as hammered iron. “Take him away.”

The guards moved to seize him, but Alvarr twisted at the last, his words flung across the chamber like daggers. “You, Uther—you are the criminal!”

The insult hung in the air, sharp and echoing. A murmur rippled through the assembled court, nobles shifting in their seats, whispers stirring like dry leaves on the wind. Uther’s jaw clenched, his shoulders stiffening, but he did not answer, choosing silence over the fuel of further words.

One by one the nobles filed out, their velvet hems brushing across the flagstones, their murmurs swelling and fading as the chamber emptied. Guards escorted the last of them away, and soon the vast room was left in dim stillness, the echo of footsteps vanishing down the long corridor beyond the doors.

Morgana remained. She stood at the base of the dais, her chin lifted high, her eyes alight with a fire that Merilyn knew too well. Her presence filled the silence, defiant and unyielding. With a sharp flick of her hand, she dismissed the remaining guards. The men exchanged wary glances but obeyed, their armor clattering softly as they departed. The great doors swung shut behind them with a heavy thud that reverberated through the chamber, sealing the space in tense, oppressive quiet.

When Morgana spoke, her voice cracked like a whip, fierce and unflinching. “How many more must you kill before you’re satisfied?”

Uther’s glare turned upon her, his face darkening. “He was guilty. He confessed his crimes. You heard him as well as I.”

“His only crime was to defy you,” Morgana spat back, every word dripping venom.

Uther’s voice rose, his fury vibrating in the air. “Why are you defending this man? He was a sworn foe of Camelot. You know this.”

Morgana advanced a step, her gown sweeping against the stones with the weight of her fury, the silken fabric hissing as it dragged across the floor. Her eyes glistened, not with fear but with a wrath sharpened by sorrow, each word leaving her lips like venom drawn from a wound. “Is it any wonder he wanted you dead? You—who have persecuted his kind day after day, year after year?”

“I will hear no more of this, Morgana!” Uther thundered, his voice reverberating against the vaulted ceiling, the sound rolling through the chamber like a war drum.

But Morgana was past restraint, her composure shattered beyond repair. Her voice rose in a cry that echoed off the stone walls like a curse, every syllable brimming with fury. “Because you’re an arrogant fool! You are deaf and blind to the very needs of the people you profess to serve and protect! The people will tolerate it no longer!”

“I said enough!” Uther bellowed again, but this time his roar cracked at the edges, his strength fraying under the sheer force of her defiance.

“They are rising up against you!” Morgana’s voice trembled now, but not from fear—only from the raw intensity of her rage. “From this day forward, I do not know you. From this day forward, I disown you.”

The words landed with the force of a physical blow. For an instant Uther staggered as though struck, his face blanching, his jaw slackening, and in his eyes flashed the pain of a man watching the very foundations of his world crumble beneath him.

Morgana turned on her heel and swept toward the doors, her fury a storm that propelled her forward, every line of her body vibrating with defiance.

“You will go to your chambers!” Uther’s command cracked after her like thunder, desperate and raw, reverberating against the stone until it seemed to shake the very walls.

Morgana paused with her hand resting on the iron ring of the door. She turned back slowly, her face half-lit by the firelight, her eyes glinting like emerald shards, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper that struck sharper than any shout. “And you, Uther—you will go to hell.”

The doors slammed shut behind her, the sound booming through the chamber, its echo lingering like the toll of a death knell.

Merilyn stood rooted in place, her breath caught in her throat. She had seen Morgana’s temper before, but never like this—never with the mask so completely torn away. And worse still, she felt the Dragon’s prophecy press cold and unrelenting against her heart. Morgana and Mordred, united in evil. The words haunted her like chains.

The bells shattered the silence of the night, shrill and relentless, their clang echoing from the highest towers down to the narrowest lanes of the lower town. Merilyn jolted awake from her half-sleep, her heart already pounding, dragonfire and Mordred’s curse still tangled in her mind. By the time she reached the council chamber, the air was heavy with the acrid smell of hastily lit tallow, nobles gathered in tense clusters, their murmurs rising like uneasy waves.

Arthur stood at the chamber’s center, his armor still dusted with grit from the search, sweat dampening the edges of his hair. His face was grim, his voice clipped and precise, every word sharpened by frustration. “We’ve searched the citadel, the town, and every corner of Camelot.”

Uther gripped the back of his chair so tightly his knuckles whitened, his eyes blazing with fury. “But he’s gone?”

Arthur’s jaw flexed, his tone steady though edged with restraint. “Yes, Father.”

“How?” Uther’s voice cracked like a whip. “How has he escaped?”

Arthur drew a measured breath, though his expression was darkened with barely contained anger. “It appears that the guards were drugged.”

A ripple of shock moved through the chamber, nobles shifting uneasily, their whispers sparking like dry leaves catching fire.

Uther straightened, his face set into the hard lines of wrath. “That means he had help. Someone…” His gaze swept the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

The heavy doors opened at that moment, and Morgana entered. Her gown flowed dark around her ankles, her face pale but carefully composed, her chin lifted in quiet defiance.

Uther’s eyes locked on her like a hawk’s, his words biting the air with lethal precision. “…here in Camelot.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick enough to choke on.

Arthur shifted, the faintest crease forming between his brows as his gaze flicked from his father to his ward. “Afraid it looks that way,” he said carefully, his voice measured.

Uther’s fury rose, heavy and absolute. “Let this be understood: whoever has done this, they have betrayed me. They have betrayed the kingdom.” His gaze lingered on Morgana, unblinking, until she lifted her chin higher, the faintest glimmer of defiance sparking in her eyes. “If I ever discover who it was, they will rue the day they were born.”

Merilyn stood at the edge of the chamber, her pulse hammering painfully in her ears. The weight of the lie pressed down on her like stone, the knowledge that Morgana’s hands had freed Alvarr while her face remained perfectly serene before the king. And behind it all, she thought of Mordred once more—her son, her blood—already slipping further into shadow, drawn into the path the Dragon had foretold.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

The chamber was smothered in stillness, the kind that pressed in from every corner until even the faintest sound seemed too loud. Only the low crackle of cooling embers disturbed the silence, their soft glow washing the walls in a dull red that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Shadows clung stubbornly in the corners, layered thick as cobwebs, while the air carried the lingering tang of smoke and ash, a reminder of a fire not long past. On the narrow bed, Merilyn lay curled in on herself, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, but no cocoon of fabric could shield her from the cold ache buried deep in her chest. Sleep eluded her entirely, slipping further from reach each time her eyes closed. In the dark behind her lids, visions waited, cruel and unbidden—the searing brilliance of the Crystal, fire devouring Camelot’s streets, and worst of all, Mordred’s face twisted with hatred as the word mother tore through her mind like a curse meant to wound her forever.

She squeezed her eyes tighter, as if pressure alone could banish the images, forcing herself toward silence, toward nothingness, but peace would not come. Instead, another voice coiled up from the depths of her mind, darker and heavier than the visions, reverberating through her very bones with the weight of an ancient storm.

Merlin…

Her entire body went rigid, her breath catching painfully in her throat. The voice slid through her thoughts like molten metal poured into a fragile mold, scorching and suffocating, shaking the foundations of her resolve. Not now. Gods, not now. Please.

I am waiting, Merlin, the dragon’s voice intoned, smooth yet relentless, inexorable as the turning of the tide. You gave your word. Now set me free.

Her fingers curled tighter around the blanket, her knuckles stark white against the fabric, her body trembling under the strain of defiance. “No,” she whispered into the dark, the sound cracking as it left her lips. “Not yet. I can’t.”

Set me free, Merlin.

The command lashed sharper this time, threaded with the weight of centuries and the hunger of a creature that had endured too long in chains. Her head shook violently, hair sticking damp against her temple, as she dragged the pillow over her ears as though cotton and feathers could possibly smother the vastness of his will. “Leave me alone,” she hissed, her voice fierce but frayed with desperation, the edges of fear fraying every word.

The reprieve lasted no more than a heartbeat. Then the voice surged back, no longer smooth but blazing with fury, every syllable burning with fire.

MERLIN!!!

The roar split her mind apart, hammering through her skull with such force it felt as though stone itself had shattered inside her head. She cried out, her hands clapping over her ears as though flesh and bone could keep him out, as though she could hold back the tide of a dragon’s rage. Breath tore ragged from her lungs, and she rocked forward on the bed, doubled over, choking on the sheer weight of the sound that threatened to crush her into nothing.

The embers in the hearth flared suddenly, flinging shadows up the walls like grasping hands, jagged and alive. Heat seared the air, thick and suffocating, and still his presence pressed harder against her chest until it was difficult to breathe. Merilyn could not bear it any longer. Her chest heaved, her throat raw with unshed screams, her skull still ringing with the echo of his roar. With a strangled gasp, she tore the cloak from her shoulders and stumbled to her feet, the cold bite of stone shocking against her bare soles as she lurched toward the door. Her vision burned with tears she refused to let fall, her breath coming in broken gasps as though she had run a great distance, though it was only her fury that carried her. She flung the door wide and stepped into the corridor, driven by rage, grief, and the single need to face him.

She descended through the castle’s belly like a hunted thing, her bare feet slapping against cold stone, the torch clutched in her hand sputtering light that leapt across her face in uneven flashes. The winding stair narrowed around her, the walls damp with centuries of seeped water, yet the deeper she went, the hotter the air grew. With every step the heat pressed closer, smothering, until the air thickened with the stench of scorched rock and sulfur. It clung to her throat and lungs, burning her from the inside out, each breath drawn like a mouthful of smoke. The stone beneath her trembled faintly, a low, steady shiver that grew stronger the farther she descended, as though the very bones of the earth resented what lay chained within it.

The stair gave way at last to the vast cavern, its mouth gaping beyond the heavy iron gate that loomed before her like the barred doors of a tomb. She pushed it open with a groan of rusted hinges, the clang reverberating deep into the hollow space, and the darkness within seemed to shudder awake. The cavern stretched wide and endless, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls trembling faintly with the restless scrape of scale and claw. The sound rolled low, a whisper of menace woven into the cavern’s breath.

“Kilgharrah!” Her voice cracked across the cavern, carried on the echo until it seemed to come from every surface at once. She stormed through the gate, the torchlight flaring bright against the black, catching the golden gleam of eyes opening in the depths. The massive head rose from the shadows, scales burning faintly like banked coals, and those molten eyes fixed on her with a hunger that seemed to strip her bare. “Enough! You will stop this!”

The dragon’s laugh rolled out low and rumbling, the sound so immense it shook dust from the stone overhead and rattled loose pebbles across the cavern floor. “You dare command me, child of magic? You gave your word. I will not suffer your defiance.”

“You think I care about your suffering?” she shot back, striding closer with reckless fury, the torchlight painting harsh shadows across her features. Her voice cracked with the strain of anger and grief intermingled. “You roar into my mind, you tear my thoughts apart, and yet you said nothing—nothing—about Mordred being my son until it was already too late! You spoke of destiny, of doom, of the ruin to come, but not once did you give me the truth!”

The dragon’s gaze narrowed, molten eyes searing brighter, and his wings shifted with a sound like rolling thunder, stone grinding against stone. “The truth is a blade, Merlin,” he rumbled, each word weighted as though carved in iron. “It cuts as deeply as it saves. Had you known, you would have faltered in your path.”

“I faltered anyway!” Her voice rang sharp against the stone, breaking on its own fury. Her free hand lashed out at the empty air as though striking at the immensity of his words. “Do you think it easier now? To stand in battle and hear his voice clawing through my skull, calling me mother with nothing but hatred in his eyes? To know he is bound to Morgana, and you still expect me to destroy them both?” Her chest rose and fell with violent gasps, and for a moment her voice cracked under the weight of despair. “He is my blood, Kilgharrah. My child. And you kept that from me.”

The dragon lowered his head until the furnace of his breath rolled over her, a suffocating wave of heat that smelled of ash and smoke. Tendrils of vapor curled around her as if testing her strength. “Because the bond of blood blinds you. Because you cannot see what must be done.” His voice deepened, thunderous now, rising into a roar that shook the very ground. Pebbles rained from the ceiling, and the torch in her hand guttered wildly against the force of it. “The boy will be your undoing, and through him, Arthur’s! That is his fate, and Morgana’s too. Together they are destined to bring about Albion’s ruin. And you—whatever you feel—must be the hand that stops them.”

Merilyn’s torch trembled violently, the light stuttering across her face as her wide eyes shimmered with tears she could no longer hold back. Her fury blazed hot, but despair clawed through it, tearing rents in her resolve until she could barely keep her voice steady. “You ask me to kill my son,” she whispered, each word breaking against the weight of her grief. “You ask me to betray the only piece of myself I never knew I had. And for what? So Arthur can live? So you can finally be free?”

The dragon’s answer came like a mountain collapsing, final and immovable. “For destiny! For the world that must come, Merlin. One life weighed against all of Albion. You must choose.”

Her scream tore out of her throat, raw and ragged. “Don’t you dare speak to me of choice! You chained me with your prophecy the moment you held back the truth. You gave me no choice at all! And now I must deal with that betrayal.”

Her scream tore through the cavern, ragged and raw, and the sound of it echoed off the stone like a wounded animal’s cry. The torch in her hand shook violently, spitting sparks as though even the fire recoiled from her anguish. She stood trembling, her chest heaving, her voice breaking apart into shards of grief. “You speak to me of choice as though I ever had one. You bound me with prophecy, with secrets and silence, and now you tell me I must destroy the boy who carries my blood. My son. And you think the pain of that will not tear me in two?”

Kilgharrah’s eyes glowed brighter, his great head lowering, the weight of his gaze crushing as it fixed on her. “You are torn because you are blind. You think love can alter destiny. It cannot.”

Merilyn’s voice broke into a laugh, bitter and strangled. “Blind? You think I don’t see it? He hates me, Kilgharrah. My own son hates me. Do you know why? Because he feels me bound to Arthur. Because he feels the bond that ties me to Camelot’s prince when he thinks it should have been him, my loyalty, my love. In his eyes, I’ve chosen Arthur over him, and that choice damns me. Every time he looks at me, every time his voice burns in my head, I can feel it—that fury, that betrayal. He believes I abandoned him long before I ever knew he was mine.”

The dragon’s chest expanded with a deep, smoldering breath, smoke spilling out in slow ribbons that curled toward the ceiling. His voice came like thunder trapped in stone. “You are right. He will never forgive your love for Arthur. He sees it as weakness, as treachery, and it feeds the darkness in him. Morgana will use that wound, as she uses all wounds, and together they will destroy what you hold dear.”

Merilyn stumbled a step closer, torchlight painting the wet shine of tears on her cheeks, her voice rising to a scream. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me walk into this blind? You speak of destiny, of Albion’s ruin, but you hid the truth from me until it was too late to change it. You let me grow close to him without knowing what he was. You let me fall in love with Arthur when you knew that love would only make Mordred hate me more. You knew, and you said nothing!”

The cavern shook with the force of her cry, her words shattering against the walls, ringing back at her until her own voice felt like the roar of some trapped beast. Kilgharrah’s eyes did not soften, though the low rumble in his chest shifted from thunder to something more sorrowful, ancient and weary. “Because, child, had I told you, you would have tried to change it. And destiny does not bend. It breaks those who defy it.”

Her torch dipped, her arm trembling with exhaustion, and she let out a sob that scraped her throat raw. “Then let it break me. Let it break me, if that means my son can live.”

Her words cracked through the cavern, raw and unyielding, and for a long moment only silence answered her—silence heavy with the weight of stone and the slow, burning exhale of the dragon. The glow in Kilgharrah’s eyes dimmed to an ember’s gleam, but his gaze did not waver, and in that endless, unblinking stare she read not pity, not understanding, but inevitability.

Merilyn’s fingers tightened around the torch until her knuckles burned. Her voice dropped, ragged but steady with iron resolve. “You want freedom? You want me to loose you upon Camelot when you’ve filled my ears with nothing but half-truths and prophecy? No. I will not release you—not now, not ever. You can rot in these chains, Kilgharrah. Consider it your punishment for the lies you kept and the truths you twisted.”

The dragon’s head reared back, smoke curling from his nostrils in twin streams, the cavern trembling faintly with the force of his anger. “You would deny me what is owed?”

Her tears spilled freely now, but her chin lifted, her shoulders squaring despite the exhaustion threatening to collapse her. “I would deny you me. You will not see me again. Not in this cavern, not in my dreams, not in my heart. You will roar at stone, and you will burn yourself against silence. That is all you will have from me.”

Kilgharrah’s roar split the cavern, a sound so vast it seemed to shake the marrow of the world. His jaws parted, and from the depths of his throat rose a furnace glow that bathed the stone walls in molten gold. The air thickened, heat pressing against her skin until her eyes stung with it. Then the dragon exhaled.

The torrent of fire surged toward her, a wall of flame brighter than any sun, shrieking as it consumed the air. Merilyn’s heart jolted, but she did not flinch. She raised her free hand, the torch clattering uselessly to the ground. Words ripped from her throat, old and jagged, the language of power she had never dared wield so violently before. Magic cracked through her veins like lightning, meeting the fire head-on.

The blast struck her shield in a cascade of sparks and heat, the world erupting in sound and light. Her body braced against the force, every muscle taut, her arm shaking under the strain as if she bore the weight of the mountain itself. The fire clawed against her barrier, snarling like a living thing, until the cavern was blinding with its fury. But her will held. Inch by inch, she forced it back, her voice rising in a scream that burned her throat raw.

At last, the torrent faltered. The fire guttered out, smoke curling in black ribbons to the ceiling, leaving the stone charred and steaming. Merilyn stood trembling, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her brow, but unburned. Her hand dropped, the magic still sparking faintly in her veins, and she glared up at him with eyes gone violet with fury.

“Is that all you have?” she spat, her voice hoarse but unbroken. “Even chained, you try to burn me—but you cannot. Not anymore.”

Kilgharrah’s eyes narrowed, molten coals seething with both rage and a reluctant recognition. He did not answer, but the cavern seemed to rumble with his fury, the silence between them alive with unfinished threat.

Merilyn bent, snatched up her fallen torch, and turned her back on him. Her cloak snapped with the motion, and without another word she strode for the gate. His gaze burned into her as she left, but she did not falter, her steps steady despite the trembling in her legs. The clang of the iron doors echoed like finality, sealing dragon and sorceress apart.

The climb back up the winding stair was endless, her body weak from the magic she had poured into defiance. Sweat chilled against her skin, and her breath came ragged, but she pressed on. When at last she emerged into the open air, the night wrapped around her like balm, cool and damp, the stars distant pinpricks above the looming walls of Camelot.

She pulled her cloak tighter and began the long walk toward her cottage, the stones of the lower town slick with rain, her bare feet leaving damp prints in the moonlight. The weight of what she had done—the refusal, the fire, the severing of bond—pressed on her shoulders, but for once her mind was silent. Kilgharrah’s voice was gone.

At the bend of the lane, a figure detached itself from the shadows. Tall, steady, watchful—Erynd. His posture was rigid, but his eyes softened the moment they found her. He stepped closer, the lamplight from a distant window sliding across his face, illuminating the concern etched into every line.

Merilyn faltered as his silhouette came into full view, her strength draining from her legs now that the fury that had carried her this far began to ebb. She stood in the lane like a ghost, hair plastered damp to her face, her cloak heavy with sweat and rain, and for the first time in hours she felt the burn of exhaustion in every bone. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—only a small, broken sound that betrayed more than any confession could.

Erynd didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in three strides, his hand steady as it came to her shoulder, anchoring her before she could sway. His eyes searched her face, dark and unreadable save for the worry that softened their edges. “You’re freezing,” he murmured, though heat still clung to her skin from the dragon’s cavern.

Her composure cracked. Without thought, without care for disguise or pride, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing against the leather of his chest. The tremor in her body betrayed her, and she let it. Erynd’s arms came around her without question, solid and sure, drawing her into a shield of warmth. His chin brushed her damp hair as he held her, saying nothing, asking nothing, only lending her the steadiness she no longer had.

For a long moment, the world hushed. The rain dripped steadily from the eaves, a dog barked somewhere in the distance, but here, wrapped in his arms, there was only the rhythm of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Her own breath shuddered, uneven, but with each exhale the storm inside her loosened its grip by the smallest measure.

At last, he pulled back just enough to look down at her, his hand brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “Come,” he said softly, his voice low and steady as stone. “Let’s get you home.”

Too tired to argue, too spent to pretend, she nodded. He kept his arm firm around her shoulders, guiding her down the slick cobbles. Step by step, he bore half her weight without complaint, his presence a wall against the night’s chill. The cottage came into view at last, its small windows dark, the outline of its roof a promise of shelter against the world.

Erynd led her to the door, steadying her as she fumbled with the latch. Once inside, the air was still and cool, the faint scent of herbs and woodsmoke lingering. He guided her to the bed, his movements quiet, careful, as though tending a wound too deep to touch.

Merilyn sank down onto the mattress, her cloak slipping from her shoulders, her hands slack in her lap. She met his gaze only once, her eyes hollow but thankful, before lowering them again. Erynd didn’t press, didn’t demand. He only set the cloak aside, crouched to stir the embers back to life, and let the silence between them be a comfort rather than a weight.

Chapter Text

ACT TWO

“The closer she drew to the light of truth, the sharper its shadows became—forcing her to choose not between right and wrong, but between blood and love, and knowing that whichever she chose would break her.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

The council chamber carried the faint tang of smoke from the hearth, its glow struggling to hold against the pallid winter light that streamed through the tall windows. Cold stone drank up what little warmth the fire offered, and the air was edged with the brittle sharpness of frost. Uther sat at the head of the long table, his posture rigid and uncompromising, every line of him a reminder that his patience was not easily tested. Before him stood a herder from the northern plains, his shoulders hunched as though bracing against an unseen wind, the cap in his roughened hands twisting like a rope between anxious fingers.

“I’m a herder from the northern plains, Sire,” the man stammered at last, his voice frayed with nerves, words tumbling out in a rush as though delay alone might condemn him. “Three nights past, we camped beneath the walls of Idirsholas.”

Uther’s eyes narrowed, sharp as flint. “I’m not sure I would have chosen such a place.”

The herder flushed, ducking his head quickly in apology, his words clumsy in their haste. “Good pasture is scarce at this time of year, Sire. We had little choice.”

Uther leaned forward, his voice cutting through the chamber with the weight of command, each word deliberate, as though sliding clean from the sheath of a blade. “And what is it you have to tell me?”

The man swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. His gaze darted once to the floor before he forced the words out. “While we were there… we saw smoke rising from the citadel.”

Unease rippled through the chamber like a sudden draught, carrying with it the hush of dread that always followed mention of the old places. Merilyn, standing just behind Arthur’s chair, felt the weight of it press down upon her shoulders, heavy and suffocating. Her violet eyes flicked instinctively toward Gaius, who had gone very still, his expression pale and stricken as though some buried memory had clawed its way to the surface. Across the room, Erynd’s stance shifted almost imperceptibly; his arms folded across his chest, but his gaze sharpened, dark and unyielding, as though he were already sifting through visions and omens no one else could see.

“And did you see anything else?” Gaius asked, his voice taut, carrying that brittle note Merilyn had learned to fear.

Joseph shook his head quickly. “No, nothing.”

“Did you go inside?” Uther pressed, his eyes narrowing further, the sharp weight of his suspicion falling over the herder like a blade’s shadow.

“No, Sire,” Joseph said, horrified at the thought. His voice cracked with conviction as he rushed to add, “No one has crossed that threshold for three hundred years. You must know the legend.”

Gaius’s reply came heavy with dread, each word weighted with centuries of remembrance. “When the fires of Idirsholas burn, the Knights of Medhir will ride again.”

The sentence seemed to settle into the very stone around them, leeching the chamber of warmth. Arthur shifted in his chair, skepticism drawn in the tight line of his mouth, though Merilyn caught the subtle brush of his hand against her arm. It was the barest of touches, fleeting as a whisper, but it carried a warning as clear as any word: say nothing. She held her mask firm, the illusion of Merlin keeping her expression unreadable, even as her stomach twisted into knots. Legends, in her experience, were never “just” legends.

“See that this man is given food and a bed for the night,” Uther commanded abruptly, his gaze slicing toward Arthur like a hawk stooping on prey. “Then take a ride out there.”

Arthur’s frown deepened, and he rose slowly, his irritation plain in the stiffness of his movements. “Why?”

“So we can put people’s minds at rest.”

Arthur’s skepticism sharpened, his voice edged with doubt. “Surely this is nothing more than superstition?”

“Gather the guard and do as I say,” Uther snapped, his tone brooking no argument, the words striking against the walls like hammer blows.

Arthur inclined his head stiffly, but his jaw tightened as he turned. His gaze found Merilyn’s for the briefest of moments, and in that fleeting look passed unspoken concern, fragile but undeniable, sparking between them like dry tinder catching flame. She dipped her head in the smallest of nods, already certain this errand would be no routine patrol.

From the shadows near the chamber doors, Erynd watched in silence, his dark eyes glinting with the weight of knowledge he would not speak aloud. Merilyn did not need his Sight to know what he had Seen: this journey would not end easily.

The physician’s chambers carried an entirely different weight, heavy not with dread but with the pungent mingling of crushed herbs, smoke, and parchment. The fire crackled low, the hearth lined with soot, while scrolls, bottles, and bundles of dried roots littered the worktable in a clutter of half-finished remedies and forgotten experiments. It was Gaius’s familiar chaos, yet its comfort did little to ease the unease knotted in Merilyn’s chest. She stood stiffly beside the table, her arms crossed tight over her chest, violet eyes dulled beneath the glamour of her disguise, her mind still replaying the tremor in Joseph’s voice, the pallor in Gaius’s face, and the way even Uther—so quick to dismiss most talk of sorcery—had not dared laugh it off.

At last she broke the silence, her voice rawer than she intended, the words scraping up through her throat before she could temper them. “Why is Uther so worried?” The question rasped, brittle with the weight of her own fear, though cloaked beneath Merlin’s guise it emerged rougher, more impatient than vulnerable. For a long moment Gaius did not look up, his eyes fixed on a piece of parchment, quill still in his hand as though he might continue writing if he ignored her long enough. But when he finally spoke, his voice carried a gravity that filled every corner of the chamber, pressing down like a tangible weight. “Because the Knights of Medhir are a force to be reckoned with.”

Merilyn frowned, unease twisting beneath her ribs as she paced a slow step away from the table, the hem of her cloak brushing the rushes scattered across the floor. Her hands curled and uncurled at her sides as if restless energy might bleed away with the movement. “Do you believe the story as well?” she asked, though the part of her that already knew the answer clenched in protest against hearing it aloud.

This time Gaius lifted his gaze, steady and unflinching, his eyes hollowed with the weight of memory carried too long. “It is more than a story, Merlin,” he said, each syllable deliberate, carved as though from stone. “Three hundred years ago, seven of Camelot’s knights were seduced by a sorcerer’s call. One by one they succumbed, their will shackled until they were no longer men but weapons in her hand. They became a terror, an unstoppable force that swept through the land like wildfire, leaving nothing but death and ruin in their wake.” His voice dimmed at the end, as if the echo of those atrocities had followed him even here, centuries later.

Merilyn’s throat worked around a hard swallow. She could see them in her mind’s eye as he spoke—seven dark riders, faceless and relentless, their swords glinting red in torchlight as villages burned behind them. Her hands flexed helplessly at her sides, nails biting crescents into her palms. “And what happened to them?”

“It was only when the sorcerer herself was slain that the Knights finally stilled,” Gaius said, his tone grim, his shoulders sagging under the memory of a story that had lived longer than truth itself. He rubbed a weary hand across his brow, his quill forgotten, parchment left to curl at the edges beside the open flame. “If what Joseph claims is true, then something—or someone—has stirred them again, and I fear for each and every one of us.”

The words dropped like stones into her chest, dragging her down with their inevitability until her lungs felt heavy and uncooperative. From the doorway, Erynd shifted where he leaned, his posture still deceptively casual though every line of him was sharpened by tension. His dark eyes found hers, unwavering, and though he did not speak, he didn’t need to. In the charged stillness between them she felt the certainty as clearly as if he had carved it into her bones—he had Seen enough to know that Gaius’s fear was not misplaced.

The cottage was hushed, the night pressing close against its walls, broken only by the steady crackle of the hearth. Firelight spilled across the room in shifting bands of amber and shadow, catching on the open trunk at Merilyn’s feet. She knelt before it, her fingers sifting through leather, steel, and cloth—relics of a self she had long kept hidden. For years she had been the servant, the shadow, the clever tongue and quiet spell. But the herder’s tale and Gaius’s dread had stripped away any comfort in disguise. What lay ahead would demand more.

Piece by piece, she drew the armor from its wrappings. The breastplate came first, its bronze surface burnished by time yet gleaming faintly in the fire’s glow. It was lighter than the knight’s heavy plate, shaped to her frame, built for speed and precision rather than brute force. Her hands moved with the memory of long practice as she fastened the straps, the leather snug against her shoulders. The pauldrons followed, the bracers and vambraces, each piece settling into place like an old friend long forgotten but never lost. She remembered the clang of the training yard, the bite of bruises, the laughter of knights who had once sparred with her before they knew to call her “servant.”

She bent to secure the greaves, and her hair spilled forward, white as new-fallen snow in the firelight. Once it had been dark—her mother’s shade of brown, earthy and warm—but years of strain had bled it pale, every strand a reminder of the price magic had exacted. She caught sight of herself in the small mirror leaning crooked against the wall. For a moment the woman looking back seemed like a stranger—silver hair framing eyes too sharp, too fierce, the face of someone who had survived too much to ever be mistaken for the girl who once dreamed of knighthood.

Her gaze fell next to the twin blades laid neatly across the table. Slender and sharp, shorter than the longswords Arthur’s men favored, they had been forged for her alone, their hilts etched in silver with lines that caught the firelight. She lifted them both, one in each hand, and the weight settled into her palms with easy familiarity. She remembered their balance, their song, and slid them into the scabbards at her hips, where the hilts crossed in quiet promise.

Leaning against the wall stood her staff—the weapon that was hers in a way nothing else could be. Polished wood capped with steel tips, it was taller than she was, a bridge between sorceress and warrior. When she wrapped her hand around it, the faint hum of magic sparked through her veins, resonating as though the staff itself recognized her touch. With it, she had always been whole, the knight she had once trained to be and the sorceress she could never deny.

She lingered a moment longer, the firelight flickering over steel and bronze, over the pale cascade of her hair. A part of her wanted to strip the illusion away entirely and walk into the night as she truly was—no disguises, no masks, no half-truths. But the necklace at her throat pulsed faintly, a reminder of the world she still had to face. Camelot was not ready for Merilyn the sorceress or Merilyn the warrior. They still needed Merlin, the servant who tripped over his words and pretended at clumsiness.

With a steadying breath, she touched the charm. Violet eyes dimmed to blue, silver-white hair shimmered back into rough brown, and the armor, though still strapped firm against her body, seemed cloaked in plain cloth to any who might glimpse her in the dark. The disguise was suffocating after the freedom of donning her gear, but it was necessary. If Arthur saw her stride into the courtyard gleaming in bronze and steel, there would be no questions left to dodge.

Drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she crossed the small cottage and pushed open the door. The night met her with a rush of cold air, sharp with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. The moon hung low, veiled in drifting cloud, casting the lower town in fractured silver. Her boots struck the cobblestones softly as she moved, her staff disguised as nothing more than a length of wood at her back.

The path to the royal stables wound upward, past shuttered cottages and narrow lanes that lay quiet beneath the watch of Camelot’s walls. Her steps carried her through shadows she knew well, the rhythm of this secret life etched into her bones. The guards posted at the outer gates barely looked her way—Merlin was expected in the stables, after all, fussing over the prince’s horses as often as his own boots.

The great doors loomed ahead, the stables warm and bright within. The smell of hay and horseflesh met her before she even crossed the threshold, familiar and grounding. A sleepy whicker rose from the nearest stall, and she lifted a hand instinctively to soothe the gelding who poked his head over the rail.

Arthur’s charger stamped impatiently in his pen, as though sensing the stir of battle to come. Merilyn slipped inside, moving with quiet efficiency. She set to work on the tack, hands steady as she tightened girths and checked straps, her staff propped against the stall wall where it would draw no undue attention. Her own mare tossed her head, eyes flashing in the dim light, eager for the road.

As she worked, her mind kept circling back to the weight of her armor beneath the illusion, to the hum of magic still alive in the staff at her back, to the certainty that this was no ordinary mission. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it—something old, something dangerous, stirring in the dark beyond Camelot’s walls.

The sound of bootsteps and low voices broke the quiet rhythm of her work. Merilyn turned just as the stables’ wide doors swung open, spilling a gust of cold night air and the clatter of armor into the warm hush. Arthur strode in at the head of the small company, his red cloak slung over one shoulder, chainmail gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Behind him came Sir Leon and two of the younger knights, their expressions taut with the nervous energy of men called to ride into the unknown. Erynd trailed at the rear, dark gaze sweeping the stalls before it found her, his expression unreadable but his presence steadying all the same.

Arthur’s eyes landed on her almost at once. “Merlin,” he said, brisk but not unkind, as though the familiarity of command steadied him too. “Good. You’ve saved me the trouble of dragging you out of bed.” His mouth quirked, but his tone carried more weight than jest. “The horses ready?”

“As ready as they’ll ever be,” she replied, tugging the final strap on his charger before stepping back. The illusion held—her hands appeared clumsy, her movements rushed—but beneath it her motions were precise, sure, practiced.

Arthur patted his horse’s neck and gave her a long look, one brow arched, as though he sensed more beneath the surface than she would admit. “Then let’s not keep my father waiting for reassurance.”

The knights moved quickly, saddling their mounts with the smooth efficiency of men who had done this countless times before. Erynd approached her mare without a word, his hands sure as he checked the girth. When his eyes flicked up, catching hers across the horse’s mane, there was no disguise that could soften the weight in his gaze. He had Seen something—she could tell by the faint tightening around his mouth—but he said nothing, simply swung himself into the saddle with quiet finality.

The company gathered in the courtyard moments later, hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones. Arthur sat tall in his saddle at the head of the column, his silhouette cut sharp against the torchlit walls. “We ride for Idirsholas,” he called, his voice carrying easily over the restless snort of horses and the rustle of cloaks in the night air. “Stay sharp. We don’t know what we’ll find.”

Merilyn tugged her hood lower, the illusion heavy around her shoulders, and guided her mare into line beside Erynd. The gates groaned open, spilling them into the sleeping city, their company moving in a tight column through the silent streets.

Above them, the moon slipped free of the clouds, casting silver across the rooftops and the pale road stretching north. The chill of the night bit at her cheeks, but beneath her cloak, the armor pressed warm and steady against her skin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24

Hours later the forest pressed close around them, its canopy a tangle of blackened branches that devoured what little light the winter sun offered and turned the path into a dim corridor of shifting shadow. The air was damp, smelling of moss and cold earth, each breath clinging in the throat with a chill that never quite warmed. Horses plodded forward in a rhythm too loud for comfort, their hooves striking mud and brittle roots with dull thuds that seemed to echo back at them from unseen hollows. The occasional creak of a saddle girth or the rattle of chainmail rang sharp in the muffled quiet, making every sound too pronounced, as though the forest itself were listening.

Merilyn’s grip on the reins was tight enough to pale her knuckles beneath the illusion, the steady rhythm of her horse’s stride doing little to loosen the coil in her chest. Every rustle above them—branches groaning under a wind she could not feel, the sudden scatter of unseen birds—set her nerves jangling. She told herself it was only the weight of stories pressing against her mind, but the unease burrowed deeper with each passing mile until she could no longer ignore the steady hum beneath her ribs, that faint tug of the tether that warned her something was stirring ahead.

Arthur rode at the head of the column, his cloak stirring faintly behind him, the scarlet catching what little light broke through the branches. His posture was alert but easy, the natural stance of a man trained to meet danger without flinching. Catching the tension in her shoulders, he twisted in the saddle just enough to smirk back at her, a soldier’s trick designed to slice through heaviness before it could fester. “What is it, Merlin? Don’t tell me you’ve been listening to Gaius’s bedtime stories again.” His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, searching her face as though he might glimpse the truth buried beneath the mask of her disguise.

Merilyn rolled her eyes, forcing her voice to rasp with irritation rather than the tremor that wanted to slip through. “I just hope that’s all they are,” she muttered, the words falling lower than she intended, betraying more honesty than she liked.

Behind them, Erynd rode with his usual quiet steadiness, his horse’s hooves landing in unerring rhythm, his dark gaze cutting toward the shadows between the trees rather than the path before him. He had not spoken of the vision that plagued him since they left the citadel, had not so much as hinted at what he Saw, but Merilyn felt it pressing against her thoughts like a cold draft under a door, a reminder that the dread coiling in her chest was not hers alone. His silence, heavier than words, lent the company a strange gravity.

The knights who accompanied them shifted uneasily in their saddles, their voices hushed when they spoke at all. Sir Leon muttered something about the air being too still, the usual chatter of woodland life absent. Sir Bedwin—broad-shouldered, always one to mask his nerves with bravado—snorted that the silence was a blessing, at least they wouldn’t have to listen to Leon’s complaining. A couple of the younger men chuckled, the sound thin, but the relief it offered was fleeting. The forest swallowed laughter as quickly as it swallowed light, and in its wake the hush only seemed deeper.

Once, a stag burst across the path ahead of them, its antlers ghostly pale in the gloom. The company reined back in alarm, swords half drawn, but the animal vanished into the underbrush with a crash of branches, leaving only the fading echo of its passage. Arthur muttered for them to keep steady, his voice low but firm, though Merilyn noticed how quickly his hand returned to the hilt of his sword afterward, his knuckles whitening against the leather.

They pressed on, and the further they went the heavier the silence became, thick and watchful, like a weight settling upon their shoulders. The air grew cooler, each exhale puffing white in front of them, though no wind stirred. When at last the trees thinned, they emerged into a clearing where the ruin of Idirsholas loomed, black stone jagged against the horizon, towers broken like teeth in a shattered jaw. Smoke no longer rose from its citadel, but the scent of it lingered faintly, sharp and acrid, a ghost upon the air.

The courtyard they crossed was strewn with rubble and overgrown with weeds that cracked the flagstones, though no life stirred among them—not bird nor insect, only stillness. Arthur rode ahead with his sword hand loose but ready, his gaze sweeping the shadows with soldier’s vigilance. Merilyn followed close, the tether inside her chest humming with a faint vibration that resonated in her bones, a warning she did not dare ignore.

Inside, the fortress was a tomb. Dust hung in the air like a veil, stirred by their boots as they stepped onto flagstones that rang hollow beneath the weight of their passage. The scent of ash clung to the stones, bitter and stale, as though some fire had burned here long ago and refused to leave. Every footfall echoed too loud, magnified until it seemed to return to them from unseen halls.

Merilyn slowed as they entered deeper into the ruin, her head turning instinctively toward the shadows that clung thick between the cracked columns. Her skin prickled, every hair standing on end as if brushed by unseen fingers. “What’s that noise?” she whispered, the sound barely more than breath.

Arthur turned just enough to frown at her over his shoulder. “What noise?”

She swallowed. “A sort of… trembling sound.” The words felt foolish the moment they left her, yet the vibration was real, crawling through her veins in rhythm with the tether that pulsed faintly beneath her breastbone.

Arthur’s smirk returned, careless and sharp, as though he could banish dread with bravado. “That’s your knees knocking together.”

Merilyn pressed her lips thin, unwilling to dignify the quip with a retort. She kept her eyes fixed on the shadows instead, every nerve alive with tension. The tether inside her chest thrummed harder, the echo of something vast and restless stirring in the ruin’s depths, and for the first time she wished Arthur were right. That it was only her fear making the stone tremble beneath their feet.

They stepped into a vast chamber, the remnants of a fire scattered black in the center of the flagstones. Ash lay in smudges and half-circles, as though something had been drawn there and erased by time or violence. Arthur crouched beside it, running a hand through the charred dust, his expression grim. “Seems part of Joseph’s story was true,” he said, though his tone strained for nonchalance. “Probably just travelers passing through.”

Merilyn’s head snapped toward the archway behind them, every muscle tightening. The tether inside her chest vibrated like a plucked string. “Or maybe not.”

From the shadows, figures stirred. One by one, armored forms rose from where they had stood still as statues, blackened mail and rotted surcoats clinging to them like grave-shrouds. Their swords rasped free of rusted scabbards, the sound like stone being split. The air thickened, chill seeping into their bones, and the eyes of the Knights of Medhir glowed faintly with a dull, unnatural fire.

Steel rang out as Arthur and his men drew their weapons. The clash came quick and merciless. Arthur drove his sword into one knight’s chest with all his strength—yet the figure did not fall. It staggered back only to lunge again, relentless, as if the blade meant nothing. Sir Bedwin bellowed and hacked at another, but his sword shattered against its armor, the broken half clattering uselessly across the stone. Leon barely brought his shield up in time to deflect a strike that would have cleaved him in two.

Merilyn darted aside as one of the undead swung toward her, the sword whistling so close she felt the displaced air against her cheek. Her hand flew to her belt, ripping one short sword free, but instinct carried her further. Her staff, long and balanced, was already in her grip. With a twist, she brought it up, steel tip cracking against the helm of the knight that loomed over her. The blow would have felled any living man—it only staggered this one. Still, it gave her the space to pivot, spin, and sweep low, the staff striking its knees. It buckled briefly before righting itself with a hiss of steel on stone.

Arthur’s weapon lodged deep in another knight’s gut and tore from his grasp when the creature lurched back, dragging the blade with it. “Merlin!” he barked, raw urgency in his voice.

Merilyn did not hesitate. Her other hand snatched up Arthur’s fallen sword, and with a fluid movement honed in Camelot’s training yard, she hurled it. The blade spun true, and Arthur caught it mid-stride, swinging immediately to block the next strike. His answering grin was fleeting, gone the instant he drove the blade through another knight. It did not fall.

“Run, Merlin! Go!” he shouted, voice cracking above the din.

She dodged another swing, her staff whirling in a blur as she parried the blow, sparks flying where steel met steel. Her breath came ragged, sweat slicking her brow beneath the weight of her illusion. She spun again, staff slamming against the knight’s helm with a sharp crack, then ramming its steel tip into the gap of its gorget. It reeled but did not bleed. These things would not stop until nothing lived to stand against them.

Merilyn darted toward the doorway, staff still in hand, her pulse hammering in her throat. But she stopped short, the tether within her thrumming violently, demanding she turn back. She looked at Arthur, still surrounded, his men staggering, falling one by one. Sir Bedwin was the first to crumple, dragged down beneath a blow that sent him sprawling, his chest unmoving. Leon shouted his name, only to be struck himself, his shield splintering under the force. One by one, the knights fell or were knocked senseless, their bodies strewn across the stones. The ruin rang with the endless sound of steel, groans of pain, and the unearthly rasp of the Medhir.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice was raw with command, frustration sharpening it like a blade. “Do as I say!” He shoved her bodily toward the entrance before pivoting to meet another strike.

But she could not abandon him. Not Arthur. Not now. Not ever.

The staff vibrated in her grip, her magic prickling against her skin like fire under her flesh, demanding release. She had held back as long as she could, hiding behind steel and skill, but the ruin of knights strewn around them told her what her heart already knew. Steel alone would not save him.

She planted the staff hard against the flagstone, the sound ringing through the chamber. Her free hand rose, palm open, fingers curling as words of power clawed up her throat. They tore free in a jagged cry, old and fierce, reverberating against the walls.

“Ahríes þæc!”

The world seemed to hold its breath. The air shuddered, stone groaned, and the archway exploded inward with a deafening crack. Blocks of rock sheared from the ceiling and slammed down in an avalanche, choking the chamber with dust as the entrance collapsed in a roar. The sound reverberated through the fortress like a great bell tolling the end of all things.

Arthur stumbled back under the force of it, but before he could fall Merilyn seized his arm and yanked him clear of the collapse. The two of them reeled together, coughing against the clouds of dust, their ears ringing with the thunder of stone.

When at last the rumble faded, silence pressed heavy in its wake, broken only by the rasp of their breathing. The Knights of Medhir were cut off beyond the barricade of rubble, their inhuman howls muffled but not ended. The ruin trembled faintly, dust drifting like snow from the cracked ceiling.

Arthur turned to her, his chest heaving, his face streaked with grime and disbelief. His expression was a storm—half fury, half relief, and something else too tangled to name.

Merilyn held his gaze, her staff still humming faintly in her grip, her magic a wildfire under her skin. She had bought them a reprieve, but in the marrow of her bones she knew it was only the beginning.

Arthur’s gaze fixed on her, his sword still clenched tight though his arm trembled with exhaustion. His blue eyes, wide and unguarded, roved over the staff braced against the flagstones, the faint sparks still flickering along its steel tips, the unnatural hum lingering in the air around her. For a moment he seemed struck dumb, as if words had deserted him altogether. Then his breath rasped out, sharp and disbelieving.

“What was that?” His voice was hoarse, caught between awe and accusation. His stare bored into her as if she were suddenly as alien and incomprehensible as the Knights themselves.

Merilyn swallowed hard, the dust stinging her throat, her pulse still racing with the echo of power. She gripped the staff tighter, as if the solid weight of it could ground her. “We don’t have time for this, Arthur,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt. Her chest still heaved with the effort of what she had unleashed, her limbs trembling beneath her armor, but she forced her voice steady. “They’re not gone. Just trapped. And when they find another way through, this whole ruin will fall with them.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his gaze darting from her to the fallen forms of his knights strewn across the floor. Leon groaned faintly, alive but battered, while Bedwin lay still, blood pooling dark beneath his helm. Arthur’s hand twitched as if to reach for them, then balled into a fist at his side. “You—” he began, his voice low, uneven, the weight of everything unsaid pressing behind the single syllable.

Merilyn stepped closer, seizing his forearm with a grip that surprised them both with its strength. Her violet eyes burned through the illusion for the barest heartbeat before she forced them back to blue. “Not now,” she hissed, urgent, desperate. “Ask me later, shout at me later—whatever you need. But if we don’t get word back to Camelot, there won’t be a Camelot left to save.”

Arthur’s lips parted as though he might argue, but the thunder of steel striking stone echoed faintly from beyond the collapsed archway, a reminder that their reprieve was fragile at best. The sound steeled him. He wrenched his gaze from her, sheathed his blade in one sharp motion, and hauled Leon to his feet with his free arm.

“Erynd, help me with Bedwin!” Arthur barked, the command snapping the others awake. Erynd swung down from where he had pressed to the shadows, his face grim but calm, and together they hoisted Bedwin’s limp body. Merilyn gathered her staff, slinging it against her back with hands that still shook.

“Move,” she urged, striding toward the half-lit corridor beyond the chamber. “The longer we stay, the closer they’ll be.”

Arthur fell in step beside her, his movements brisk and efficient, though his eyes flicked to her again and again, searching her face as if the truth of what she had done might be written there. He said nothing, but the silence between them was taut as a bowstring, threaded through with suspicion, gratitude, and something she could not name.

The ruin spat them out into the courtyard like a wound rejecting what it could not consume. The air outside felt sharper, colder, as though the forest itself had drawn back from Idirsholas in fear. Their horses stamped nervously where they had been tethered, ears flat, eyes rolling white as if they too sensed what slumbered within those walls.

Arthur half dragged, half carried Leon across the broken flagstones. Merilyn hurried to Bedwin, who sagged heavily in Erynd’s arms, his helm dented and his breathing ragged. She dropped to her knees in the rubble beside him, pressing one hand against his chest, the other braced against her staff. The hum of power rushed through her in a surge that left her light-headed.

“Hold him steady,” she said, her voice hoarse but commanding. Erynd tightened his grip without question, his dark eyes watching her closely.

Erynd eased Bedwin down as gently as his strength allowed, and Merilyn leaned into the knight’s dented cuirass until she felt the shallow rattle of his breath under her palm. The world narrowed to the thud of a faltering heartbeat and the sour copper of blood; beyond that, the ruin whispered and the tether in her chest thrummed with the memory of stone breaking, but she shoved it all to the edges of her mind. “With me,” she murmured, more to the knight’s stubborn spirit than to the men around her. She slid her hand beneath the breastplate, fingers finding the heat at the hollow between ribs, and braced the other against the steel tip of her staff, letting the wood bite into the ground so it could take some of the weight that was about to rip through her. The words she spoke were old and quiet, the kind that never needed to be shouted, and as they shaped the air her magic uncoiled, bright and cold, rushing out of her and into him in a single, decisive pour. Pain speared through her sternum as if a fist had closed around her lungs; her vision rang at the edges in pale light, and the ache that lived in her bones flared, demanding payment. But under her palm, Bedwin’s heart lurched once and then steadied, the wet rattle easing to a hoarse, angry breath that fogged the air. His eyes snapped open in confusion, then focused past her on the bleak sky; he tried to rise with a knight’s reflex and a groan of wounded pride, and she pressed him back with a firm hand and a rasped, “Not yet.”

Arthur had dragged Leon clear of the worst of the rubble and knelt with him, one hand cradling the back of the commander’s skull to keep it from rolling. Leon’s lips were blue at the edges, his breaths too quick and thin. “Can you—?” Arthur began, and the question broke into something rawer when he looked fully at her, taking in the sweat standing at her hairline and the way her mouth trembled as she pulled the next breath. He didn’t finish the sentence, but he shifted to give her space, his knee braced in the dirt like a pillar at her back.

“I can,” she said, and even to her own ears it sounded like a promise made on the last coin in her purse. She scraped the pad of her thumb across Leon’s cheek to anchor herself, then set her palm to his breastbone, feeling the thready flutter fighting beneath his ribs. The second working cost more; it always did. The chant came rough, snagging where her throat had been abraded by dust, and the magic dragged through her like a river through a narrowing gorge, pulling heat, color, and steadiness with it. She poured anyway. The world tilted, then righted when Leon’s chest hitched, coughed, and settled into a slower rhythm. His lashes fluttered, confusion lining his brow, and when his gaze found Arthur’s he tried to speak, failed, and managed a brief, dazed nod that said enough.

Merilyn rocked back on her heels and caught herself on the butt of the staff before she went over entirely. The courtyard blurred for a heartbeat—horses tossing, breath pluming in sharp white bursts; ruined walls leaning like dark teeth; Erynd’s face close and steady, his hands ready at her elbows without touching. “Easy,” he murmured, voice pitched for her alone, the word a shore she could land on. “You’ve given too much.”

“Enough,” she countered, though the word scraped dry and unconvincing. She forced her lungs to fill, blinked until the specks receded, and shoved herself upright through the leaden weight that had settled in her limbs. “We have to move. Now.”

Arthur was already there, reading her the way only he ever truly did. His hand came to her shoulder and squeezed once—a touch as brief as a prayer and as binding—before he turned that same steadiness on his men. “Mount up,” he ordered, voice clipped but clear. “Bedwin, you ride with Erynd until you can hold a saddle. Leon, take my spare if yours is spent.” He didn’t look at her when he added, quieter, “You ride at my side.”

Erynd boosted Bedwin with the kind of practical gentleness that came from tending vision-sick apprentices and stubborn knights alike, bracing the big man’s boot to the stirrup and lifting at the same time the gelding leaned obligingly into the motion. Leon, still unsteady but conscious, took Arthur’s forearm and let himself be levered into the saddle, the set of his jaw promising he’d hate himself later for needing the help. Merilyn moved between them in the way of someone who had lived too long in the margins of battlefields—checking buckles, tightening a girth one more notch, tucking Bedwin’s injured arm snug against his side with a strip torn from her cloak. Each small task steadied her, drawing her back from the edge of the drain until the world found its balance again.

Her mare snorted, ears flicking as Merilyn swung up. The illusion bent with her, wrapping her armor in the drape of a plain servant’s coat, smoothing the length of the staff into the suggestion of a pole lashed over a saddle roll. Arthur’s charger danced sideways and then settled when his master gathered the reins; when Merilyn drew even with him, his glance cut across, quick and searching. Concern warred with questions he wasn’t ready to ask here, and his mouth pressed into a line that was not hardness so much as control. “Ride,” he said, and put heels to his horse.

They arrowed out of the courtyard at a hard canter that became a gallop the moment the trees swallowed the ruin behind them. The forest received them like a throat and they were the swallowed thing, plunging through a tunnel of black branches and winter shadow where hooves struck mud and frost-slick roots, throwing up clods and glittering shards. Bedwin swore under his breath every time the gelding changed lead, and Erynd’s steady, “Breathe, stay with me,” threaded through the rush like a litany. Leon hunched to cut the wind with his shoulders, one hand white-knuckled on the horn, the other never straying far from the dagger at his belt as if habit alone could ward off what pursued.

Cold air knifed Merilyn’s lungs, bright as steel. Each stride jarred the ache where her magic had torn through, but the rhythm of the mare under her smoothed the worst of it, and the familiar give of leather in her hands steadied the tremor that wanted to take her fingers. Branches clawed at cloaks, stung exposed knuckles, slapped chain and plate and the plain drape of an illusion that suddenly felt too thin to hold. Twice they splashed through narrow cuts of stream, water flaring silver before the hooves churned it brown again; twice Arthur lifted a hand to adjust their line without slowing, choosing the ground by instinct the way some men breath by prayer.

Behind them, far and faint, something answered—no horn, no hunting cry, just the memory of stone riven and the echo of ancient iron waking. Erynd’s head tipped, listening to the space between sounds, and Merilyn felt the vibration through the tether as a warning pressed along bone. She leaned forward, spoke to the mare in a language of knees and weight, and they found another length of speed. Arthur matched her by feel, the two of them running as one the way they had trained for years to make their bodies do with blades.

Time thinned to the essentials: the next curve of the path, the next hazard underfoot, the next breath not wasted on speech. When at last the trees thinned and the first low outer fields of Camelot spread before them, winter-dun and rimed in frost, Merilyn’s shoulders eased a fraction beneath the armor no one else could see. The sight of the walls—strong, familiar, human-made against the press of old ruin—put iron back in her spine. Arthur lifted his hand and the column bunched, then lengthened again into an orderly run that would carry them through the gates with dignity rather than panic. Bedwin’s swearing had turned to a grim humming, Leon’s color had returned from ash to clay, and Erynd, still and watchful, flicked a look at Merilyn that told her he could see the cost in the hollows under her eyes and the fine tremor at the corner of her mouth.

“Almost there,” Arthur called, not loudly—just enough for the men to hear the certainty in it. His knee brushed hers for a heartbeat, the touch accidental to anyone watching and entirely deliberate to the two of them. “Stay with me,” he added under the thunder of hooves, and whether he meant the next furlong or the longer road that waited beyond the gates, she nodded once and set her jaw, turning her face toward Camelot as the portcullis began to rise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

The city gates loomed out of the gloom as the company thundered up the road, their horses lathered with sweat, breath spilling in pale clouds that hung in the chill air. Camelot’s banners drooped motionless against the battlements, dull shapes in the dim light, but even in their stillness something was wrong. The silence that clung to the walls was unnatural. No cry rose from the watchtowers, no horn split the dusk to herald the prince’s return. Instead, the guards who should have stood vigilant were slumped like discarded dolls at their posts, sprawled across the stone with weapons fallen from nerveless hands.

Arthur was out of the saddle before his mount had fully halted, boots striking the flagstones with sharp finality. Merilyn slid down after him, staff slipping to her palm as naturally as breath, though to any onlooker it was no more than a servant’s stick. She knelt beside the nearest guard, fingers pressing firmly to the hollow of his throat. The stillness stretched until she caught the faint flutter of a pulse, shallow but steady, his chest rising in slow, even breaths. Relief hissed softly through her teeth. “They’re not dead,” she said, her voice low but edged with urgency. “Only… asleep.”

Arthur’s gaze swept over the bodies littering the gatehouse, his jaw set hard, blue eyes sharp as if sheer will might wrench an answer from the silence. “What’s happened to them?” His tone carried less the cadence of a question than a command hurled into the void.

Merilyn shook her head, though the tether deep in her ribs thrummed with a warning beat, a rhythm that whispered of sorcery. Erynd dismounted in one fluid motion, his expression carved into unreadable calm, though his dark eyes flicked with keen sharpness from guard to guard. He saw what she saw—the slack limbs, the too-even breathing, the faint shimmer that clung to the air like heat over stone. He did not speak, but Merilyn caught the fleeting flash of recognition in his gaze. He had Seen enough to understand the truth she could not voice aloud, not here.

Arthur straightened abruptly, the soldier in him snapping to the fore. His voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip. “Leon.”

The knight pulled up his charger at once, helm tucked beneath his arm, the grime of travel stark against the pallor of his face. “Sire?”

“Post a watch on the gates,” Arthur ordered, the words spilling fast and sharp. “Search the lower town—every street, every alley. I want to know if this sickness has spread. Take men with you. No one comes in or out without my word.”

Leon hesitated for only the span of a heartbeat before he nodded, his voice clipped and quick. “Yes, my lord.” He wheeled his horse and called two younger knights to follow. Their armor clattered as they spurred away, vanishing into the narrow veins of the lower town where doors already gaped open, silence pressing heavy and unnatural over every street.

Arthur’s gaze returned to the courtyard, his jaw hardening as he barked the next command. “The rest of you—on me.”

The clatter of boots echoed unnaturally loud as the remaining knights jogged in formation behind him. Their armor rattled in a hollow rhythm that seemed to fill the empty air. The square stretched before them, a place that should have been alive with sound—the clang of merchants packing their stalls, the chatter of women bartering for cloth, the shrieks of children darting through the fountain’s spray, the heartbeat of a city alive. But now it lay suspended in eerie stillness, littered with bodies frozen in the act of living. A guardsman had toppled beside his spear, his gauntleted hand still locked around the shaft. A woman lay sprawled with her basket overturned, turnips scattered across the stones. A child was curled against the fountain’s rim as though only sleeping, yet his stillness was too complete, his chest rising and falling in that strange, unnatural rhythm. Even a cart drifted across the square unguided, its driver slumped lifelessly in the seat, reins slack in his hand, the horse plodding on with glazed eyes.

Arthur halted at the center of the square, his expression carved into stone. “What in God’s name…” The words fractured halfway, trailing into silence so heavy it seemed to choke the air. For all his training, for all the certainty that steadied him on battlefields and in council halls, the prince of Camelot stood staring at the impossible, with no answer rising to his lips.

Behind him, the men faltered. One by one, they staggered, groans catching in their throats before stillness stole them whole. Sir Leon, striding at Arthur’s side, barely managed to lift a hand to the wall before he slid down its surface, his helm clattering from his grasp. The youngest knight pitched forward onto his knees, his shield ringing hollowly across the stones. Another swayed mid-step, eyes rolling back as he collapsed in a heap of armor. Even Erynd—stubborn as the roots of the earth, steady as iron—swayed where he stood. His dark gaze caught Merilyn’s for the briefest instant, recognition sparking there in a fleeting warning. And then his legs gave way beneath him. He slumped sideways, crashing hard against the paving stones, his chest rising and falling in that same measured, alien rhythm that bound the rest of Camelot.

In moments, Arthur and Merilyn stood alone amid a ring of their fallen men, the silence pressing in around them as loud as any battle cry.

Merilyn felt the weight of it crawl against her skin, suffocating, prickling like frost and flame all at once. The glamour she wore—the illusion that pared her into Merlin’s lean, narrow frame—suddenly felt fragile, a veil stretched too thin against the enormity of the spell blanketing the city. She tugged her cloak tighter, though the fabric offered no defense against the truth vibrating in her bones. The tether at her core thrummed fast and urgent, pulsing with warning. This was no plague, no fever, no faintness of flesh. It was spellcraft—vast, merciless, and all-encompassing—coiling around every sleeper as though invisible chains bound them in unyielding slumber.

“I’ll fetch Gaius,” she rasped at last, forcing Merlin’s roughened voice past the dryness in her throat. “He’ll know what to do.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed as his gaze swept the deserted square, every line of him taut with vigilance and the weight of command. “Go. Quickly.”

Merilyn did not waste a heartbeat. Her boots struck hard against the flagstones as she sprinted toward the palace steps, each stride jolting her ribs as her breath came higher in her chest. The griffin staircase loomed above, its stone spine spiraling upward into shadow. Yet even here, silence reigned. Servants sprawled along the steps like abandoned marionettes—scullery boys curled against the banister, chambermaids collapsed mid-climb with baskets spilled across the stairs, guards draped across their posts with spears clattering from limp hands. Faces slack, limbs loose, each chest rose and fell in the same unnatural rhythm, as though the city itself had been bound to sleep.

Merilyn’s pulse thundered as she climbed, two steps at a time, skirting the fallen bodies. Her breath came harsh with dread. “Arthur?!” she called over her shoulder, her voice cracking as it ricocheted upward into the gloom. Only her echo answered, thin and mocking, spiraling back down the stairwell.

The heavy ring of Arthur’s boots followed at last, each step striking sharp in the silence. He caught up to her on the landing, his gaze cutting across the carpet of still bodies with grim precision. Merilyn forced herself to look too, though the tether in her chest had already told her what she did not want to admit aloud.

“They’re all fast asleep,” she murmured, the words falling like stones into the void. “It must be… some kind of sickness.”

Arthur’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched white, his jaw locked hard enough to crack stone. “Where’s my father?”

Together they pressed into the upper corridors, the hush thickening with every turn. The council chamber lay deserted, the long table abandoned mid-debate, scrolls left half-unfurled, chairs scattered as if their occupants had slumped forward and vanished. The air smelled stale, tinged with dust and melted wax, the silence broken only by the faint stir of banners shifting in a phantom draft. Arthur stormed in ahead, his eyes raking the chamber as his voice tore through the hush like a whip. “Where is he?!”

No answer came—only the rustle of fabric disturbed by their own movement and the thunder of their hearts.

Merilyn’s tether burned beneath her ribs, tugging her onward. “Gaius,” she whispered, almost to herself, before bolting down the familiar passageways.

The physician’s chambers reeked of failure. The scent of herbs turned acrid clung heavy in the air, charred bitterness rising from a blackened tonic that had been left to smolder unattended on the brazier. Its smoke mingled with the sharper perfumes of sage, willow bark, and lavender, transforming the room’s usual balm into something cloying and wrong. Scrolls and parchments lay scattered across the table, ink still glistening wet where lines had trailed off mid-sentence, words cut short as though the hand that wrote them had simply surrendered to sleep mid-thought. At the desk, hunched awkwardly over his work, lay Gaius. His lined cheek pressed against parchment, his lips parted just enough to let out a slow, steady breath. His chest rose and fell in that same eerie rhythm Merilyn had already seen in every soul stricken within Camelot.

She stopped dead in the doorway, her stomach plunging as if the floor had dropped beneath her. For a moment the world narrowed to the sight of him—mentor, protector, the one constant thread of wisdom in her life—reduced to this helpless slumber. The stillness pressed on her ears until the blood rushing in her veins was the only sound she could hear. Then she was moving, skirts and cloak tangling about her ankles as she rushed forward. Her hands seized his shoulders, her fingers digging in harder than she meant as she shook him once, twice, with desperate force. “Gaius!” His head lolled loosely against the table, his body yielding to her touch but offering no response. His breath was steady, too steady, as though drawn from some dream far too deep for her to reach.

“It must be the work of magic,” she whispered hoarsely, the words scraping from her throat as her heart hammered in dread. The tether within her pulsed like a struck chord, confirming what her eyes already knew.

Arthur’s gaze swept over the chamber, his jaw tight, eyes flashing with fury too controlled to be called panic. “We have to find my father.” His voice was clipped, iron overlaid on fear.

They left the chambers at a near run, boots pounding against flagstones, their breath echoing strangely in the oppressive hush of the castle. Every corridor felt narrower, the silence pressing heavier with each turn, until even the torchlight seemed muted, smothered. As they passed the carved arch of Morgana’s chambers, Arthur did not hesitate. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, sword hand already at the ready, and Merilyn was on his heels.

The room was cloaked in half-light, its only illumination a candle guttering low on the bedside table, its flame trembling with each draft that slithered through the shutters. The air smelled faintly of lavender water, now soured by smoke from the dying wick. Gwen lay crumpled just inside the threshold, her fingers still curled in the folds of Morgana’s gown as though she had fought to keep her feet until the last possible moment. Arthur dropped to his knees without a word, scooping her into his arms with surprising gentleness. He carried her to the bed, settling her carefully onto the coverlet as though afraid she might shatter. A stray curl clung damply to her cheek, and he brushed it back with the kind of tenderness that came so naturally to him it made Merilyn’s heart lurch. Beneath her glamour, behind Merlin’s borrowed features, she felt the sting of envy twist before she forced it down, burying the ache as deeply as she could. Gwen murmured faintly in her sleep but did not wake.

The silence cracked with a sound too sharp to be ignored—a faint rustle, like fabric dragged against stone. Merilyn’s head whipped toward the window. The heavy curtain stirred, shifting though no wind passed through the chamber.

Arthur was on his feet in an instant, instincts taut as bowstring. His sword hissed free of its sheath, steel catching the light as he strode forward. With one swift motion he tore the curtain aside and yanked the figure cowering behind it into the open.

A scream tore through the chamber, shrill and piercing, shattering the silence like glass. Morgana writhed in Arthur’s grip, her slender hands clawing at his arms in frantic, useless motions, her voice raw with terror. Her dark hair spilled across her face, her wide eyes gleaming with animal panic.

“It’s me! It’s me, Morgana!” Arthur’s voice cut through her fear, sharp and commanding, the voice of a soldier used to obedience. Yet even as the words left him, the hard edge in his eyes softened when he finally saw her face clearly.

Recognition rippled across hers like sunlight breaking through a storm. Relief swept over her features, though it left her trembling, breath ragged as she pressed a hand against her chest. “I didn’t know it was you,” she whispered, her voice thin and uneven, each word catching as though it might break.

Arthur released her at once, though the tension in his body did not ease. His sword dropped low, but the intensity in his gaze remained fierce. He leaned toward her, his tone firm, urgent, and edged with command. “Calm yourself, Morgana. Just tell me what happened.”

Her eyes flicked toward the bed where Gwen lay sprawled in unnatural repose, her chest lifting and falling with the same eerie rhythm as the rest of Camelot. Morgana’s lips parted, but her voice faltered at first, emerging haltingly as if she had to force each word past the knot in her throat. “People were complaining earlier,” she managed, the words tumbling out in disjointed fragments. “They said they weren’t feeling well. At first it was only whispers—coughs, dizziness—but then… then they started collapsing. Falling asleep. Everyone. Everywhere I went.” Her hands twisted tightly in the fabric of her skirts, white knuckles straining, as though she might wring sense from the madness with sheer force.

Arthur’s expression sharpened, his jaw tightening as his voice cut through her faltering explanation like a blade. “Was someone here?”

Morgana’s head jerked side to side too quickly, her hair falling loose around her pale face. “No,” she whispered, but the word cracked under the weight of its own fragility.

“Then why were you hiding?” Arthur pressed, his tone as hard and unyielding as iron. His eyes searched her face with merciless intensity, leaving no room for evasion, demanding truth where none was offered.

“I told you,” she stammered, her voice pitching higher. “I didn’t know who you were.”

Arthur stepped closer, the sheer presence of him looming like a wall, his voice low and edged with steel. “Where is my father?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana breathed, shaking her head again, her composure unraveling. Her voice cracked beneath the pressure of his demand, breaking into a sound more desperate than defiant.

“Arthur,” Merilyn interjected softly, moving between them with deliberate care. She laid a hand on his arm, her touch light but steady, her voice rasping with Merlin’s borrowed timbre yet carrying her own urgency. “She’s frightened. Can’t you see she’s distressed?”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to her, blue and burning with frustration, then snapped back to Morgana. His voice hardened further, frustration sharpening into accusation. “If she was awake, then she must have seen something.”

“I didn’t see anything!” Morgana cried, the pitch of her voice climbing, panic bleeding into every syllable. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, her hands trembling at her sides as though she could no longer control them.

“You saw people getting sick—what did you do?” Arthur’s words cracked like a lash, his disbelief plain, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“What could I do?” Morgana shouted, her voice cracking under the weight of helplessness. The raw fear behind her words filled the chamber, echoing against the stone walls like a plea.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his face taut as bowstring. His disbelief hardened into something perilously close to anger. “Morgana, I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low but searing with intensity. “Why is it that you’re the only one awake?”

The upper corridors of the palace lay drowned in silence, the kind that seemed to absorb every sound and leave only the hollow echo of their boots striking flagstone. Shadows stretched long in the flickering torchlight, wavering with each draft that slipped through the high windows. Arthur strode at the front, his shoulders squared, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s as they searched every corner for the faintest sign of his father. Behind him, Merilyn and Morgana moved in uneasy tandem, their footfalls unnervingly loud in the stillness, each step echoing like a trespass. From outside, faint yet unmistakable, came the distant thunder of hooves. The sound of the Knights of Medhir carried even through stone walls, grim and relentless, reminding them how little time remained.

Merilyn let her pace slacken until she walked beside Morgana. Her voice, low and urgent, was meant for her alone. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, her eyes—disguised to Arthur as Merlin’s blue—flicking briefly to his broad back before settling on Morgana’s pale, taut features. “I won’t say anything.”

Morgana’s head snapped toward her, suspicion flaring like a blade drawn too quickly. “About what?” she demanded, though her voice was hushed, tight with fear.

“The illness,” Merilyn replied, her tone rough with the guise of Merlin but steadied by conviction.

Morgana shook her head sharply, denial written in every line of her body. “That has nothing to do with me.”

Merilyn’s lips pressed thin, her words soft but certain. “No, of course not. But you have magic, Morgana. And that must mean something.”

The princess stiffened, her breath hitching as terror flashed across her eyes. When she spoke, it was a whisper edged with desperation. “You haven’t told anyone that!”

Meeting her gaze without flinching, Merilyn shook her head. “No. And I won’t tell Arthur. But there has to be a reason you’re still awake when everyone else has fallen. Something is keeping you safe, and I think it must be that.”

For a long, tense moment Morgana stared at her, as if trying to peel away layers of meaning hidden beneath those words. But Merilyn offered nothing more than quiet steadiness. At last, Morgana tore her gaze away, her voice brittle as thin glass. “Right.”

Before Merilyn could press further, Arthur’s voice rang down the corridor, sharp with urgency and threaded with relief. “I found him!”

They hurried after him, their footsteps ringing against the stone as they rushed into Uther’s chambers. The room was dim, its shutters drawn against the pale winter light, leaving the air close and heavy. The tang of cold wax and the sourness of stale wine clung to the air, a stifling combination that mingled with the faint scent of damp stone. Uther slumped forward at the council table, his crown askew, his hand still curled tight around an empty goblet as if he had tried to hold his dignity to the very last. For one frozen heartbeat Merilyn thought he was dead, her stomach dropping like a stone.

“Father,” Arthur called, his voice strained, breaking on the single word as he rushed forward. He hauled Uther upright, the king sagging heavily into his arms, limp and unresponsive yet still breathing.

Merilyn stepped closer, relief loosening her chest though tension still gripped her ribs. “See? He’s all right,” she said quickly, trying to steady Arthur with words she barely believed herself.

But Arthur’s head snapped toward her, his glare fierce and unyielding. “He is not all right,” he bit out, his voice low but edged with fury. The weight of his father sagged further against him, and Arthur’s jaw clenched until the muscles in his face stood rigid. “He’s just asleep. Like the rest of them.”

“All we have to do is find the cure,” Merilyn insisted, the words tumbling out quickly, her urgency as much for herself as for him. “There must be a way to wake them.”

Arthur’s eyes darted between Morgana and Merilyn, narrowing as suspicion sparked. “Who could have done this?” he demanded, clutching his father closer as though his grip alone could shield him. His gaze settled firmly on Morgana. “You’re the only one who hasn’t been affected. There must be a reason.”

Morgana’s throat worked as she turned toward Merilyn, wide eyes shimmering with a silent plea. “I—I don’t know,” she stammered, her voice thin and breaking beneath his scrutiny.

“That’s all you keep saying!” Arthur snapped, his frustration cracking the air like a whip. “You must know something!”

Morgana shook her head fiercely, her hair falling loose about her face, her words ragged. “No. They just… they just fell asleep, one by one!”

Merilyn stepped forward quickly, intercepting the rising storm. Her mind raced, searching for some plausible thread to shield Morgana. “It’s obvious,” she said with forced certainty. “When she started feeling sick, Gaius gave her a potion, right?”

Morgana’s face flickered with confusion, but she kept silent, her lips pressed tight.

Arthur seized on the inconsistency at once, his eyes narrowing as they cut to Merilyn. “When was she sick? She never said that.”

Merilyn forced her breath steady, her heart hammering in her ears. “She was one of the last to be affected,” she said, voice quick but even. “Somehow the potion must have helped.”

Arthur’s suspicion did not ease easily. His mouth tightened, his gaze boring into her. “And what about everyone else?”

The heat of his stare weighed heavy, and Merilyn swallowed hard before answering, each word measured. “By then… by then Gaius was too ill. He didn’t have the chance to treat anyone else.”

The silence that followed stretched taut, threatening to snap. Morgana’s shoulders sagged visibly in relief, her hands tangling in her skirts to still their trembling. At last Arthur’s expression shifted, suspicion cooling though not gone entirely. His mouth set in a hard line, but he nodded once, decisive despite the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Go and see if you can find this potion,” he ordered, his voice clipped with command. Already he turned toward the door, the weight of his purpose pulling him onward. “I’ll search the lower town for signs of life. Morgana—” he stopped before her, his hands gripping her shoulders, heavy with the authority of both brother and prince, “you stay here. Look after my father. Keep him safe.”

He pressed the hilt of his sword into her hands, the gesture solemn, the weight of it more than steel. “Protect him with your life. You understand?”

Morgana nodded, pale and trembling, her fingers tightening around the weapon though it looked too heavy for her slender grip. Her voice failed her, but her eyes—wide and uncertain—were answer enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

The physician’s chambers were cloaked in dimness, the fire in the hearth little more than a stubborn glow. Its embers cast weak tongues of light that stretched into long, restless shadows across shelves laden with bottles and bundles of drying herbs. The air smelled of dust, smoke, and faintly of rosemary left too long near the fire. Dust motes drifted in the stillness, spinning lazily until the frantic rustle of parchment disturbed them. Merilyn stood over Gaius’s worktable, flipping through the thick leather-bound spellbook that dwarfed her hands. The pages whispered like dry leaves, the spidery script shifting under her desperate gaze.

Behind her, the old physician lay slumped forward across the clutter of his desk, his quill still caught loosely between his fingers. His chest rose and fell with shallow, steady breaths. His face, softened by a foolish grin, made the sight even more unbearable—he looked content, as if dreaming of some private amusement, while the world outside pressed toward ruin. That vacant cheer hollowed her stomach more than lifelessness might have.

“All right, Gaius,” Merilyn muttered, forcing her voice to steady against the tightness that threatened to choke it. Her fingertip skimmed lines of archaic script until it halted on a charm meant to rouse sleepers from enchantment. She inhaled sharply, gathering conviction into her chest, and spoke the words with all the authority she could muster. “Ic ácwice þé!”

For an instant nothing changed, silence answering her plea. Then Gaius jerked upright so violently his chair scraped across the flagstones, nearly tipping over. His eyes flew wide, his grin stretching wider still, foolish and vacant. Relief surged through her chest only to plummet into horror as she realized his gaze was glassy, unseeing.

“Gaius!” she gasped, rushing to his side, half relieved that he had moved, half horrified at the empty smile still fixed on his face. She gripped his shoulder, shaking him lightly, searching for some spark of recognition. But his head lolled back loosely, that vacant grin mocking her desperation.

Her heart thundered as she snatched up the book again, pages whispering under frantic fingers. “All right, maybe… maybe this one,” she muttered, words tumbling as her pulse quickened. She slammed her palm onto the parchment, voice sharp with command. “Ic þé bebíede þæt þú mé slæpest!”

The effect was immediate and disastrous. The legs of his chair splintered with a crack, giving way beneath him. Gaius collapsed in a heap on the floor, still beaming idiotically, his eyes blank with unnatural glee.

Merilyn dragged her hands down her face with a groan, frustration cutting through her fear. “Well, maybe not. Gods above…” She crouched beside him, brushing a hand against his shoulder, her throat tightening as she whispered, “Oh, come on, Gaius. I need you to wake up. Please. I really need your help.”

But his grin remained, fixed and lifeless, his eyes refusing to see her.

Grinding her teeth, she turned back to the book with renewed urgency, rifling through the vellum pages until her gaze snagged on another incantation. Her lips began shaping the words before her mind had fully caught up. “Ah, here we go. Brimstréam!”

The air snapped with sudden force, and a torrent of water burst forth from the parchment. It splashed directly across Gaius’s face, soaking his robes and pooling on the flagstones. He sputtered once, droplets clinging to his beard, but the grin held fast, grotesquely unchanged.

Merilyn cursed under her breath, snapping the spellbook closed with a crack of leather and parchment. The sharp sound carried through the dim chamber like a hammer blow, echoing against the shelves and shadowed walls, a note of finality she had not intended. Frustration and fear coiled together in her chest, winding tight as a noose, choking the steady rhythm of her resolve until it faltered. She pressed the book against her ribs, feeling the weight of it as if it were not only vellum and ink but also the crushing reminder of her own limitations.

Arthur’s voice broke through the silence with the force of a trumpet call, sharp and insistent from beyond the chamber door. “Merlin!”

She jolted upright as though struck, heart stuttering, the heavy book clutched to her chest like contraband. Her breath caught, and for a fleeting instant she stood frozen, as guilty as a thief caught rifling through secrets.

His voice came again, harder now, each word edged with command. “Come quickly!”

Her heart lurched violently. She shoved the book beneath her arm, skirts and cloak tangling as she bolted toward the door. The chamber fell behind her in a rush of shadows as she darted into the corridor, the flare of her cloak catching in the torchlight like a fleeting spark.

They climbed quickly toward the battlements, boots striking the stone steps in hurried rhythm. The air grew colder with each ascent until the final doorway spilled them into the night. The wind cut sharp against her cheeks, carrying the bite of frost and the taste of smoke. From the high vantage of the walls, Camelot’s lower town stretched dark and still below them, its silence broken only by the faint whistle of the wind through the crenellations. Then, on the far horizon, she saw them—riders cresting the rise, dark figures astride black horses, their armor catching what little light remained and turning it into a dull, sinister gleam. They moved with relentless purpose, eight shadows racing toward the heart of the city.

Merilyn’s stomach lurched, the sight twisting dread into her bones. Her voice came thin and breathless, almost to herself. “According to the legend there were only seven Knights of Medhir…”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he leaned over the stone wall, blue eyes narrowing with grim calculation. “Then who’s the extra rider?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice hollow, dread hollowing it out even further. Her gaze lingered on the lifeless town below them. “But Camelot is defenseless.”

Arthur tore his eyes from the riders, already nearing the lower streets. His face hardened, each word clipped, certain. “We have to get back to my father.”

They descended at speed, boots hammering against the staircases, the rhythm echoing in the hollowness of the keep. The air inside felt heavier than before, thick with the mingled scents of smoke and sickness, oppressive as a shroud. The weight of silence pressed close, broken only by the rasp of their breathing as they pushed through the palace halls. When they reached Uther’s chambers, Arthur shoved the door open with his shoulder, the wood groaning on its hinges.

The king was as they had left him, slumped forward over the council table, his face pale in the dim light, his breathing deep but unnatural. The goblet had rolled to the floor, its last trace of wine staining the rug like spilled blood.

“This will be one of the first places they look,” Arthur said grimly, striding forward to his father’s side. His voice carried the weight of command, but beneath it Merilyn heard the tremor of fear. “We have to get him somewhere else.”

A voice cut across the chamber, sharp and taut. “What’s going on?” Morgana had lingered in the corner by the hearth, her hands twisting in her skirts, her wide eyes reflecting the firelight with unease.

Arthur snapped his reply like an order on the battlefield. “We’re under attack. No time to explain. Grab his legs, carry him.” He locked his arms beneath Uther’s shoulders and hauled the king upright with a grunt of effort. The crown slipped sideways on Uther’s head, his body sagging with dead weight. Arthur snarled through clenched teeth, “You’re not meant to be sweeping the floor with him! Pick his feet up!”

Merilyn stooped quickly, muttering under her breath, unable to stop the sharp retort from slipping free. “His feet aren’t the problem.”

Arthur shot her a withering look, his voice cutting like a lash. “Merlin!”

She rolled her eyes beneath the illusion, shifting her grip on the king’s robes with a theatrical sigh. Morgana scrambled forward, pale and flustered, ducking beneath Uther’s weight to take hold of his legs with trembling arms. Together, they dragged the unconscious king into the corridor, his crown askew, his head lolling against Arthur’s chest as he snored faintly.

The sound rattled against the stone like some absurd counterpoint to the tension. It made the moment grotesquely comical, though no laughter should have belonged there. Merilyn bit down hard on the laugh that threatened to escape, but even under the weight of dread, a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Arthur caught the sound and hissed sharply, his voice low and cutting. “It is not funny, Merlin. Did you find the potion Morgana took?”

Merilyn faltered under the weight of the question, her throat suddenly dry. “Er… no.” The lie stumbled awkwardly from her lips, and though Arthur scowled, his attention soon shifted. The thunder of hooves echoing through the lower town drew his focus outward, the sound swelling against the stone walls like an omen.

They staggered into his chambers, half-dragging, half-carrying Uther between them, their arms aching beneath his weight. The moment they set him down, both Merilyn and Morgana dropped his legs in relief, breath leaving them in gasps. Sweat beaded on Merilyn’s brow as she leaned briefly against the bedpost, her chest heaving.

“We can’t leave him here!” Arthur snapped, his tone clipped with urgency as he straightened, still bracing his father’s weight. “We have to lift him onto the bed.”

Merilyn arched her brows, already reaching for the nearest cushion. “Why? He’s asleep. He’s not going to know.”

Arthur’s expression darkened into a scowl, his jaw tightening. “Merlin!”

“All right, all right,” she muttered, shoving a pillow beneath Uther’s head with a little more force than necessary.

“He’s the King!” Arthur barked, voice echoing through the chamber like the clang of steel.

“Fine,” Merilyn shot back, rolling her eyes as she snatched another cushion. “Two pillows.” She thrust it beneath Uther’s crown-askew head with exaggerated care.

Together they arranged the unconscious king, their combined efforts almost comical against the backdrop of his rumbling snores. The solemnity of the moment cracked under the absurdity of it, though neither dared laugh aloud. Arthur straightened finally, staggering slightly with the effort he had spent. His face had grown pale, the strain pulling shadows beneath his eyes.

“You all right?” Merilyn asked more gently, her sharp edges softening as she caught the flicker of weariness in his features.

Arthur gave a tight nod, though the movement made him wince. “Are you feeling the same?”

Her heart clenched at the question. She could feel it too—the sickness creeping into her bones, the heavy drag of enchantment tugging her down like an unseen tide. “We’re getting sick,” she admitted quietly, the words tasting like defeat.

Arthur turned swiftly toward Morgana, who lingered by the bed with her hands gripping the coverlet so tightly her knuckles blanched. Her face was carefully schooled into composure, but silence clung too closely to her. “We can’t let that happen,” he said firmly, urgency sharpening his words. “We must keep my father hidden.”

“Why don’t we disguise him?” Merilyn offered quickly, the idea spilling out before doubt could take root.

Arthur blinked, considering, then gave a short, reluctant nod. “That might just work.”

A mischievous smirk tugged at Merilyn’s mouth despite the tension. “We could dress him as a woman.”

Arthur shot her a look sharp enough to cut. “That, on the other hand…”

“All right, all right,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender, her grin twitching wider. “We could dress him as a servant.”

“That’s better.”

“I’ll get him some clothes,” she volunteered, already moving toward the door before he could protest further.

Arthur’s attention returned to Morgana. She had not moved from her place by the bed, her knuckles still clenched white in the fabric. Her eyes darted between them, wide and haunted. “Are you all right, Morgana? You seem quiet.”

“I’m fine,” she whispered, but the word trembled, brittle as spun glass.

Arthur studied her closely, suspicion and concern warring across his face. His voice gentled, softening at the edges as he spoke. “You sure? I can always tell when you’re lying.” His hand hovered as though he might reach for her shoulder but stopped short. “Don’t worry. I won’t let any harm come to him.”

The palace beyond their chamber had turned into a labyrinth of dread. The air itself seemed poisoned, heavy with an enchantment that pressed into the very stones. Faint groans and the echo of armored boots carried through the corridors—the Knights of Medhir prowling the halls like hounds on the scent, their presence undeniable even when unseen.

Merilyn pressed herself into the shadows of an alcove, staff clutched tight in her grip though she dared not raise it. Her breath caught in her throat, every muscle taut with the instinct to fight and the wisdom to stay hidden. The corridors were littered with bodies of the enchanted, slumped where they had fallen—servants draped across staircases, guards collapsed against walls with weapons slipping from limp hands, knights sprawled on the flagstones as if death itself had swept its cloak too close. The castle of Camelot, once brimming with life, had become a tomb where only echoes and dread remained.

Her pulse hammered violently in her chest as she darted from shadow to shadow, her cloak snapping softly behind her in the draft of the passage. The side corridor she had chosen narrowed quickly, its stones cold beneath her boots, the damp air clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. Each step struck with a muted echo that seemed too loud in the hush, as though the very castle might betray her presence. Downward the passage twisted, curling deeper into the earth, away from the safety of the torches above and into the bowels of Camelot—to the place she had sworn never to return.

The cavern yawned wide at the end of the stair, vast and hollow, its shadows pressing heavily against the edges of her sight. The air was thick with the weight of centuries, carrying the faint, bitter tang of smoke that lingered like a memory half-forgotten. Chains rattled faintly somewhere in the dark, their groan low and mournful, as if the very stone itself remembered who it held captive. She paused at the threshold, her heart twisting tight in her chest. Weeks had passed since she had last stood here—since her fury had driven her to spit words she could not take back, swearing he would never see her again. And yet ruin had closed over Camelot like a tightening fist, and here she was, forced to crawl back into his presence.

Her voice cracked through the cavern, sharper than she intended, echoing harshly against the walls. “What’s going on? Why is everyone asleep?!”

For a moment only silence answered, broken by the faint scrape of chain links shifting in the dark. Then came a sound that made her teeth clench—the long, deliberate growl of snoring, so obviously a performance it mocked her desperation.

“Please, not you as well,” she snapped, the sharpness of her voice collapsing into something thinner, almost pleading. She stepped further into the cavern, the sound of her boots swallowed by the void. “I need your help! What am I going to do?!” Her voice rose with each word, carried higher by panic. “Don’t pretend. I know you’re listening to me.”

A low yawn rumbled from the darkness, deep and contemptuous, followed by words that dripped with scorn. “I don’t need to listen to you, Merilyn. You always say the same thing: help me.” His golden eyes ignited faintly, twin coals sparking to life in the black, narrowing as they fixed upon her. “And yet you refuse to give anything in return. Now you will face the consequence of that decision. Camelot’s end is nigh, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Her chest constricted, breath coming shallow, but she forced the words out anyway, the promise raw on her lips. “I know I promised to free you, and I will!”

The dragon’s laugh rolled out in a roar of derision, harsh and merciless. It shook the cavern, reverberating from the stone like thunder. The sound clawed at her nerves until her own voice cracked against it.

“I will!” she cried, her words shattering on the edge of her fear. “I promise!”

The laughter subsided into a low snarl, the air vibrating with its menace. “I no longer trust your promises.”

Her throat burned, the ache of desperation tightening until her voice broke loose in a ragged cry she could no longer contain. “I swear on my mother’s life!” The oath tore free before she could stop it, sharp with terror and conviction, carrying the weight of something she had never intended to give. The words hung in the cavern like a brand, searing the silence with their irrevocability.

Kilgharrah’s massive head lowered slowly from the shadows, each movement deliberate, terrible in its inevitability. His molten eyes narrowed to slits, the fire within them smoldering with ancient judgment. When he spoke, his voice rumbled deep as mountains shifting, a sound that vibrated through the stone itself. “Careful what you say.”

Merilyn’s breath quavered, her voice shrinking to a whisper so thin she feared it might shatter before it reached him. “You have to help me. Please.” The word fractured at the edges, trembling so badly it barely clung to sound.

Smoke curled from his nostrils in long, deliberate ribbons, coiling through the air like serpents, veiling his glowing gaze until it flickered behind a haze of grey. “Her life matters more to you than your own,” he said, the pronouncement slow, final. “This is an oath I believe you will honor.”

Her fists clenched tight at her sides, nails biting crescent moons into her palms. Her knuckles ached with the force it took to keep her ground, yet her spine remained straight, defiance welded to desperation. “I will,” she answered, every muscle trembling with the strain of belief.

The dragon’s voice deepened further, rolling out with the resonance of centuries, each syllable heavy with both knowledge and cruelty. “It is one thing to cast a spell that drags a kingdom into sleep. The power to sustain it is another matter altogether. It will take more than words to break such an enchantment.”

Her breath caught sharply, dread creeping along her skin like cold fingers tracing her spine. “What do you mean?”

“You must eradicate the source, Merilyn.”

Her heart faltered, stuttering painfully against her ribs as the chill spread through her bones. “Great,” she muttered, though her voice was little more than a brittle breath. “And what is that?”

The dragon’s eyes blazed brighter, their molten glow scorching against the dark, like embers hurled into night. His words rang with merciless clarity. “Not what, but who. Such spells require a vessel, a living presence to sustain them. The source of this pestilence is the witch—the Lady Morgana.”

The declaration struck her like a physical blow. Her mouth went dry, her pulse stumbling as though her very blood recoiled. She forced air into her lungs, but when the words left her, they broke against her lips. “No. That can’t be.”

Kilgharrah’s teeth gleamed as he bared them, a grim flash of ivory in the dark—something that was not a smile but a warning. “I have cautioned you about her before, but you would not heed me. She is dangerous.”

Merilyn turned her face away, her vision blurring with heat that stung the backs of her eyes. “No.” The single word trembled in the air, frail yet unyielding, as though she could hold back the weight of his certainty by sheer will.

“And now,” Kilgharrah pressed, his voice reverberating like thunder rolling through the cavern, “she has chosen to turn her back on her own.”

Her knees weakened beneath the force of his words, the strength in them buckling as though they could no longer bear her weight. Somehow she managed to whisper, her voice breaking under its own weight. “How do I stop her?”

The dragon’s great head lowered until the heat of his breath washed over her face, acrid with smoke and heavy with fire. His eyes bore down on her as he delivered his command. “That is easy, young sorceress. You must kill her.”

Her answer came raw, strangled by horror. “No.” The denial rasped from her throat, stripped of power but sharpened by grief.

His roar exploded through the cavern, rattling the chains until they clanged like thunder against stone. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the force of it shook her bones. “The spell is woven with magic of such power that even you are not immune. You must act now before it is too late. If you do not, Camelot will fall, Arthur will die, and the future you were destined to share will die with you.”

Each word landed like a blow, striking the hollow of her chest until her breath faltered. She staggered back a step, as though the sheer weight of his decree had pressed her into retreat. The cavern seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the stone itself demanding obedience to his will.

Yet even as her body trembled under the force of his prophecy, her heart screamed refusal. The defiance within her burned hotter than fear, and though her lips could not yet form the words, every beat of her soul cried out against him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27

The physician’s chambers smelled of herbs and smoke, but the familiar scents that usually wrapped the room in comfort now felt hollow, tainted by the weight of silence. Scrolls lay scattered across the floor, their ink smudged where a careless hand had dragged through still-wet lines. Glass vials rolled across the workbench where Gaius had collapsed forward, his weathered cheek pressed to the wood. His chest rose and fell in the same unnatural rhythm as every other soul in Camelot, locked in an enchanted sleep too deep to wake. The stillness of his figure, paired with the faint smile caught on his lips, made the sight worse—mocking, almost—as if he dreamed while she drowned in waking dread.

Merilyn moved quickly, forcing her hands not to shake as she rifled through cupboards and shelves. Jars clinked, bundles of herbs rustled, the hollow sounds unnervingly loud in the quiet chamber. She gathered what she needed without hesitation: a plain bundle of servant’s clothes, coarse and nondescript; a water skin half-filled, its leather stiff with age; and, after a sharp breath that seemed to lodge painfully in her chest, a vial of hemlock. The liquid was dark, almost black in the flicker of the hearth, and it seemed to thrum with a weight all its own as she turned it over in her palm. For a long heartbeat she stared at it, her pulse thundering in her ears. The glass was light, fragile, but the decision it represented pressed on her like iron. Either choice would break her. And still, there was no time left to falter. She tucked it quickly into her bundle and forced herself to breathe.

She left the chamber at a run, her boots striking sharp, urgent rhythm against the flagstones. The corridors pressed close around her, too quiet, their hush broken only by the occasional flicker of torch flame and the faint, unnatural sounds that drifted through the stone. Somewhere deeper within the palace came the rasp of steel dragged against stone, the uneven shuffle of armored feet that did not move with human cadence.

“Merlin!”

Arthur’s voice hissed low, urgent, from the shadowed mouth of an alcove. She nearly missed it in her rush until a hand shot out and dragged her inside. The impact pulled the air from her lungs, her back hitting stone as Arthur’s face loomed close. His features were taut with strain, his breath sharp with urgency. “What took you so long?”

Merilyn fought to steady her breath, clutching the bundle tight against her chest. “I didn’t know Uther’s size,” she muttered, the excuse thin but all she could manage under his scrutiny.

Arthur’s scowl deepened, his lips parting to retort—but then he froze. The sound in the corridor shifted. The scrape of heavy boots, the metallic drag of armor against stone, the wheeze of breath that seemed to pull the air itself thin. Together they leaned forward, peering past the edge of the alcove into the gloom.

Morgause moved at the center of the procession, her stride unhurried, her golden hair catching faint glimmers of light like a crown. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, her face composed, regal, as though the castle were already hers. Around her marched the Knights of Medhir, their blackened armor dull with centuries of dust yet glinting faintly in the gloom. Their swords dragged low, the sound a rasping protest as though even the stones recoiled from bearing their weight. The air thickened with their passage, heavy and suffocating.

Arthur’s fury flared, raw and immediate. His hand shot to the hilt of his sword, blue eyes blazing as though he could strike her down where she walked.

Merilyn’s grip snapped closed around his wrist, her fingers hard enough to bruise. She shook her head sharply, violet fire threatening to flare through the illusion of blue. “Not now,” she whispered, her voice fierce, the plea carrying the weight of command. “You can’t fight them all.”

Arthur’s jaw worked, his teeth grinding as the muscle in his cheek twitched. For a breath, she thought he would defy her. But then the tension broke in a slow exhale, and with visible effort he released the hilt, letting the blade sink back into its scabbard. Fury still burned hot in his eyes, enough to sear, but he swallowed it down, watching as Morgause and her knights swept past. Only when the echoes of their march had faded into silence did he move again.

They slipped from the alcove and pressed forward quickly through the winding halls, their footsteps muffled by the weight of dread that seemed to seep from every stone. Merilyn reached Arthur’s chambers first and shoved the door open with her shoulder, her breath catching at the resistance of the heavy wood.

Morgana turned sharply from where she stood by the narrow window. Her face was pale, the firelight casting hollows beneath her eyes, and something unreadable moved there—fear, perhaps, or something she refused to name. Her hands twisted tightly in the folds of her gown, but her voice, though thin, was steady. “I was worried about you.” The words carried the brittle tension of a string drawn too tight.

“They’re here,” Merilyn said quickly, her own urgency cutting across the stillness. “They’re in the castle.”

Morgana’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening, though the movement seemed more measured than startled, as though she had already known what Merilyn would say. “Where’s Arthur?” she asked, her voice low and sharp, the words clipped with unease.

“Gone to find somewhere safe to move to,” Merilyn replied, forcing her tone into a studied neutrality. She held Morgana’s gaze a heartbeat longer than was wise, searching for some flicker of truth in those dark eyes, but the princess looked away first. Her shadow stretched long across the rush-strewn floor, the firelight catching on the tension in her shoulders.

Morgana exhaled slowly, her stance easing though not fully relaxing. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice low, brittle. “For not saying anything to him.”

“It’s all right,” Merilyn answered, though the words scraped her throat. The ache in her chest deepened at the lie, heavy with the weight of secrets she could not share.

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, something caught between relief and guilt. “You’re a good friend,” she said, her tone soft yet edged with something unreadable.

Before Merilyn could shape a reply, the door banged open. Arthur burst into the chamber, his face grim, his movements sharp with urgency. “We have to move my father before Morgause gets here.”

The name alone made Morgana stiffen, her body tightening as though braced against a blow. “Morgause,” she echoed, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

Arthur didn’t notice. He was already striding across the chamber, his focus wholly on the task at hand. “Come on. Let’s go!”

Merilyn’s eyes narrowed as she turned toward Morgana. “You’re not surprised,” she said quietly, the observation falling heavy between them.

Morgana faltered, then drew a shaky breath, words tumbling out too quickly. “No—I mean, yes, I am.” But her tone lacked conviction, and Merilyn tucked the knowledge away like a knife hidden beneath her sleeve.

Together they lifted Uther again, half-dragging, half-carrying him through the winding corridors. His weight was a burden none of them could afford to falter under, his crown askew, his head lolling as he snored faintly in enchanted oblivion. They slipped into a small servant’s chamber tucked near the kitchens, its air stale and heavy, the rushes on the floor damp. A narrow cot waited against the wall, and they lowered the king onto it with a groan of relief.

“This should be safe for a while,” Arthur muttered, straightening and scrubbing a weary hand across his face. His exhaustion showed in the set of his jaw and the slump of his shoulders, though his eyes still burned with determination.

Uther sagged into the thin mattress while Arthur collapsed into a chair, his breath harsh, the weight of command pressing visibly on him. Merilyn leaned heavily against the wall, her limbs aching from both strain and fear. Morgana, however, did not sit. She remained standing at the window, her hands knotted tightly in her skirts, her gaze fixed outward as though something in the night called her name.

Arthur studied her, his voice softening, though weariness roughened the edges. “Must be the potion Gaius gave her.”

“Yeah,” Merilyn said, her agreement flat, her tone empty of belief. “Must be the potion.”

Arthur grimaced, shaking his head. “We can’t keep this up much longer.”

“I know,” Merilyn admitted. Her eyes swept the small room, the damp rushes, the rough-spun blankets. Then a thought sparked, sharp and sudden. “Wait—we’re in a servant’s quarters. If we leave him here, they’ll just think he’s a servant.”

Arthur’s mouth twisted in grim skepticism. “Not if Morgause sees him. We need to get him out of Camelot.”

Merilyn’s memory stirred, and her voice rose quickly. “When we arrived, there was a cart in the main square, remember?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, then smoothed as reluctant hope lit his eyes. “You’re full of good ideas today, Merlin.” He gestured toward the door, already regaining momentum. “Go and look.”

The corridor outside was too still, every shadow thick with threat. Merilyn slipped through carefully, her staff clutched close, her breaths shallow as she edged toward a high window. She peered down into the square, relief surging in her chest as her eyes caught on the cart where she had last seen it. But the relief was short-lived. A sound rose from the passage behind her—the heavy scrape of armored boots, the unnatural grind of metal against stone.

She turned sharply just as one of the undead knights loomed from the gloom, its glowing eyes locked on her, its sword rising in a slow, inexorable arc.

Her hand flew up, her staff blazing with sudden light. The words ripped from her throat before she could think, raw and commanding. “Atres!”

The air cracked like a whip, and a surge of force hurled the knight backward. It slammed into the wall with bone-jarring impact, the crash echoing through the corridor. For one hopeful instant, silence followed. Then the thing stirred, its body creaking as it pushed itself upright, steel rasping in defiance.

Merilyn fled, boots hammering against the flagstones, her heart clawing at her throat. She burst back into the chamber, slamming the door shut with the flat of her palm. “They’re closing in!” she gasped, chest heaving. “We won’t make it to the cart—not carrying him.”

“That’s why we’ve made this,” Arthur answered grimly, dragging a makeshift harness of ropes and torn cloth from the corner. He tossed it to the ground, already knotting one end tight. “We’re going to pull him.”

He eased the door open just enough to peer into the corridor, then snapped it shut again, sword drawn in one swift motion. Pressing himself flat behind a column, his voice dropped low and fierce. “Get down. Keep quiet.”

Merilyn ducked behind the opposite column, yanking Morgana with her. The scrape of armored feet grew louder, filling the chamber like the toll of a funeral bell. One of the knights stepped inside, its eyes glowing with otherworldly fire, its blade dragging across the floor.

Arthur lunged, his sword flashing in a bright arc. His voice rang with command, raw and unyielding. “Protect the King!” he shouted, striking with every ounce of strength he had left. “Get him out of here!”

Merilyn grabbed Uther’s shoulders, Morgana his legs, and together they heaved the unresponsive king toward the door. The corridor ahead stretched long and narrow, red tapestries stirring faintly in the draft, the path to escape lined with shadows that threatened to close in. Behind them, the knight’s steps thundered after, relentless as death.

Morgana stumbled as Uther’s weight pulled her down, her knees crashing hard against the flagstones. Pain jolted through her, and she cried out, her voice edged sharp with fear. “Merlin!”

Merilyn faltered, her steps hitching as her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but the dead weight of the king dragged at her arms, demanding every ounce of strength she had left. Her muscles burned as she forced herself onward, sweat slicking her skin. She could not stop—not when every heartbeat echoed with the thunder of armored pursuit.

“Please!” Morgana’s scream split the corridor, raw and desperate.

The knight loomed over her where she knelt, its massive blade arcing high, glowing eyes searing down upon her. Morgana cowered, arms thrown up to shield herself, bracing for the blow that would end her. Yet the strike never fell. Instead, the knight froze, its head tilting unnaturally, its gaze holding on her for one long, unsettling moment. Then, as though some unseen tether tugged its will elsewhere, its burning eyes shifted to follow Merilyn instead.

With a hiss of steel, it lunged after her, leaving Morgana shaken and gasping on the floor. Merilyn dragged Uther around the corner, her arms screaming with the effort, her staff sparking faintly in her grip as she fought to contain the power flaring through her veins. She spun, ready to unleash it, but before the words could form, a figure burst into the corridor with the force of a storm.

Arthur came down on the knight with a furious cry, his blade flashing in a brutal flurry of strikes. Steel clashed, ringing through the passage, each blow driven by raw desperation. With a final, savage kick, he sent the creature tumbling backward down the spiral staircase, its armor shrieking against the stone as it crashed into the depths below.

Merilyn sagged against the wall, her breath coming ragged, her arms trembling with exhaustion. Arthur caught her shoulder, his grip hard, his blue eyes blazing with fury and fear all at once. Without a word, they shifted Uther’s weight between them, dragging him forward again, the oppressive shadow of the Knights pressing ever closer behind.

The council chamber had never felt so much like a tomb. Its tall windows, usually alive with daylight, were veiled in shadow, their glass streaked with grime that turned the light dull and lifeless. The air inside was close and heavy, thick with dust stirred by the chaos that had swept through the palace. Arthur shoved his way inside, half dragging his father’s limp body across the threshold. His face was pale beneath the grime, sweat beading on his brow, but his jaw was locked with a soldier’s grim determination.

“Merlin, help me,” he barked, the strain raw at the edges of his clipped voice.

Merilyn pushed her shoulder beneath Uther’s sagging arm, grimacing as his weight pressed down on her smaller frame. Together she and Arthur staggered across the chamber to the great doors, forcing them shut with a jarring slam. The iron bolts screeched as they shoved them into place, the sound echoing through the chamber like the toll of a death knell. Outside, the heavy tread of armored feet drew nearer, their rhythm unnatural, scraping against stone with the implacable cadence of death itself.

Arthur turned sharply to Morgana, who hovered near the long table, her hands clutched white-knuckled in her skirts. His gaze was piercing, his tone urgent. “Morgana, we need the remedy Gaius gave you. Whatever it was—tell me.”

She flinched, her lips parting, but no answer came. At last she whispered, voice trembling though her eyes hardened stubbornly. “I don’t have it.”

Arthur swore under his breath, frustration cutting through the exhaustion in his features. “I know that, but you must remember what it was, what was in it. Come on, Morgana! We can’t keep going much longer—think!”

Her shoulders curled inward, the sharp strength of her bearing folding in on itself. Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. “I’m sorry! I—I don’t know!”

Merilyn, still braced against the barred door with Arthur, forced her voice to steady. “It doesn’t matter,” she said firmly, though her pulse thundered in her ears. “We can’t get it now anyway. We’re trapped.”

A thunderous crash reverberated through the chamber as armored fists pounded against the council doors, each strike rattling the wood with brutal force. The hinges groaned, the iron bolts screeched under the strain, and the sound of it seemed to shake through the very stone. Arthur’s jaw clenched as he braced his shoulder against the door, his anger spilling raw into his voice. “There has to be something we can do!”

Merilyn’s head snapped toward Morgana, her eyes flashing as she hissed the words low, meant for her alone. “Why didn’t that knight kill you?”

Morgana froze, her gaze widening with sharp shock before narrowing quickly into defiance. “How should I know? Because I’m a woman?” she bit back, her tone brittle.

Merilyn forced a thin smile, though suspicion coiled in her gut like smoke, acrid and heavy. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice edged with irony. “Maybe.”

Arthur’s breathing grew shallow, his shoulders straining against the weight of the barred door. One hand pressed briefly to his side, as though he sought to steady the weakness creeping into his body, but his eyes still burned with stubborn resolve. His voice came rough, worn thin with frustration. “Unless we can rid ourselves of this sickness, I don’t see how we’re going to hold out much longer.” His gaze shifted onto Merilyn, heavy with expectation, cutting her to the bone. “There has to be a way.”

Her heart thundered. The truth clawed up her throat, threatening to burst free. She forced the words out slowly, each syllable like lead on her tongue. “We have to destroy the source of the magic.”

Arthur turned sharply toward her, his expression hard. “Which is?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted too quickly, her voice scraping raw. The evasion hung between them, brittle and unconvincing, and she hated how hollow it sounded even to her own ears.

Arthur’s fists tightened against the wood, but instead of pressing her further, he forced himself into motion, his voice clipped with command. “Then our only chance is to get out of Camelot. Help me with my father. You—” his finger jabbed toward Merilyn, sharp as the point of his sword—“cut the blanket up. We’ll tie it to him and lower him onto the cart.”

Morgana’s lips parted, her voice catching in her throat. “Arthur…”

He rounded on her, his tone snapping like a whip, the crack of desperation unmistakable. “Morgana, please, just do as I say! I’ll fetch the cart around to the window.”

Merilyn pushed herself off the door, shaking her head fiercely. “You’re going out there? I’ll come with you.”

Arthur’s glare was immediate, his voice carrying the sharp edge of command. “No. You stay. You protect my father.”

“You won’t reach the cart alone,” she argued, her voice low but certain, conviction lacing each word. “It’s suicide.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed, the muscle twitching as his hand tightened reflexively around the hilt of his sword. “We don’t have a choice,” he said flatly.

Merilyn studied him for a heartbeat, her gaze reading past the steel in his eyes to the truth his body betrayed—the pallor in his face, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the faint tremor that rippled through his arm. “How are you feeling?” she pressed, her tone unyielding.

“Not bad,” he lied, too quickly, the words unconvincing even to himself.

Her violet eyes flickered beneath the illusion of blue, sharp and searching. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he insisted, but his voice had tightened, the single syllable cracking under strain.

Merilyn forced a grin, though it tugged thin and fragile at her mouth, her throat tight with dread. “Never better,” she said dryly, matching his stubborn bravado in kind, even as the lie trembled between them.

Arthur smirked faintly in return, but his eyes betrayed him. The weight dragging at his shoulders, the pallor beneath the grime of his face, and the faint tremor in his hand spoke of the sickness pressing harder with every passing moment. He leaned more heavily against the door, his voice deceptively casual as he muttered, “Get me a pillow, could you?”

Her brow furrowed sharply, patience splintering. “Don’t mess around. Arthur, you—” The words faltered into silence as her chest seized with sudden dread. His body sagged without warning, sliding down the wood as his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping forward in unconscious surrender.

“Arthur!” The cry ripped from her with a sharp edge of panic. She lunged across the chamber in a stride, her hand flying up before hesitation could root her in place. The crack of her palm meeting his cheek split the air like a whip, loud in the stifling quiet of the chamber.

His eyes snapped open at once, blazing with fury. “Merlin!” he roared, outrage sparking through the haze of exhaustion.

“That’s better!” she shot back, glaring at him with mock severity, though her chest still heaved with relief, her heart pounding so hard it shook her ribs.

Arthur shoved away from the door, jabbing a finger at her with soldier’s authority. “If you ever do that again—”

“Then don’t fall asleep,” she cut across him, her voice sharp with defiance, her eyes daring him to argue.

His breath came rough, his chest rising and falling as though each inhale burned. Yet the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, betraying amusement beneath the anger. With a grunt, he snatched the water skin from her hand, uncorked it, and splashed the cold liquid over his face. Droplets ran down his temples, dripping onto the collar of his tunic, but the shock brought a flicker of clarity back to his eyes, sharpening them to steel.

Beyond the chamber, the sound of armored knights grew louder, their weight dragging against the stone like thunder rolling closer. Metal claws—or swords—scraped at the wood, the vibration running through the bolts, each strike promising that the barrier would not hold. The noise reverberated through the chamber, deep and menacing, a grim reminder that their time was splintering away.

Arthur turned his head toward the door, his sword arm flexing in readiness. His voice came dry, cutting through the tension like a blade honed to gallows humor. “That your knees again?”

Merilyn forced a smirk, though her stomach coiled tight. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His hand closed around the bolts, fingers tightening on the cold iron. For a heartbeat he glanced at her, and in his eyes flickered something startling—a trust so profound it shook her, even though suspicion still shadowed the edges. It was enough to make her chest ache. Without another word, they unbarred the door together.

Arthur braced himself, sword drawn, every inch of him alive with coiled tension. He inhaled once, steady and deliberate, then threw the door wide.

“If I need a servant in the next life—” he muttered under his breath, a grin breaking faintly through the strain.

Merilyn answered without pause, her voice wry. “Don’t ask me.”

Arthur barked out a laugh, quick and sharp, a jagged sound that cut through the fear. “Ha!”

Then he surged forward in a blur of steel and determination, his sword raised high as he leapt into the corridor. The crash of steel on steel rang instantly, the clash reverberating through stone and bone alike. Merilyn followed in his wake, her heart hammering with the knowledge that Camelot’s fate now hung by threads fraying faster with every strike of the blade.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

The roar of steel beyond the chamber doors rattled the room with every clash, each impact reverberating through the stone floor like distant thunder. Arthur’s voice carried faintly through the din, the raw timbre of command threaded with desperation as he fought alone against a tide that would not break. Inside, Merilyn’s hands shook on the iron bar she had just forced back into place, the clang of metal ringing in her bones. Her chest heaved with uneven breaths, and the acrid sting of smoke and dust burned her eyes until tears blurred the torches into smears of gold.

“He’s not going to survive out there,” Morgana whispered. Her voice was thin, tremulous, as though the words themselves had to be dragged from her throat.

Merilyn’s head bowed forward, her eyes closing against the truth she could not deny. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, each beat a drum of helplessness. “I know.”

Morgana stood near the long table, her hands twisting in the fabric of her gown, white-knuckled, her face pale in the flickering light. Shadows deepened the hollows beneath her eyes, and fear carved itself across her features. “We’ve got to do something.”

“I know,” Merilyn repeated, though the words felt hollow, stripped of weight. Her mind screamed the truth she could not speak aloud: no spell of strength or fire would stop those endless, deathless knights. Not unless she struck at the heart of the magic itself. And that heart—Kilgharrah’s warning echoed with merciless clarity—stood breathing right beside her.

Arthur’s shout rang again through the doors, the sound raw enough to drag her from stillness. Merilyn forced her trembling body into motion, dropping to her knees beside the heap of torn blankets they had used to drag Uther. She yanked a strip free, the fabric rasping in her hands. “Here,” she said roughly, thrusting it toward Morgana. “Tear this up—I’ll make some rope.” Her tone carried no softness, no room for argument. Morgana obeyed, fumbling with the cloth as though her fingers had lost their strength.

Merilyn’s hands moved with grim efficiency, though her pulse hammered so loudly she could barely hear the scrape of fabric. She reached for the water skin, and for a heartbeat her reflection flickered back at her in the dark curve of the hemlock vial hidden against her palm. Kilgharrah’s words gnawed at her ribs: You must eradicate the source. She had fought those words with every breath, but now, in the silence that stretched between Arthur’s cries and Morgana’s uneven breathing, there was no place left for denial.

Her hand tipped swiftly, the clear liquid slipping into the water skin with barely a sound. The bitter edge of its scent vanished beneath the sharper notes of crushed herbs already steeped inside. She forced her hand still as she shoved the emptied vial back into her belt and corked the skin tight. Only once did her fingers shake, and then she crushed the tremor into stillness.

“Here,” she said, holding the skin out toward Morgana, her voice steady with effort. “Have some water.”

Morgana barely looked at it, her eyes wide and restless, darting toward the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. “I’m not thirsty.”

Merilyn’s jaw clenched, frustration burning in her throat. “If we get out of here, you may not get another chance to drink.”

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, the movement more shadow than smile, a humorless echo of what it should have been. “If we get out of here,” she murmured, her voice brittle with despair, each word already sounding like surrender. She set the water skin aside untouched, her fingers slack as it thudded dully against the rushes, and her hands fell limply into her lap as though all strength had gone out of them.

Beyond the barred doors, Arthur’s blade struck again. The clang reverberated through the chamber, heavy and mournful, tolling like a funeral bell. The sound tore through Merilyn’s resolve and spurred her into motion before she could think better of it. She snatched the water skin back up, her movements sharp, and wrenched the cork free. The faint bitterness of hemlock seemed to cling to the air, though the sharper notes of herbs masked it well enough. She raised it to her lips, tipping it outward, but her throat seized, refusing the swallow her body knew it could not risk. Still, she forced a steadying breath through her teeth and angled the skin outward, feigning careless ease. “Here,” she said, pressing it firmly into Morgana’s hands.

“I’m fine,” Morgana answered too quickly. Her voice cracked, thin with nerves she could not disguise, betraying the fear that trembled just beneath her words.

Merilyn’s gaze pinned her, violet fire threatening to burn through the glamour of Merlin’s blue. Her voice dropped low, unyielding, carrying the iron weight of command. “No. You have some before I finish it.”

The authority in her tone landed. Morgana hesitated, her hand trembling as she reached for the skin. For a long heartbeat her green eyes searched Merilyn’s face, as though some instinct deep within her knew what she held. But suspicion gave way to resignation. With a small, weary sigh, she raised it to her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She drank.

The effect was swift and merciless. Morgana’s hand faltered almost at once, the water skin slipping from her grasp to strike the floor with a dull, hollow thud. Her breath hitched, sharp and broken, and her throat worked uselessly as she clawed at the neckline of her gown. Her eyes widened in shock, snapping from the fallen skin to Merilyn, confusion and disbelief warring with sudden terror.

“No,” she rasped, her voice shredded by the poison closing her throat. Her body buckled, her knees giving way, and she crumpled to the floor, each choking gasp echoing harshly in the chamber.

Merilyn dropped to her knees at once, sliding her arms beneath Morgana’s shoulders to catch her before her skull struck stone. Tears blurred her vision until the world was nothing but fractured light, hot and furious against her cheeks, but she held Morgana tightly, whispering brokenly against her ear. “I had to. I had no choice.” The words fell like ash, hollow even as she said them.

Morgana’s hands clutched weakly at her wrists, her green eyes glistening with betrayal and confusion, the shimmer of them piercing straight through Merilyn’s heart. Her chest caved inward around the sight, her soul screaming to undo what had been done, to take the poison back into herself instead. But the moment had already passed, and nothing she could offer now would change it.

Across the corridors, Morgause staggered mid-step, her hand flying to her throat as if she herself had swallowed the poison. The bond with her sister tore through the castle like lightning, sharp and undeniable, and her shriek split the air, echoing down the stones with raw fury.

The doors of the council chamber exploded inward with a shriek of rending wood, the heavy oak shattering into splinters that flew like shrapnel through the dust-choked air. The bar that had held them snapped like twigs beneath the force, and the whirlwind of impact filled the chamber with a deafening violence that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. Merilyn flinched instinctively, her body curling protectively over Morgana’s limp form, shielding her from the rain of debris even as her own back took the sting of flying shards.

From the maelstrom stepped Morgause, radiant and terrible, her golden hair wild about her shoulders, her eyes burning with a light that seared between grief and rage. Power radiated from her like heat from a forge, crackling in the air, sparking across the walls as though the very stones trembled beneath her fury. Her voice broke the heavy silence in a keening cry, high and sharp enough to pierce bone. “What has he done to you?” she screamed, her anguish ringing like a curse. She rushed forward, every movement desperate, the frenzy of a woman who had already lost too much. Falling to her knees, she wrenched Morgana from Merilyn’s arms and cradled her against her chest, rocking her as though sheer will might summon life back into her sister’s failing body.

Merilyn forced herself upright, her limbs trembling with exhaustion, her chest shuddering with each breath. Tears still blurred her vision, smearing with ash as she wiped them away with a shaking hand. Her voice cracked when it came, but she forced it out all the same. “I had to.”

“You poisoned her!” Morgause’s voice split the air, raw with rage. Magic surged uncontrolled in answer to her fury, snapping like lightning across the chamber, filling the air with the scent of ozone and the hiss of power that had nowhere to go.

“You gave me no choice!” Merilyn’s own voice rang back through the chamber, brittle but steady, the weight of her words pressed against the swell of power that threatened to consume them both.

Morgause’s gaze fixed on her, grief sharpened into a blade. “Tell me what you used,” she demanded, each word trembling with violence. “Tell me, and I can save her.”

Merilyn’s chest heaved as she met that molten stare, refusing to look away, her voice steady though her throat burned. “First, stop the attack.”

“You are nothing but a servant,” Morgause hissed, her tone venomous, her grief twisting into contempt. The air around her shimmered with the force of her gathering power. “You do not tell me what to do.”

Merilyn took a step closer, the staff at her back humming faintly as if it longed to be drawn, though she dared not reach for it. “If you want to know the poison,” she said firmly, her voice low but resolute, “you will undo the magic that drives the knights.”

“Tell me!” Morgause’s snarl reverberated through the chamber, her power coiling higher. “Or you will die where you stand.”

Merilyn swallowed hard, her fear burning hot in her chest, but her voice held steady when it came, breaking only at the edges. “Then she will die with me. I don’t want this any more than you, but you left me no choice. Stop the knights, and you can still save her.”

For a long, terrible moment, silence crackled between them, broken only by Morgana’s ragged gasps as her poisoned body fought for breath. Outside the chamber, Arthur’s blade struck again against unyielding armor, the clang reverberating like a distant funeral bell.

At last, Morgause’s shoulders slumped, her fury shifting to anguish. She pressed one hand to Morgana’s chest, her eyes closing briefly before snapping open with fresh fire. Her voice rose in a command that shook the very stones of the council chamber, a cry that carried like thunder. “Astýre ús þanonweard! Cnihtas Medhires, éower sáwla. Rid eft ond forsliehð eft!”

The words tore through the castle, vibrating through every wall and pillar. Outside, Arthur staggered mid-swing, his sword poised as the undead knights around him suddenly dropped lifeless at his feet. Their weapons clattered to the ground like a rain of steel, the sound echoing into silence.

Merilyn exhaled a shuddering breath, relief and grief tangled so tightly they threatened to strangle her. With shaking hands, she drew the small vial of hemlock from her belt. Its glass gleamed darkly in the dim torchlight as she tossed it across the chamber. Morgause caught it midair with trembling fingers, clutching it to her chest as though it were both salvation and curse.

The chamber doors banged wide once more, this time not with sorcery but with brute force. Arthur burst in, two knights of Camelot at his back, their armor dented and smeared with ash. His sword was already raised, his face wild with fear and fury. “What have you done with my father?” he shouted, the demand raw.

“He’s safe!” Merilyn called back hoarsely, her throat roughened by smoke and strain.

On the floor, Uther stirred at last, groaning as he rolled heavily onto his side. Arthur’s head whipped toward him, relief flashing bright across his face. But the moment of reprieve shattered instantly when his gaze fell on Morgana, limp in Morgause’s arms.

“Morgana!” he cried, his voice ragged with grief.

Morgause rose with her, rising to her full height like a storm given form. Her golden hair whipped around her face though no wind stirred, her eyes blazing with feral fury. “Keep away from her!” she snarled, her voice splitting into incantation, ancient and searing. “Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!”

The air split open in a cyclone of smoke and whirling wind, black and choking, swallowing Morgause and Morgana whole. In a blink, they vanished, leaving behind only the echo of Morgause’s fury and the bitter taste of ash that settled on the air like the residue of ruin.

Uther stood in Morgana’s chambers, a solitary figure carved in stone by grief and silence. The half-light slanted through the shutters, touching the room with muted gold and shadow. The air still carried her perfume—jasmine and cedarwood—haunting the draperies and cushions, lingering like a ghost of the young woman who had once called this place her sanctuary. On the dressing table, her jewelry lay untouched, each delicate piece gleaming faintly in the dim light. Uther lifted one—a bracelet of filigreed gold—turning it slowly between weathered fingers. Its weight was slight, but the memories pressed heavy. These trinkets, these small relics, spoke louder of her absence than any empty bed or cold chair. His face was tight, held between grief and fury, yet he allowed neither to fully break the surface. He could not afford to.

The door creaked softly behind him. Arthur entered, shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion, his cloak dulled by dust, his sword arm bruised from the clash with the deathless knights. His eyes swept the room first for his father before settling on him, and though his voice was soft, urgency threaded through every syllable. “I couldn’t find you. Are you all right?”

Uther set the bracelet down with careful precision, as though the simple act might keep his hands from trembling. He turned, his gaze sharp but dulled by the strain of a man who had not permitted himself to weep. “Is there still no sign of her?”

Arthur shook his head, jaw locked against the ache of defeat. “We’ve looked, Father.”

A muscle jumped in Uther’s cheek, his control stretched thin. His voice dropped to steel, ringing with command even in the quiet. “Morgause must not be allowed to get away with this.”

“Yes, Father.” Arthur’s reply was steady, but each word seemed to scrape something raw inside him. He had seen Morgana limp in Morgause’s arms, her pale face slack with the stillness of death. A piece of him doubted they would ever see her again, and the weight of that unspoken truth burned heavier than any wound.

He turned to leave, needing to escape the suffocating heaviness of the chamber, but his father’s voice halted him at the threshold.

“Arthur.”

Arthur glanced back, weary, his hand braced on the doorframe. Uther’s face was drawn with age and sorrow, but his tone carried something rare—something almost gentle. “I haven’t had a chance to say thank you.”

Arthur’s throat closed at that, a knot forming that words could not untangle. He bowed his head slightly, voice low and raw. “I failed, Father. I should have protected Morgana.”

“No.” Uther’s answer was sharp, swift, and unforgiving. He stepped closer, his eyes burning with a conviction born of guilt. “That was my duty. Her loss will forever be on my conscience, not yours.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, the protest caught and silenced behind clenched teeth. He could not believe it fully, yet he could not argue either. He bowed once more, the gesture stiff and weighted, as though acknowledging burdens neither man could name. When he left, the door closed softly behind him, but the silence that followed was heavier than before.

Her cottage was silent, yet her hands moved with desperate urgency, every motion sharpened by fear and resolve. She pushed aside the simple chest at the foot of her bed and reached into the shadows beneath it, her fingers closing around the weapon she had hidden there. The short sword slid free, its blade gleaming faintly in the half-light, dark as river steel and etched with symbols that twisted and shimmered like living things. The runes of the Old Religion carved along its length seemed to pulse as though aware of her touch. Kilgharrah’s warning haunted her as she buckled the worn strap across her waist: Their blades were forged by the Old Religion. If you harness its power to your own, you will have the strength to break the chains with which Uther Pendragon keeps me prisoner.

By the time she descended into the bowels of Camelot, the air had grown thick and close, laden with the acrid stench of sulfur and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Heat rolled in waves from unseen depths, dampening her skin, pressing at her lungs until every breath felt stolen. The dragon’s cave yawned open before her, vast and echoing, its shadows alive with whispers. Her footsteps, quick and uneven, were swallowed whole by the immensity of the dark, leaving her feeling small and breakable at the edge of that endless void.

The air shifted suddenly, carrying with it a deep rush of sound, like wings beating against the vaults of the earth. The ground trembled as Kilgharrah descended, vast and terrible, each movement a force of nature. His scales shimmered like molten gold, catching fire from the faintest glimmers of light, and his eyes burned with such intensity it seemed they alone could set the cavern alight. The weight of his presence pressed down on her chest until her heart threatened to collapse beneath it.

“The time has come, young warlock,” his voice thundered, each word a quake that reverberated through her bones and rattled her very soul.

Merilyn gripped the sword hilt tighter, the leather biting into her palm. Her throat was dry, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might split her ribs. “Where will you go?” she managed, her voice small against the storm of him.

The dragon’s vast wings rustled, a sound like stone shifting against stone, and his gaze softened into something older than grief, older than sorrow. “I am the last of my kind,” he intoned. “There is but one road I can take.”

The words chilled her. “What does that mean?” she whispered, though she already feared the answer.

“You will see,” he said, and the certainty in his tone allowed no argument.

Her steps carried her down to the base of the chain, her breath catching as the massive links came into sight. Each was as large as a man’s torso, blackened iron forged in fire and sealed with blood, a weight of centuries holding him captive. The sword felt impossibly heavy in her hand, dragging her arm low, heavy with more than steel—it was heavy with choice, with consequence, with destiny itself. She turned once, looking back at the dragon’s vast form looming above her, wings half-spread, eyes burning with expectation.

“Before I do this…” her voice trembled, yet she forced the words to steadiness. “You promise me that you will not harm Camelot.”

Kilgharrah’s laugh rolled through the cavern, low and rumbling, a sound that raised the hairs on her arms. “I think there have been enough bargains, don’t you?”

Her lips parted, but no protest came. What more could she demand of him? What right did she have to bind a creature such as this? She lifted the sword instead, her voice rising in words older than the stones around her, older than the walls above. “Ic bebeode þisne sweord þæt hé forcierfe þá bende þæra dracan. Un clýse!”

The sword blazed with sudden brilliance, the runes along its length igniting as though fire ran through its veins. Light seared the darkness, and Merilyn swung with all the strength her body could summon.

Metal screamed against metal. Sparks cascaded like falling stars, and then the chain shattered with a thunderous crack that shook the earth beneath her feet. The sound was deafening, echoing through the cavern, through the castle foundations, through her own chest until she thought her heart would burst.

Kilgharrah’s roar followed, a sound of triumph and fury so vast it filled every crevice of the cave. His wings snapped open in a gale of hurricane winds, sending her hair whipping around her face, her cloak snapping like a banner. With a single surge of colossal power, he launched himself upward, spiraling toward the cavern’s mouth, his body a storm of gold and flame.

Merilyn staggered back, bracing herself against the wall, her knees nearly giving as the echo of his roar vibrated in her chest. She watched, awe and dread tangled in equal measure, as the dragon burst into the night, his massive form searing against the darkness like a comet of fire unleashed. The sky swallowed him, and the sound of his wings faded into the distance, but the taste of smoke and ash lingered in the air.

Camelot’s doom—or its salvation—had just taken flight.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

The square had turned into a mouth of flame.

Merilyn ran hard, boots slapping through ash and scattered pottery, the illusion of Merlin wrapped tight over her skin like a second, sweat-dampened hide. The weight of borrowed armor tugged at her shoulders—mail beneath a leather jerkin, bracers cinched too tight over raw knuckles—and the iron tang of smoke coated her tongue until every breath felt like swallowing a blade. People surged around her in blind panic—mothers with infants clutched to their ribs, a man dragging a bleeding brother by the armpits, a child wailing for a dog that would not come—and over it all the dragon’s shadow slid like a lid closing over a lantern.

“Left!” Erynd’s voice cut through the din at her back—calm, steady, impossible to ignore. “The apothecary’s wall is going.”

She pivoted without thinking, veering through a rain of sparks as a timber groaned overhead. The building’s front had already bulged away from its bones, mortar hairline-cracked by heat. Merilyn grabbed the brace pole and shoved, teeth gritted, feeling the false strength of her boyish shoulders strain…and whispered a thread of Old Tongue into the wood. Hold. Just hold. The grain shivered under her palms and stiffened. Only for a breath, only for the time it took Erynd to hook his arm under an old woman’s and haul her out, her skirts smoldering at the hem.

“Go,” Merilyn urged, releasing the brace as the beam finally surrendered with a shriek and came down in a gout of sparks. “Run—west alley!”

The woman stumbled toward the passage, coughing. Merilyn turned to the next fire, the next terrified face, the next place her hands could make one small difference. Guilt hammered at her ribs in time with her pulse. She had freed him. She had cut the chain and woken the sky’s fury and now Camelot burned for it. The knowledge skinned her from the inside out. Keep moving. You don’t get to fall apart.

“Water!” someone screamed. “We need water!”

The bucket line at the well had collapsed into chaos. Merilyn shoved through, grabbed the rope, and set the bucket swinging down into the black mouth. Her fingers shook. She wrapped them tighter and rasped, “Erynd—”

“Already on it.” He was there, as he always was, a length of soaked canvas in his hands, smothering a blaze that had licked up a thatch eave. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t have to; she felt his presence like a second spine. “Two houses are clear to the east. We can stage there.”

She hauled the bucket up, shoulders burning, and sloshed cool weight into waiting hands. The air tasted like coins and cinders. Somewhere above the rooftops, a crossbow twanged and a knight shouted something she couldn’t hear. The dragon swept low along the far street. Heat rolled over the square like a physical blow. For a moment it felt as if the world stopped to watch him: those vast, ancient wings; the iron-bright plates of his belly; the open furnace of his mouth. Merilyn’s stomach plunged. He had spoken to her once as if she mattered; now he did not even see her. Why should he? She had made herself small for so long.

“Merlin!” a captain bellowed, not three strides from her. The name cracked across the square and snapped the cord of her thoughts. “With me! We need bodies at the infirmary!”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, voice pitched low and rough, the familiar shape of the lie sliding into place. She threw the rope to a waiting boy and ran.

The infirmary had overflowed into the corridor and then into the yard, pallets laid wherever there was stone enough to set them down. The smell shifted here—smoke, yes, but layered over pennyroyal, boiled linen, the sweet-rot reek of blood. Gwen stood at the center of it like a lantern, apron already stained to the elbows, hair sticking to her cheeks. She did not pause in her work even when Merilyn skidded to a stop beside her.

“Gaius is low on clean water,” Gwen said, neat and efficient, as if they were discussing bread, not life. “And we’ve run through the last of the willow bark. If you can—”

“On it.” Merilyn stripped her gauntlets, shoved her sleeves higher, and waded in.

There was no time to be gentle. She pressed linen to a chest wound and braced her knee when the man bucked, murmuring nonsense in the cadence of comfort because the words themselves didn’t matter. She tied off a splint while an apprentice sobbed quietly beside her. She took a knife from Gaius when his hands started to tremble and opened an abscessed burn because the poison had to come out now or not at all. Each touch had to be quick, practical, human. And when no one was looking—when the press of bodies shifted, when Gwen turned to bark an order and Gaius’s head bent to examine a wound—Merilyn let her fingers hover and whispered breath-thin charms against infection, against shock, against the small deaths that took people for no good reason at all. They were nothing spells, the kind that could be mistaken for luck, for good nursing, for the patient’s own stubbornness. They were all she dared.

Erynd moved through it like a quiet tide, hauling basins, steadying a screaming boy through stitches, pressing a cool cloth to a mother’s brow while her child slept unharmed at her side. Once, his hand brushed Merilyn’s wrist—a brief pressure, a warning—and she looked up in time to see a guard watching her too closely. She forced her shoulders to slump, let the illusion soften her jaw back into Merlin’s angles, let weariness blur the sharpness of her gaze. Just a servant. Just a boy. Nothing to see.

A horn sounded from the walls—three short blasts that shivered through stone. Arthur’s signal.

Merilyn’s head snapped up. The courtyard seemed to tilt around her as if the world already knew which way she would turn. She knotted off the last bandage, squeezed Gwen’s shoulder once. “Hold here. I’ll—”

“Go,” Gwen said, eyes shining with smoke and determination. “He’ll need you.”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t need anything from her. But her feet were already moving.

She found her helm where she’d dropped it by the door, slammed it down over sweat-tangled hair, jammed her hands back into the gauntlets that still stank of ash and lye, and ran for the stair. The climb to the battlements was a narrow throat of stone filled with the echo of boots and shouted names. She took the steps three at a time, breath burning, heart throwing itself against her ribs. At the top, the night opened like an oven door.

Arthur stood along the wall walk with a knot of knights, crossbowmen already in place. His profile was cut clean against the firelight, jaw set, cloak guttering in the hot wind like a banner trying to tear itself free. He was touching men as he spoke—palm to shoulder, knuckles to mail—as if contact could fuse their nerve to his. He turned at the sound of her boots and that impossible blue struck her like a blow. For one heartbeat she thought he would see through everything—through the armor, through the illusion, down to the woman who had spilled herself raw for him in a world he was not ready to accept. Then his gaze did what it always did: it made space for Merlin, his useless, loyal, infuriating shadow.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice landed softer than she expected, not the bark of command but the steady tone of someone checking to be sure she was still at his side. “Good. Stay low. Keep to cover.”

“I’m sorry you’re having to do this,” she said before she could stop herself. The words slipped out raw, weighted with guilt she hadn’t meant to show.

Arthur’s head turned just enough for torchlight to catch his face. His eyes, sharp and searching, swept over her in a heartbeat—long enough to see too much. He read the tight press of her lips, the way her gaze slid away from his, the tension she couldn’t quite bury in her shoulders. His brows drew together, not with confusion but with dawning certainty. She saw the flicker of realization strike, the way his jaw clenched as though he’d just fitted a piece into place he hadn’t even realized was missing.

“Why?” he asked, voice low, edged with steel. “You didn’t free a dragon.”

The words were meant as reassurance, perhaps, but his tone betrayed him. It wasn’t a question, not really—it was a test.

Merilyn flinched, breath catching in her chest. She felt her mask waver, the lie catching like a burr in her throat. Arthur’s gaze lingered on her, no longer the brisk glance of a commander keeping track of a manservant, but something sharper, heavier—eyes that had known her too long and too well to be fooled now. He read her like a page left out in the rain, the ink smudged but still legible.

The set of his mouth changed. Not anger—yet—but exasperation edged with disbelief. His lips thinned, his nostrils flared as though to hold back the words that wanted to spill, and his whole expression shifted in that moment from battlefield focus to something far more personal.

“Seriously, woman?” His voice dropped to a mutter pitched only for her, cutting beneath the roar of the fire and the clash of arms. “You’re involved in this?” There was no question in it—only the grit of someone who already knew the answer.

Heat rushed to her cheeks beneath the illusion. Her stomach hollowed.

Arthur dragged his gaze back to the sky, shoulders rigid, every line of him sharpened by fury he couldn’t afford to show here. “We will discuss this later,” he said, clipped and certain, like a promise carved into stone.

Before she could shape a denial, the sound rose—vast and thrumming, filling the night. The dragon crested the line of roofs, wings beating the air into walls of wind that rattled the pennants and snatched at the cloaks of every man on the wall.

“Flame up!” Arthur barked, snapping back into command, voice crisp and carrying. The oilmen surged forward, torches plunging into the troughs until each bolt burned like a brand.

“Stay strong!” His voice cut across the chaos, binding the men together. “For tonight is not your night to die. Hold firm—hold—hold—now!”

The volley soared, fiery streaks arcing into the sky. The dragon answered with a roar and a sheet of flame, and the battlements vanished into a storm of heat and smoke.

The first volley went up in a staggered hiss of flame. Merilyn ducked, pressing her back to the merlon, peering through the notch as burning bolts stitched a line toward the dark belly of the beast. For a breath, hope leaped: one arrow glanced along a plate and fell away in a shower of sparks. It did nothing. Of course it did nothing. His hide had been forged in the first fires this world ever knew.

He turned. The world turned with him. The gout of flame that blasted the wall was a living thing—heat with teeth, heat with weight—and even sheltered as she was, Merilyn felt her eyebrows singe, felt the hair on her forearms curl under the mail. She threw an arm across her face. Men screamed. Stone held, but only just; mortar spat like fat in a pan and the parapet glowed dull red along the seam.

Another pass. Another order. Another volley. The dragon sang with his fire, the song of anger, of old vows called due. Merilyn’s heart beat a counterpoint under her ribs: words, not arrows; voice, not steel. She had called him kin in the dark once and he had answered. Could she call him now? No. Not with twenty men watching, not with Arthur at her shoulder, not with the king’s law burning hotter than any breath.

Between passes she made herself useful. She dragged a stunned archer by the collar to safer ground, slapped a man’s cheek until his eyes focused, shoved a bucket into gauntlets clumsy with heat and shouted, “Hands—hands! Pass it!” She palmed a quick sigil along the lip of a sputtering oil trough and breathed on it; the wavering flame steadied, crawled along the bolts instead of guttering. She blew a spark wide from a knight’s cloak before it could take. Little things. Small mercies. The kind no one noticed in a night this loud.

Arthur moved like he was part of the wall—swift, sure, as if he had anchors sunk into the stone every place his boots touched. When a young soldier froze, Arthur took the man’s crossbow, notched, fired, handed it back with a look that was sharper than any reprimand. When the oilman slipped, Arthur caught his elbow and hauled him upright without breaking stride. He did not ask anyone to stand where he would not, and the men, seeing it, squared their shoulders and stood.

The dragon banked again, this time lower, too low. Heat smashed into them. A man shrieked. Merilyn threw herself sideways and found herself colliding with Arthur’s shoulder. He reacted without thought, one hand braced against the wall, the other pinning her in against the stone to shield her from the worst of it. For a heartbeat she was pressed into him—iron, sweat, smoke; a body she knew too well by now to pretend it was only a prince’s armor. Her breath hitched, absurd, unwanted. He did not look at her.

“Down,” he said. She ducked. Fire licked over the crenel where her head had been.

When it passed, he let her go. They staggered apart. Somewhere a bell was tolling now, a broken sound, hurried and off-time. The lower town was burning in earnest. She saw it between the roofs—the lick of orange, the smear of pitch black, the fireflies of embers borne out of sight on a wind that smelled like grief.

“Reload!” a sergeant roared. “Move!”

Merilyn slotted her shoulder under a sagging beam of the signal shelter and lifted while two men shoved a prop in place. Her arms shook; she did it anyway. Over the wall the dragon wheeled, his cry rolling across the city like thunder trapped in a bell.

We can’t keep this up. Not like this. Not with arrows. Not with bravado. The thought was as clear as if someone else had spoken it into her ear. There was a way to end this that did not end in ash. There was a word for it—dragonlord—a power older than kings. Somewhere beyond their borders, a name waited like a key in a dark pocket: Balinor. Gaius’s secret, her secret, the one truth in this night that didn’t taste like despair.

Arthur straightened after the next barrage, chest heaving, soot streaking his cheek beneath the rim of his helm. He looked over the line, counted without counting, measured the courage of his men and the cost of their next breath. His gaze found Merilyn again, and for an instant there was no prince and no lie, only two people standing on a wall while the sky tried to kill them. “We hold,” he said, not to rally them but to promise it to himself.

“We hold,” she answered, because he needed to hear it and because she would make it true, by little magics and worn hands and the next decision that would send her from these stones and into the wild after a man who could speak to fire. She glanced once toward the palace—toward the infirmary where Gwen’s steady hands would not stop, toward the corridor where Gaius would already be pulling names out of the past—and then back to the thing in the air that had once bowed his head when she asked.

The dragon turned, and the knights raised their bows in unison. Arthur’s command rang sharp above the chaos—“Hold. Hold. Now!”—and Merilyn braced herself for the searing rush of heat, for the deafening roar that shook the marrow of her bones, for the endless work that would follow. She had no illusions about the night ahead; she would fight until her lungs were scraped raw, until her arms burned with exhaustion. And when the wall no longer needed her hands, when the last arrow had been loosed, she would go to find the only man alive who could bid a dragon be still. For now, she bent her head into the furnace wind and refused to break.

The infirmary was its own kind of furnace, filled not with fire but with breath and pain. Bodies lay row upon row on pallets of straw, the air heavy with the copper tang of blood and the sharp sting of poultices. The low sobs of children mingled with the groans of men clinging to life by threads, weaving a chorus of suffering that pressed in from all sides. Merilyn shoved a bloodied basin aside, wiping her blackened hands across her tunic. Her chest tightened with the cruel knowledge that for every wound she bound, three more were carried through the door.

“Water,” Gaius rasped, his eyes darting toward the dwindling supply with grim urgency. “We’ve none clean left.”

Merilyn’s gaze swept the room—parched lips cracked with fever, eyes glassy with infection, hands grasping weakly for relief that would not come. Her throat closed as her resolve hardened. “I’ll go,” she said, the words spilling too quickly, too sure.

“It’s too dangerous,” Gaius snapped, his voice sharper than she had ever heard it. His lined face was drawn with worry, his tone more command than plea. “Stay—”

But she was already moving, her boots striking the floor with purpose. The illusion of Merlin held fast, even as sweat blurred her vision and clung to her collar. Armor clinked faintly against her shoulders with each stride. At the threshold, Erynd’s eyes found hers—dark, sharp, a warning in their depth. He did not speak, but his presence shadowed her, heavy with the weight of unspoken understanding.

The main square yawned open before her like a wound torn into the heart of the city. Splintered beams jutted at angles, fallen stone lay scattered, and smoke curled upward between the broken pillars, carrying with it the acrid reek of pitch and char. Merilyn ran through the ruin, the bucket slamming against her leg, her boots skidding in the ash-streaked cobblestones. She forced herself forward, toward the well that squatted in the square like the last hope of a dying village. Her hand had just closed around the rope when the wind shifted.

A shadow swept across the square. Enormous wings blotted out the stars.

“Clear the square!” Arthur’s voice rang out like a blade leaving its scabbard, cutting through the terror. He strode in from the smoke, his knights fanning out behind him with practiced precision, but his eyes sought her first—sought the bucket in her grip, the desperate, reckless errand she had dared.

“Merlin?!” His shout cracked across the square, sharp with disbelief and fury.

Her head jerked up, guilt and defiance tangling inside her chest until her breath caught. For an instant she saw him as the others did—prince, commander, the iron at Camelot’s core. Then the dragon screamed, a sound that made the stones quake, and Arthur’s gaze snapped skyward.

“Merilyn!” This time her true name tore from him, raw, unguarded, unthinking.

She spun. Fire seethed in the beast’s throat, molten and hungry, too close and too fast to outrun. Her body froze, bracing for the sear that would end her. But Arthur was already moving, hurling himself into her path, his shoulder slamming into hers as the dragon’s fire crashed against the stones where she had stood moments before. The impact sent them both sprawling across the cobbles.

Her palm scraped open against the flagstones, breath jarred loose in her chest, but before panic could root her down, Arthur’s hand closed like iron around her wrist and yanked her upright. “Run!” he barked, dragging her toward the nearest cover as rubble thundered down around them.

For a heartbeat she let him, because it was Arthur, because he had thrown himself between her and death without hesitation. But the dragon’s roar rolled through her bones, and she knew she could not keep running—not when her blood thrummed with words older than Camelot itself, not when the Old Religion surged like fire through her veins.

“Arthur—wait.” She wrenched free, spinning back to face the beast as it banked in the smoky sky, fire curling like a living serpent in its throat.

The words burned her tongue, pulled from her in the Old Speech before fear could silence them. “Flēogé! Gar!”

Heat rushed up her arm as a spear of light flared into her grip, its weight both immaterial and immense. She hurled it with all the force she possessed, her muscles straining as it streaked across the night sky. It struck true, slamming against the dragon’s scales with a flare of sparks. But the sound was wrong—only a shallow clang, like a hammer striking stone. The weapon bounced uselessly aside, clattering into nothing.

Kilgharrah reeled, not with pain but with fury. His massive head swung back toward her, his eyes searing. “Do not imagine,” his voice thundered, shaking the air itself, “that your petty magic can harm me!”

Arthur staggered, his eyes darting between her and the dragon, disbelief carving itself deep into every line of his face. The dragon’s shadow swallowed them whole, wings blotting out the sky, before he surged upward again, a torrent of fire trailing in his wake as he vanished briefly into the smoke.

Merilyn stood panting, her arm trembling, the last embers of her conjured spear dying into ash against her palm. She lifted her face to the darkened heavens, her voice breaking raw from her chest. “Why are you doing this?!” she cried, every syllable torn ragged by desperation. “You’re killing innocent people!”

Her words were no incantation, no spell of power, but the plea of a woman who had unleashed a storm and now begged the sky itself for mercy while her city burned.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30

The infirmary bulged with noise and bodies, its narrow space crowded near to bursting. The air was thick with the reek of sweat, blood, and damp wool, undercut by the faint sting of smoke still drifting down from the battlements. Voices overlapped in a low, desperate chorus—the rasp of fevered breath, the sob of a child clinging to a wounded father, the hurried instructions of healers moving from bed to bed with dwindling supplies. In the press of it all, Merilyn slipped through the door with Arthur leaning heavily on her arm, his weight stubborn and solid, even as he tried to disguise the hitch in his stride.

She guided him toward a bench near the hearth, where firelight flickered warm across his soot-streaked cheek. He waved off the attendants who rushed to help, muttering something about “worse in training,” his pride speaking louder than his pallor, but she ignored him, pressing a firm hand against his chest until he stilled. The wound at his shoulder had bled through the mail, dark and tacky against the linen beneath, the sharp scent of iron rising from it.

“You shouldn’t have risked yourself,” she murmured, easing the armor aside with deft, careful fingers. Her voice carried no reproach, only the strain of relief.

Arthur tilted his head, trying for his usual smirk, but the expression faltered before it could take shape. “I wasn’t about to let anything happen to you.” His words came quiet, stripped of jest, matter-of-fact in their conviction—and yet they made her breath catch as though the room itself had gone still.

She reached for a cloth, dipped it into the basin, and began cleaning the torn flesh with steady hands. He hissed through his teeth but did not flinch or pull away. When she would have set the towel aside, his hand came up, large and warm, pressing hers firmly against his chest as if to anchor her there. For a heartbeat their gazes locked, unguarded, and the chaos of the infirmary seemed to fade into nothing more than a blur of sound and shadow at the edge of her vision. Her throat tightened with something perilous.

Arthur released her only when she resumed her work, watching her in that unflinching way that always left her feeling half-revealed, no matter how carefully she wore her mask. When the last of the bandage was secured, he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it belonged only to her. “Tell me truthfully… how did the dragon escape?”

The words struck like an arrow straight into her ribs. Her hands stilled on the wrappings, her breath trembling as guilt surged in her chest. He had asked plainly, and she could not lie—not to him, not anymore.

Her eyes lifted, meeting his, and she found the steel already there. Suspicion had sharpened in him since the wall; he knew, or at least enough to guess. She swallowed hard, choosing her words with care, her voice raw. “Arthur… I promise I will tell you everything. All of it. But not here, not now. Not while Camelot burns.”

For a long, fraught moment, he studied her face, his jaw tight, his eyes searching hers as though he could peel truth from her skin if he stared long enough. At last he gave a small, deliberate nod, though his expression remained grim. “Later, then.”

“Later,” she echoed, her heart hammering against the weight of that vow.

At her elbow, Gaius appeared, his gaze sweeping over Arthur’s wound before settling on her with quiet understanding. “Are you hurt?” he asked softly, his voice threaded with concern.

Merilyn shook her head, though her hands trembled faintly against the bandage she had tied. “There’s nothing I can do,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “My magic is no good against him.”

Gaius’s eyes softened, his tone patient, steady, as though speaking to both her and Arthur alike. “Dragons are not monsters, child. They are creatures of wonder, born of the Old Religion. You must understand—no spell of force can harm them. They are immune.”

Merilyn lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening briefly on the linen at Arthur’s shoulder. Immune. Perhaps to force. But not, maybe, to words. The thought seared through her, fragile and dangerous, but she clung to it all the same.

“Then what in God’s name am I meant to do?!” she burst out suddenly, her control breaking as she flung the bloodied rag into the bucket with a wet slap.

The war room stank of smoke and sleeplessness, its air heavy with the weight of battle lost before it had begun. Maps lay spread across the long table, their edges curling and darkened from the heat of the braziers that burned low in their iron stands. Small markers of stone and ivory tracked positions and skirmishes, though more than one lay toppled as if Camelot itself could no longer hold its ground. The windows had been shuttered against the ash that drifted on the morning wind, leaving torchlight to cut the chamber into sharp planes of gold and black. Shadows gathered thick in the corners, pressing close, as though the room itself mourned.

Arthur stood at the head of the table, his shoulders squared in defiance of the exhaustion pulling at him. His tunic was scorched, his cheek bruised, yet his voice carried the weight of command, clipped and precise. “The dead number forty-nine men, twenty-seven women, with another eighteen women and children unaccounted for. Most of last night’s fires have been quenched, but the western wall is near collapse.” He paused, his expression grim, his eyes sweeping the table before he finished, “And that is only the beginning.”

Silence followed, heavy as the smoke hanging over the city. Uther’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the carved arms of his chair, his face ashen beneath the torchlight. “Do we have any further idea how the beast escaped?” he demanded, his voice hard but hollow at the edges.

Sir Leon lowered his head, shame shadowing his features. “I regret to say, Sire, we don’t.”

Uther’s gaze snapped toward Gaius, sharp with both anger and desperation. “There must be some way to rid ourselves of this aberration.”

Merilyn lingered at the far edge of the chamber, half veiled by shadow, her armor streaked with soot and ash, her helm pressed tight beneath her arm. Every word spoken at the council table struck her like a blade, sharper for being delivered in voices she could not ignore. She bowed her head, forcing her expression into stillness, willing her body to quiet as though sheer invisibility might shield her from the truths unraveling in the air.

“We need a dragonlord, Sire,” Gaius said at last. His voice was quiet but steady, each syllable weighted with the gravity of what had to be said.

Uther’s hand slammed against the carved armrest of his chair. The crack split the silence and echoed off the stone walls like the report of a whip. “You know very well that is not an option.” His words rang out harsh, full of scorn, but beneath the anger was a strain that betrayed fear.

Gaius did not flinch. His lined face remained grim, his gaze unwavering. “What if…” His voice faltered for the briefest instant before he pressed forward, gathering resolve. “What if there was, indeed, one last dragonlord left?”

“That’s not possible,” Uther barked, his tone laced with both disbelief and denial, as though the very suggestion offended him.

“But if there was,” Gaius pressed, his voice firming with quiet insistence, “would you hear of him?”

The king leaned forward, suspicion narrowing his eyes until they were no more than slits of cold light. “What are you saying, old friend?”

“It may only be rumor,” Gaius admitted carefully, but his gaze never wavered.

“Go on,” Uther commanded, his tone low and dangerous.

“I am not entirely certain,” Gaius continued, “but I believe his name is Balinor.”

The name struck Merilyn like a blow to the chest. Her throat tightened, her breath stuttered, and she clutched the helm at her side until the sharp edge of the metal bit into her palms. A tremor ran through her before she could master it, and she prayed no one else had seen.

“Balinor?” Uther repeated, incredulous, the name curling from his lips like a curse.

Arthur’s voice cut in, urgent, driving the conversation forward before the king could bury it. “Where does he live?”

Gaius folded his hands together, his expression grave, his voice measured. “He was last seen in Cenred’s kingdom—in the border town of Engerd. But that was many years ago.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, the lines of his face hardening into resolve. His voice rang with conviction. “If this man still exists, then it is our duty to find him.”

“No,” Uther snapped at once, his denial fierce and immediate. “Our treaty with Cenred no longer holds. We are at war. If they discovered you beyond our border, they would kill you without hesitation.”

Arthur’s eyes flared with fire, defiance sparking bright. “Then I will go alone.”

“Absolutely not.”

“That way I will not be detected,” Arthur countered, his words sharp with urgency.

“Arthur.” Uther surged to his feet, his cloak flaring like wings, his presence filling the chamber until it seemed the very walls bowed beneath his authority. “It is too dangerous.”

Arthur’s reply came hard and unyielding, his voice cracking like tempered steel. “More dangerous than standing idle while my men burn? I will not watch Camelot fall when I have the chance to save it.”

“I have given you my orders!” Uther thundered, the words shaking the chamber.

Arthur’s hand tightened at his side, his blue eyes blazing as he met his father’s fury head-on. “Do not make this a test of wills, Father.”

“I am not speaking as a father,” Uther roared back, his voice deep and relentless, “but as your king!”

The silence that followed cracked with tension, sharp and brittle as glass. Arthur drew a long breath, straightening until he seemed carved from the very stone that held Camelot’s walls. “Then hear me as both,” he said, his voice lower but no less fierce. “I will ride immediately.”

Uther’s voice wavered, breaking into something rare—something almost pleading. “My concern is for you.”

Arthur’s gaze did not soften. “And mine is for Camelot. I will send word when I have found him.” He turned sharply, his attention finding Merilyn at the edge of the chamber. “Merlin. Prepare the horses.”

Her chest ached as though the command had been driven straight into her heart. She bent stiffly at the waist in a shallow bow, the movement taut with the effort it took to keep her face unreadable. “Yes, Sire.”

Clutching her helm so tightly her knuckles burned white, she followed Arthur out of the war room, leaving Uther’s silence behind them—a silence that snapped closed like a trap, holding everything unspoken within its teeth.

The cottage was quiet save for the scrape of leather straps and the dull thud of boots against the floorboards. Merilyn moved briskly through the cramped space, gathering what little she needed for the journey: her satchel, a skin for water, the dagger she never traveled without. The hearth had burned low, its embers pulsing faintly like half-hearted stars, a glow too small to chase away the shadows that pressed in from the corners. She told herself the silence steadied her, but her hands betrayed her, restless and clumsy, fumbling with buckles and straps that should have been second nature.

A knock at the door startled her, sharp in the hush. Too light for Arthur, too patient for Erynd. She crossed the room and opened it to find Gaius standing in the threshold, his face drawn and gray, his eyes shadowed by more than sleeplessness.

“Gaius,” she murmured, her voice soft with surprise as she stepped aside. “I thought you’d be at the palace.”

“I was.” He entered slowly, easing the door shut behind him. For a long moment he only stood there, gazing at the hearth as though the smoldering ash might give him words. The lines of his shoulders sagged beneath his robes, and unease curled through Merilyn’s chest at the sight.

She turned back to her satchel, adjusting the strap with more force than it required. “You’ve come to tell me something.”

“Yes.” His voice was grave, heavy as stone. When she faced him again, his hands were clasped behind his back as though bracing himself. “Something I should have told you long ago.”

Her heart gave a slow, warning thud, but she forced her voice to remain level. “Then say it.”

“Do you know who the dragonlords were?”

The question caught her unprepared. She blinked once, twice, trying to steady herself. “Men who could speak to dragons. Command them. That’s the legend, at least.”

“It is no legend,” Gaius replied, his tone firm, his gaze fixed upon her as if daring her to deny him. “There were once many who bore that gift. But Uther deemed it too close to sorcery, too dangerous to his crown. He ordered them slaughtered in the Purge.”

A chill slipped into her veins, sharp and merciless. She lowered her satchel to the table with deliberate care, as though sudden movement might splinter the fragile control she held. Her pulse hammered in her throat. “All of them?”

“Not all.” Gaius drew a long breath, his shoulders lifting under the weight of memory. “One escaped. I helped him flee.”

Merilyn’s mouth went dry. Her voice broke against the words, thin and incredulous. “You…?”

“His name was Balinor,” Gaius said softly, his eyes never leaving her face. “Does it mean nothing to you?”

She shook her head, confusion clouding her features. “No. I’ve never heard it.”

“Not from your mother?”

The word struck like a blade to the chest. Her breath caught. “My mother?”

Gaius’s expression gentled, though sorrow carved deeper into the lines of his face. “She took him in. Hid him. Stood against Uther’s will to protect him.”

Merilyn’s chest constricted until it hurt to breathe. For a moment she saw it as if through another’s eyes—Hunith, quiet and unyielding, facing down the king’s wrath with nothing but her courage. “She was brave,” she whispered, the words torn from her throat.

“Yes,” Gaius murmured, his voice aching with respect. “Braver than most. But Uther discovered him and sent knights to Ealdor. Balinor was forced to flee.”

Merilyn pressed her hand to her mouth, her breath unsteady, the room tilting around her. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because she asked me not to.” His voice faltered, thick with guilt, the words dragging like stones. “I promised her I would never speak of these things.”

Her throat burned, her voice raw as she forced it out. “Never speak of what?”

For a long moment, Gaius hesitated, as though standing on the edge of a chasm he had long dreaded to cross. At last he drew himself upright, his eyes glistening in the dim firelight, and the words fell trembling from his lips. “I have always treated you as my own child, Merilyn. But the man you are to seek now… he is more than a hope for Camelot. He is your father.”

The room tilted further, the walls pressing close. Merilyn’s hand shot out, gripping the table to steady herself as her knees threatened to buckle. “My… father?”

“Yes.” Gaius’s gaze held hers, unflinching though grief weighed it down like stone. “Balinor was a dragonlord. And that blood runs in you.”

She staggered back a step, the table digging into her palm as the room seemed to tilt. Her pulse roared in her ears, a wild drumming that drowned all else. Her heart clenched with something fierce and aching—a grief for the truth denied her, fury for the secret kept, and a hollow longing for what had been lost before it ever belonged to her. Her voice splintered when she found it. “Why… did no one tell me?”

“I wanted to.” The words broke from Gaius low, almost pleading. “But your mother feared what would happen if Uther knew. She thought the knowledge too dangerous for you to bear.”

Tears blurred Merilyn’s vision, but she blinked them away, jaw trembling with anger she could not temper. “I had a right to know.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“No.” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp in the close air of the cottage. “I had a right to know.”

The embers in the hearth flared as if stirred by her fury, licking dull red against the blackened stones. The silence between them thickened, stretched taut, weighted by truths that had festered too long in the dark.

Later, in the stables, the mare shifted beneath Merilyn’s hand, her warm breath stirring the hay in gentle huffs as Merilyn rubbed her flank with absent strokes. The animal’s quiet steadiness offered her a reprieve, an excuse not to lift her gaze, not to meet Arthur’s eyes just yet. She leaned into that excuse, grateful for it, though her own body betrayed her. Her shoulders refused to ease, drawn tight as bowstrings, the tension wound so sharply it ached all the way down her spine.

Arthur noticed. Of course he noticed. He always did.

Soft bootsteps scuffed across straw, and then he was beside her, close enough that his presence became its own steady warmth against the cold stone draft that seeped through the stable walls. For a long moment he said nothing, letting the silence expand between them, heavy but not oppressive. When his hand finally lifted, it hovered just above her shoulder before settling lightly against her back. The touch was careful, almost tentative, but it unraveled something in her chest all the same, loosening a knot she had not realized she was holding.

“You’re wound tighter than my bowstring,” he murmured, his voice low and meant for her alone. “What’s wrong?”

She stiffened at the question, torn between the sharp edge of confession and the safety of silence. The truth pressed hard against her teeth, desperate to spill, but fear drove it deeper, burying it where it could not yet surface. Instead, she forced a crooked smile, brittle and fleeting, keeping her eyes on the sleek line of the mare’s coat as though it could anchor her. “Gaius lied to me,” she said at last, the admission slipping out faster than she intended. “Or—kept something from me. I only just learned, and it… upset me. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

Arthur’s hand pressed more firmly against her back, a subtle but unmistakable insistence that she turn toward him. Reluctantly, she did. The lantern light caught his face, turning his eyes into molten blue steel—sharp, searching, yet softened by something gentler. Concern. Affection.

“Gaius has his reasons,” Arthur said, his tone gentled now, almost coaxing. “But whatever it was… if it’s left you looking like the world’s about to split in two, then it does matter.”

Merilyn swallowed hard, her throat thick with the words she could not give him. Secrets pressed against her ribs until she thought she might break beneath them. “Not tonight,” she whispered instead, her voice unsteady. “We don’t have the time. I promise, I’ll tell you once we’re clear of the city.”

Arthur studied her for a long moment, long enough that she feared he might push, demand the truth here and now while she still trembled with it. But instead he sighed, the sound quiet and resigned, and let his hand slide away—only to catch her wrist a heartbeat later. His fingers closed around hers in a firm squeeze, not prying, not questioning, only acknowledging. It was a silent promise, an anchor pressed into her skin: Later will be enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31

The forest thinned as they climbed, the heavy canopy breaking open into a ridge that overlooked the valley below. Merilyn drew her mare to a halt beside Arthur’s stallion, the damp air cooling the sweat along her brow. From this height the land spread out in muted greens and browns, stitched with streams that caught what little light the cloud-choked sky allowed. Beyond the far tree line rose the first signs of settlement—smoke curling from chimneys, rooftops huddled together like wary conspirators.

Arthur lifted his chin toward it, his cloak tugging in the wind. “This is it. One more step and we’re in Cenred’s kingdom.” His mouth pressed thin as his gaze lingered on the clustered roofs. “This Balinor had better be worth it.”

Merilyn said nothing. She adjusted her hood lower over her pale hair, the illusion she so often wore cast aside in favor of truth. Out here, with only Arthur beside her, she could breathe as herself. The leather of her reins creaked under her grip as she forced down the restless churn in her stomach. Balinor. The name burned still, heavy with questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

By the time they reached the village, night had fully claimed the sky. Rain lashed against their faces in relentless sheets, plastering Merilyn’s hair to her temples and soaking through Arthur’s cloak until it clung to his frame. They rode hard through the mud-sucked streets until the glow of lanterns promised refuge. A tavern hunched at the square’s edge, windows fogged with heat and noise spilling faintly through the door.

Arthur swung down first, boots splashing into the muck, and held the door open as Merilyn slipped inside behind him. At once the room fell to a hush. Men at dice froze mid-throw, mugs stilled halfway to lips, the scrape of a chair legs dragged out long against the floorboards. Every eye fixed on them—on the dripping cloaks, the swords at their belts, the purposeful way Arthur carried himself.

Arthur, ever undaunted, inclined his head with princely cheer. “Greetings!”

The answer was silence. A man at the nearest table pulled a knife out of the wood with deliberate slowness, the scrape loud in the quiet.

Merilyn shifted closer to Arthur, her hand brushing the hilt at her hip. The atmosphere was as thick as the smoke that hung beneath the rafters—suspicion, danger, and the faint tang of spilled ale. She could feel the room judging every movement, weighing strangers on scales already tipped against them.

They pressed on to the bar, and the innkeeper—heavy-set, apron stained dark from years of spills—slopped two mugs down with little care. The drink sloshed over, running sticky across the warped wood between them.

Arthur didn’t so much as flinch. “We’re looking for a man named Balinor.” He drew a pouch from his belt and dropped it onto the counter with a thump, silver clinking like a promise. “I’m willing to pay… handsomely.”

The innkeeper’s expression never changed. He leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make Arthur’s spine stiffen. “Never heard of him.” His hand reached out—not for the pouch, but for the stray coins Arthur had already fished out to pay for the drinks. He swept them into his fist and tucked them away, as though to make clear how little the prince’s generosity bought him here.

Arthur’s jaw flexed, irritation sparking in his eyes as he shifted slightly, his gaze sweeping the room. Around them, men had returned to their muttered talk and wary glances, though the weight of suspicion lingered heavy in the smoky air.

Merilyn wrapped her chilled fingers around the mug, the clay rough against her skin. She stared into its surface where the lamplight distorted into molten smears of gold, avoiding the sharp pull of the room around her. Her voice was quiet, meant for him alone. “You think one of these men is Balinor?”

Arthur lifted his own mug and took a long swallow before answering, his words muttered beneath his breath. “I hope not.”

A grim smile tugged at her mouth despite the tension coiled in her chest. “So do I.”

The fire in the hearth popped loudly, scattering sparks into the smoke-laden air as though it too offered its agreement.

Their mugs drained, and still the stares did not soften. Arthur muttered something under his breath about the place being a “pigsty” as he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the uneven planks. Coins clinked when he tossed them down to cover the room, the innkeeper’s scowl fixed even as he jerked his head toward the stairs. Arthur rose first, his cloak dripping rain onto the floorboards, and Merilyn followed close behind. She could feel the heat of the men’s eyes prickling her back until the upper passage door shut at last, muffling the tavern below.

The chamber was narrow, air thick with damp and the faint mildew of disuse. One bed stood pressed into the wall, a battered chair beside it, and a chest shoved into the far corner. Rain rattled hard against the shutters, each drop echoing in the silence as their cloaks dripped steady rivulets onto the warped boards. Arthur tugged off his gloves with sharp, impatient motions before turning, arms folding tightly across his chest as he leaned against the table. In the wavering lamplight his eyes caught and held hers, blue as tempered steel, sharp enough to strip her bare.

“You’ve been… strange,” he said finally, voice low but carrying the edge of command. “Tighter than a bowstring since Camelot. And tonight, when Gaius spoke Balinor’s name, you practically looked as though the world had ended.”

Merilyn’s stomach twisted at the words. She busied herself with unbuckling her sword belt, laying it carefully across the chest, but her hands betrayed her—the leather slipped through her trembling fingers and landed with a dull slap. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, fighting to steady herself before turning back. Arthur’s gaze hadn’t shifted; it pinned her as surely as a blade to her throat.

“I only just found out,” she admitted quietly, her voice rough with the effort. “Balinor isn’t just some hermit we’re seeking. He’s… my father.”

Arthur blinked, shock softening the stern lines of his face. His arms dropped from their fold as he straightened from the table, disbelief plain. “What?”

Merilyn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, the confession pulling loose from her chest like a splinter long buried. “Gaius came to me before we left. He told me the truth—that my mother sheltered Balinor once, and that he… that he is the reason I even exist.” A short, bitter laugh escaped her. “And she never told me. Not once. All these years.”

Arthur took a step closer, his voice gentler now though still roughened by disbelief. “You didn’t know? Not at all?”

“No,” she whispered. The word caught in her throat, splintering. “He was nothing but an absence. I grew up thinking my father was either dead or worthless, and now—now I’m told he’s alive, hiding in another kingdom. That he might be the only one who can stop all this.” Her hands shook as she folded her arms around herself, clutching her elbows tight as though she could contain the storm tearing through her. Her voice cracked on the last words. “And I don’t even know if he’d look at me and see a daughter… or just another mistake.”

The room swayed with silence, broken only by the steady hammer of rain against the shutters. In the wavering firelight, Arthur’s expression shifted—shock softening into something steadier, something that anchored rather than unsettled. He reached out without hesitation, his hand warm and firm as it settled on her shoulder. The sudden contact startled her, but he didn’t withdraw. He held it there, steady, grounding her as though the simple weight of his touch could tether her back into place.

“Merilyn,” he said quietly, her true name falling from his lips with a reverence that left her chest tight. “Whatever he is, whatever he’s done, that’s not on you. You didn’t choose him. You don’t need his blood to prove who you are. I know you. That’s enough.”

Her throat closed at his words, her eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall. She wanted to believe him, wanted it with a desperation sharper than breath, but the truth clawed at her ribs all the same. Balinor’s name hung heavy, his shadow stretching long across everything she thought she knew.

“I know,” she whispered, voice raw. “I just hope that he is a good man.”

Arthur’s hand lingered, his thumb brushing once against the seam of her cloak as though he might smooth away the tremor shivering through her. “If he’s half the man your mother thought he was,” he said, his voice low but certain, “then he will be. And if he isn’t…” His mouth quirked in the faintest echo of a smile, though his gaze never wavered from hers. “Then he’ll have me to answer to.”

A huff of laughter broke from her chest, thin and choked by the tightness in her throat. The image of Arthur squaring off with Balinor was absurd, yet the ridiculousness warmed her all the same. “You’d threaten my father?”

“I’d threaten anyone who made you look like this,” Arthur answered simply. His tone carried no jest, no princely arrogance—just the blunt honesty of a man who had spent too many nights watching her shoulder burdens alone.

Merilyn turned her gaze aside, blinking hard at the cracked plaster wall as her composure frayed. The rain beat harder against the shutters, a steady percussion that filled the chamber with its relentless rhythm. She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, her cloak slipping loose at the shoulder. Her mind spun with a thousand unanswered questions, trying to summon a face she had never seen—a man who had loved her mother once, a man who might greet her with recognition or cast her aside as nothing but a reminder of mistakes long past.

The silence stretched, but it was not empty. Arthur crossed the space without hesitation and crouched before her, lowering himself until his eyes were level with hers. He rested his forearms on his knees, posture unguarded, as if to make himself smaller, less commanding. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he told her, his voice steady. “I meant what I said back in Camelot. Whatever’s coming, whatever you find—I’m with you.”

Her breath caught sharply. For a heartbeat she wanted to reach out, to touch his cheek, to tell him what those words meant, how they cracked something open in her chest. But her courage faltered, her hand curling tight in the folds of her skirt instead. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Arthur gave a short, firm nod, as if sealing a vow between them, then rose to his feet. He stripped off his damp tunic with practiced efficiency, wringing it once before hanging it by the shutter to dry. His sword belt followed, the weapon laid within easy reach on the table. Each motion was brisk, practiced, yet tempered by the quiet glances he cast her way—glances that softened as he doused the lantern, leaving only the glow of the banked fire to gild the chamber in copper and shadow.

Crossing back to her, Arthur seemed a figure carved of flame and shadow, the firelight painting his cheekbones in gold and his jaw in darkness. Merilyn still sat perched on the bed’s edge, her hands knotted in her lap, her cloak slipping further down her arm as though even her clothing could not hold steady under the weight she carried.

Without a word, Arthur reached for the clasp at her collar. His fingers brushed the line of her throat, warm and calloused, and she shivered despite herself. He hesitated long enough to give her an out, a moment to refuse, but when she remained still he eased the cloak free and folded it carefully across the chest.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmured.

Her lips twitched faintly. “So are you.”

The corner of his mouth curved in answer, though his gaze did not leave hers. He reached for the buckles of her armor next, his hands steady, working with deliberate care. Each strap undone, each piece lifted away, left her lighter and yet more exposed, her breath coming uneven. By the time he set the breastplate aside, her pulse had quickened to a thrum in her ears.

Arthur stayed close, his presence filling the narrow space between them. His voice dropped, softer than before, heavy with meaning. “There,” he said quietly, as though the act itself were a victory worth marking. “No more walls between us.”

Her heart lurched hard against her ribs. She should have laughed it off, should have buried the heat rising in her chest beneath some sharp remark or feigned indifference. That had always been safer. But she couldn’t. Not with him looking at her like that, not with his hand hovering just above her arm, hesitant, as if he wasn’t certain he was allowed to touch her again.

Merilyn lifted her gaze to his. Firelight caught in her violet eyes, turning them into molten gems that glimmered with everything she had tried so long to hide. “Arthur…” she whispered, the single word trembling on her lips, though she couldn’t have said what she meant to follow it with.

It didn’t matter. He closed the space between them in a breath, one hand rising to cradle her cheek. His thumb swept across skin still chilled from the rain, rough calluses dragging tenderly over her jaw. For a heartbeat they only breathed the same air, their eyes locked, the storm outside and the weight of the world slipping away. Then his mouth found hers.

The kiss was fierce, unsteady at first, charged with tension and all the words neither of them had dared speak. It was clumsy in its urgency, as though they both feared the moment might shatter if they held back. But then his other hand slid to her waist, steadying her, grounding her, and she melted against him. Her fingers caught in the damp fabric of his shirt, clutching him as though she could anchor herself to this one impossible, necessary truth. She kissed him back with a desperation she hadn’t known lived inside her, letting herself forget—for one glorious moment—the dragon, the king, the secrets waiting like blades in the dark.

Arthur broke away only long enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath was ragged, his lips curved into the faintest, disbelieving smile. “I get to have you like this,” he murmured, voice unsteady but full of wonder. “Just you. No court. No disguises. Just… you.”

Her chest tightened at the words, but this time it wasn’t grief clawing through her ribs. She pressed her mouth to his again, softer now, lingering, her hands sliding up to rest against the solid breadth of his shoulders. His warmth, his steadiness, his sheer presence wrapped around her like the cloak she had shed, banishing the storm still rattling against the shutters.

Arthur deepened the kiss slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly. His hand threaded into her damp hair, cradling the back of her head as if she were something fragile, precious. The fire popped in the hearth, scattering sparks into the smoky air, but all Merilyn felt was the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed against her chest, sure and grounding.

She leaned into him, her fingers tugging at the edge of his soaked shirt until he shrugged out of it, letting the fabric fall in a heavy, sodden heap on the floorboards. His skin was golden in the glow of the fire, the warmth of it radiating into her palms. Scars mapped the planes of his chest and shoulders, stories of battles he had endured without complaint, each mark a testament to the life he had lived in service to others. Her hands traced those lines, hesitant at first, then with growing certainty, marveling at the strength she had walked beside for so long—strength that was here, now, and hers.

Arthur drew back just far enough to search her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek in a touch so reverent it made her breath hitch. His eyes, blue and unflinching, held hers with an intensity that stripped her bare. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, voice thick with restraint and longing.

Her throat tightened, words catching before she forced them free. “I think I do,” she breathed, because she had felt it too—in every stolen glance, every argument that hummed with tension, every moment his hand lingered longer than it should have.

He kissed her again, slower this time, more certain, guiding her down onto the mattress with a gentleness that made her chest ache. The bed creaked beneath them as he eased her down, following with his weight braced carefully on his arms, every movement deliberate, protective. His hands moved with patient care as he unfastened the remaining pieces of her armor, each buckle undone like the breaking of another barrier, each piece set aside as though it were sacred. With every clasp released, the unspoken vow deepened: I see you. I choose you. No more walls.

When the last of it slid free, leaving only the linen beneath, Merilyn felt more exposed than she ever had in her life—and not because of skin. He looked at her as though she were something holy, as though she were not a sorceress hiding behind illusions, not a servant bound by lies, but simply Merilyn. Herself.

The kiss that followed was gentler, threaded with tenderness that stole her breath. His lips wandered to the corner of her jaw, trailing down to the hollow of her throat, and she arched into him with a gasp that felt like surrender. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, grounding herself in the reality that he was here, that he wanted her—not the disguise, not the mask she had crafted so carefully. He wanted her.
His mouth trailed lower, finding the curve of her breast through the thin linen of her shirt. She shuddered, desire coiling tight in her belly as his lips closed over the peak, teasing through the fabric until it pebbled beneath his tongue. Her hands slid down his back, tracing the flex of muscle as he moved above her, every touch stoking the heat building between them.

Arthur's fingers found the hem of her shirt and tugged questioningly. She lifted her arms in answer, letting him draw the damp cloth over her head and toss it aside. For a moment he simply looked at her, eyes dark with want, drinking in the sight of her bare before him. Then his hands were on her again, mapping the dips and curves he'd uncovered, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"Beautiful," he murmured against her skin, reverent and raw. "Gods, you're so beautiful."

She pulled him back up to her mouth, kissing him hard, pouring everything she couldn't say into the slide of her lips on his. He met her with equal fervor, tongue delving deep, stoking her higher. His hips rocked against hers, the heavy ridge of his arousal pressing into her center through their clothes, and she moaned into his mouth, need pulsing through her.

Breaking away, Arthur began to kiss a path down her body, lingering to lavish attention on her breasts before moving lower. He nuzzled the soft skin of her belly, tongue dipping into her navel, making her gasp and squirm beneath him. Then he was settling between her thighs, hands smoothing up her legs, pushing her skirts out of the way.

He looked up at her through his lashes, a question in his eyes. She nodded jerkily, breath coming short, and watched as he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. His fingers hooked in her smallclothes and tugged them down her legs, baring her to him completely.

"Spread your legs for me, love," he murmured, voice rough with desire. "Let me taste you."

Merilyn's head fell back on a groan as his mouth found her center, hot and wet and perfect. His tongue circled her sensitive nub, laving and suckling, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through her. She threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him close, hips rocking helplessly against his face as he worked her higher.

He slid one finger into her slick heat, then two, curling them just right to make her see stars. His tongue never ceased its maddening circles, flicking and swirling, driving her to a precipice she'd never reached before. Tension coiled tighter and tighter at the base of her spine, thighs trembling, until with a final press of his fingers, a last hard suck, she shattered.

Her release crashed through her in wave after wave of ecstasy, Arthur's name on her lips, hands fisting in his hair. He guided her through it, gentling his touches, lapping softly at her quivering flesh until the last aftershocks ebbed away.

Slowly, shakily, she opened her eyes to find him watching her, mouth and chin glistening with her essence. The sight made her clench around his fingers still buried inside her, a whimper escaping her kiss-swollen lips.

"That's it," he praised roughly, pressing a final soft kiss to her center before withdrawing his hand. "Gods, the sounds you make. I could spend hours worshipping you like this."

Merilyn drew him up to her, kissing him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue. She fumbled with the laces of his breeches, need pulsing through her once more, desperate to feel him. Arthur groaned into her mouth as she palmed him through the fabric, hard and straining.

With trembling fingers, she pushed his breeches down his hips, freeing his straining length. He kicked the garment away and settled between her thighs once more, the heat of him pressing intimately against her slick folds.

"Please," Merilyn whispered, arching up to him in offering. "I need you, Arthur."

He captured her mouth in a searing kiss as he reached down to position himself at her entrance. With a slow, steady pressure, he pushed forward, sinking into her welcoming body inch by glorious inch. She gasped into his mouth at the unfamiliar stretch, hands flying to grip his shoulders.

Arthur stilled, letting her adjust to the feeling of him inside her. "Alright?" he murmured against her lips, concern threading through the desire darkening his eyes.

She nodded jerkily, experimentally rolling her hips, taking him even deeper. Pleasure sparked through her, chasing away any lingering discomfort. "Yes," she breathed. "Don't stop."

Permission granted, he began to move, rocking into her with long, deep strokes that ignited every nerve ending. Merilyn clung to him, legs coming up to wrap around his waist, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his backside. The new angle allowed him to penetrate even further and they both groaned at the exquisite sensation.

Their bodies found a rhythm as old as time itself, give and take, advance and retreat. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, mingling with harsh breaths and soft cries of pleasure. Sweat slicked their skin as they moved as one, striving together towards the peak they could feel building between them.

Arthur's thrusts grew harder, more urgent, his control fraying. One hand slid between their straining bodies to find the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. He circled it with callused fingers in time with his increasingly erratic drives into her heat.

"That's it, my love," he panted against her throat, tonguing the racing pulse there. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart on my cock."

His words, rough and filthy, were her undoing. Ecstasy exploded through Merilyn, back arching as her inner muscles clamped down on him like a vice. She cried out his name, fingernails scoring his shoulders, tremors wracking her frame.

Arthur followed her over the edge with a guttural shout, hips slamming forward to bury himself to the hilt as he pulsed deep inside her. His face contorted with pleasure, tendons standing out on his neck as he emptied himself in long, hot spurts.

They clung to each other as the tremors of release slowly ebbed, their kisses languid now, open-mouthed and tender where once they had been fierce. Arthur shifted at last, easing to her side but not letting her go, gathering her spent body into the curve of his arm as though she were something precious he could not bear to set aside. Merilyn melted against him, her head pillowed on the rise and fall of his chest, lulled by the thunder of his heartbeat as it gradually slowed from a gallop to a steady drum. Her limbs felt boneless, heavy with exhaustion yet light with the strange, fragile joy that came from being wholly seen.

The room was quiet but for the rhythm of their breathing, the soft patter of rain against the shutters, and the muted crackle of the fire sinking low in the grate. The scents of smoke, damp linen, and the salt of their skin mingled in the air, weaving a cocoon around them, a world reduced to warmth and closeness and the hazy calm that followed passion. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of Camelot’s troubles lay beyond the door, unable to reach them here.

Arthur’s hand drifted lazily through her tangled hair, his fingertips grazing her scalp in an absent caress that made her shiver despite the heat between them. She tilted her chin, studying his face in the flickering glow—the hard edges softened by firelight, the lines of weariness eased by satisfaction. His blue eyes, so often sharp with command or shadowed by duty, now swam with something unguarded, tender, and it stole the air from her lungs. Her gaze traced him as if to memorize every angle, every curve of his mouth, the faint scar at his temple, the quiet reverence she found there.

The words escaped before she could stop them, rising from a place too deep to silence. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice hushed and trembling, a truth bared as completely as her body had been, a confession she could no longer cage.

Arthur’s hand stilled in her hair, his breath catching. For a heartbeat she froze, fear stabbing through the fragile peace, terrified she had undone it all by giving too much. His eyes widened, searching hers, and time seemed to stretch unbearably. Then his lips curved into a slow, astonished smile—soft and certain, as though the world had just righted itself.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his voice rough with sincerity, the weight of it grounding her. “More than I have words for.”

Relief surged through her, so sharp it was almost pain, chased swiftly by joy so fierce it stole her breath. She rose to meet him, her lips finding his in a kiss that was hungry and grateful all at once, pouring her heart into the press of their mouths. Arthur answered with equal fervor, his hand sliding to her waist as he rolled her beneath him once more, his body sheltering hers in a promise no words could contain.

The chamber faded into nothing but warmth and touch and breath, the storm outside a distant murmur compared to the storm they made together. For that night, the world was theirs alone—two hearts entwined, two souls stripped bare of disguise and fear. Beyond these walls, Camelot waited with all its dangers, with shadows that would come for them soon enough. But here, wrapped in one another, they had carved out a space where love and solace reigned.

The future was uncertain, peril still loomed, yet Merilyn knew with bone-deep certainty that this—the giving and receiving of love, the quiet strength found in each other—was a foundation no spell, no enemy, no crown could ever shatter. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32

The storm had softened into a steady drizzle, the sound of rain a muted percussion against the shutters, steady as a heartbeat. Inside, the fire had dwindled to embers, their dull red glow casting long shadows across the chamber. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and cooling ash, heavy with the closeness of sleep. Arthur lay stretched on his back, one arm curved protectively around Merilyn’s shoulders. His breathing was deep and even, his chest rising beneath her cheek in a rhythm that lulled her toward fragile peace. She nestled closer, half-dreaming, the warmth of his skin and the steady thud of his heart a rare reprieve from the weight of the world beyond their door.

The creak of the floorboards was soft, too soft for her dulled senses. But Arthur stirred. His hand shifted instinctively from her shoulder to the hilt of the dagger he had left within reach, his soldier’s instinct waking him fully before his mind could follow. His eyes snapped open just as a shadow slid across the far wall, faint but unmistakable.

Someone was in the room.

The intruder moved with practiced care, his hand already closing around the strap of Arthur’s satchel where it lay slung across the chair. He did not see the prince move. In a breath Arthur was up, silent and swift, catching the man’s wrist in a brutal grip and wrenching it away from the bag. The thief yelped, his cry strangled as Arthur twisted until bone creaked, then with a violent shove slammed him onto the bed. The mattress dipped sharply beneath the weight, blankets tangling around his flailing limbs. Arthur followed him down, bare chest gleaming in the dim firelight, dagger pressed to the man’s throat in a line of cold steel.

Merilyn jerked awake with a gasp, the shock dragging her from sleep into a half-dreamed terror. For an instant she thought the dying glow of the fire had conjured some nightmare—Arthur looming, steel flashing, a stranger thrashing against the same bed where she had been only breaths before. She clutched the sheet to her chest, pulse racing, mind clawing for sense. “What—what’s going on?” she rasped, voice rough with sleep.

Arthur did not look at her. His gaze was fixed on the thief, hard and merciless, his voice cutting like flint. “Do you know the punishment for theft?”

The man squirmed beneath him, sweat breaking across his brow. His eyes darted wildly, throat bobbing against the edge of the blade. “No—please, I’ve got children to feed.”

Merilyn blinked against the haze clouding her head, the name Balinor already thrumming in her mind before Arthur spoke it aloud.

“Tell me where to find Balinor.”

The thief froze, fear bleaching his face pale. “Balinor?” he repeated, his voice thin.

Arthur pressed the blade closer, the steel kissing skin. “What do you know of him?”

“Nothing,” the man stammered, his words tripping over themselves. “I—I swear, I don’t—”

Arthur’s tone sharpened, cold and lethal. “Do you value your life?”

The thief’s breath hitched, his body trembling as the words spilled out in a frantic rush, desperation unraveling whatever composure he had left. “It’s been many years since I saw him! But yes—I know, I know. You must travel through the Forest of Merendra, to the foot of Feorre Mountain. There you’ll find the cave where Balinor dwells.” His voice cracked on the last word, as though speaking it aloud had summoned some memory best left buried.

Arthur studied him in silence, the weight of his gaze sharp as a blade, his blue eyes cold and unreadable. The dagger remained steady, gleaming faintly in the emberlight, poised with the promise of violence if a single word rang false. Only after a long, fraught pause did he ease back, loosening his grip though his stance remained taut as a bowstring drawn to its last inch. With a shove he released the man, yet the dagger still hovered ready in his hand, a warning not to mistake mercy for weakness.

The thief scrambled upright, clutching his wrist where Arthur had twisted it, his eyes flicking from the prince’s bare chest to Merilyn’s flushed face half-hidden behind the tumble of sheets. His throat bobbed with a swallow before he forced out a bitter mutter. “Don’t get your hopes up. He won’t welcome you. Balinor hates everyone and everything. A cave’s the best place for him.” The words hung like a curse before he backed toward the door, retreating into the passage beyond until only the echo of his boots lingered in the dark.

The silence left in his wake was suffocating, thick as smoke. Arthur set the dagger down with deliberate care on the small table beside the bed, the clink of steel against wood unnervingly loud in the stillness. Merilyn dragged a hand down her face, her thoughts sluggish, her body still half adrift in the fog of sleep. The abrupt intrusion, the threat, the name she could not stop hearing—it all tangled into a haze she could not immediately shake. “Arthur…” Her voice rasped, dazed and unsteady. “What just—?”

He exhaled, the breath long and steady, as if blowing away the last of his anger before turning back to her. The hard edge had softened in his eyes, though intensity remained, tempered now with something gentler. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he brushed his thumb lightly over the back of her hand where it clutched the sheet, his touch careful, grounding. “We have a trail now,” he said quietly. “But it seems your father doesn’t want to be found.”

The words landed with the weight of stone. Balinor. A cave at the foot of a mountain. A man who hated everyone and everything. Each piece slotted into place with brutal inevitability, and still Merilyn’s chest refused to accept it. She clutched the sheet tighter, as if the thin barrier of linen could shield her from truths she could no longer outrun.

Arthur’s gaze searched her face, his hand warm as it rose to brush a damp strand of hair from her temple. His thumb lingered a heartbeat too long, as though he could anchor her to the present by touch alone. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?” The words were simple, but beneath them pulsed the question he had asked a hundred times in other forms: Are you holding together, or are you about to break?

She blinked up at him, still adrift, her pulse thudding unevenly in her throat. “I don’t know,” she admitted, the confession tearing out rough and raw. “Everything feels… like it’s tilting.”

Arthur’s mouth softened into a shadow of a frown, his eyes steady on hers. “That’s because it is,” he murmured. “The ground’s shifting under you. Anyone would feel unsteady.”

A short, breathless laugh broke from her, more choke than mirth. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t simple,” he said, his thumb brushing once more across her cheekbone before he withdrew his hand, reluctant but steady. “But you’re not facing it alone. Remember that.”

The words slipped through the fog, threading into her chest and pulling her back toward herself. She let the sheet fall slightly from her shoulders, enough to draw her knees up beneath it, curling in on herself as she hugged them close. Still, the thief’s voice lingered like a ghost—Balinor hates everyone and everything—and the syllables carved at her ribs like a blade.

Arthur shifted beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched out once more. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her into the curve of his body with quiet insistence, as though he could shield her not only from daggers and shadows but from words themselves. His warmth seeped through her skin, steadying the frantic rhythm of her heart, pulling her back from the spiraling edge of her thoughts. For a moment, pressed close in the hush of the chamber, the world steadied.

“I don’t want him to hate me,” she whispered into the hollow of his throat before she could stop herself. The admission tore from her chest raw, unguarded, almost childlike. “I don’t want to meet him and… and see nothing there.”

Arthur’s hold on her tightened. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, lingering there as though trying to seal away the fear with the sheer weight of his presence. “If he’s fool enough to look at you and see nothing,” he said, voice low and rough, “then he’s not worth the tears you’re shedding for him now.”

Her chest clenched, and she turned her face into his skin to hide the hot sting at the corners of her eyes. For a long moment she let herself stay there, cocooned in the scent of rain and smoke and Arthur, until her breathing steadied again.

Outside, the drizzle softened into a mist, the shutters rattling only faintly in the breeze. The fire had burned low, casting the chamber in shadow. Arthur’s hand traced slow, absent circles against her back, and though her thoughts still swirled with Balinor’s name, the storm inside her eased just enough for sleep to creep back in.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her. Whatever waited at the foot of Feorre Mountain, whatever truth Balinor would give or deny her, she would face it. And she would not face it alone.

The forest lay hushed but for the soft, rhythmic clop of hooves and the whisper of branches shifting overhead. The rain had left the earth slick, the air sharp with the mingled scents of pine, damp bark, and moss. Mist curled low along the undergrowth, clinging to their boots as the horses pressed onward, each step muffled against sodden ground. Merilyn kept her mare close to Arthur’s stallion, her eyes drawn often to him in the dim light. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched, and though he made an effort at casualness, the careful looseness of his reins could not disguise the faint wince that tugged at him each time his stallion jostled over uneven terrain.

“Arthur,” she said softly, her voice just above the sigh of the wind.

He shook his head before she could continue, the denial automatic. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s your shoulder,” she pressed, firm but threaded with concern. “Let me see.”

His lips parted in preparation for the inevitable argument, but the sharp crack of a branch snapping underfoot in the distance cut him short. Merilyn’s instincts surged faster than thought; her staff snapped to her hand with a whisper of power, and she reached for Arthur’s arm, pulling him down with her behind the shelter of a fallen tree.

They crouched low, the damp moss sharp against her nose as the air thickened with the clink of armor. A patrol of Cenred’s men trudged past, their boots squelching in the softened earth, their spears glinting faintly through the veil of mist. She held still, every muscle taut, until the sound of their march faded into the dark. Only then did she exhale, her chest loosening with relief. Arthur shifted beside her, but the pinch of pain around his mouth betrayed him—his wound tugging harder now after their sudden movement.

“Hold still,” she whispered.

Before he could muster protest, her palm came to rest lightly on his shoulder. Warmth surged instantly through her veins, answering her call, spilling from her hand into him. Golden threads pulsed faintly beneath her skin, slipping into bruised muscle and torn sinew, knitting what strain would allow. Arthur’s breath caught—half in pain, half in wonder—as the worst of the tension melted, leaving steadier strength in its place.

When she drew her hand back and the glow dimmed, his gaze was already fixed on her. The stubborn line of his jaw had softened, though the protectiveness in his eyes burned fiercer than ever. “You’ll wear yourself out doing that for me,” he muttered, his tone gruff but not ungrateful.

A faint smirk curved her lips despite the heaviness in her limbs. “Worth it.”

They pressed on, the forest thickening as foothills rose around them. Rocks jutted like broken teeth from the ground, roots knotted thick and black beneath their boots when they finally dismounted. At last, tucked into the bones of the mountain, they found the cave. Smoke drifted faintly from its mouth, curling into the night air with the acrid tang of fire and dried herbs.

Arthur swung down first, his boots crunching on gravel, and turned to offer his hand. She took it, steadying herself as she slid from the saddle, though her eyes were already fixed on the jagged darkness ahead. The cave’s entrance yawned wide, its shadows sharp, unwelcoming.

A figure stepped from within before they could move closer, a spear leveled in warning. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his frame marked by years of exile. Dark hair streaked with grey fell around a face carved by weather and hardship, each line a testament to years lived far from kindness. His eyes, hard and suspicious, flicked between Arthur and Merilyn, narrowing like a blade’s edge when the firelight caught the pale gleam of her white hair.

“What do you want here?” His voice rasped like gravel dragged over stone.

Merilyn straightened, her hand tightening on her staff as she forced the tightness from her throat. “We seek Balinor.”

The spear lowered only a fraction, suspicion still taut in his stance. “Then you’ve found him.” His gaze cut back to her, sharp and assessing, darkened further by mistrust. “But I’ve no reason to help strangers—least of all ones who drag Camelot’s prince to my door.”

Arthur shifted closer, the motion subtle but unmistakable, his hand brushing the hilt at his hip with instinctive protectiveness. “We didn’t come to threaten you,” he said evenly, his voice carrying the authority of command. “Camelot is burning. We need you to face the dragon.”

Balinor’s jaw worked, his expression turning flinty as his eyes fixed wholly on Merilyn. “And who are you to speak as though you have claim on me, girl? That hair of yours—unnatural. You reek of magic.”

The words struck sharp, but she did not falter. Her violet gaze met his, steady and unflinching. “Because I am your daughter.”

Silence followed, heavy as stone, broken only by the low hiss of wind threading through the cave mouth. Balinor’s eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously, his knuckles whitening around the haft of his spear. “Lies,” he spat, his voice thick with years of bitterness. “I have no daughter.”

Arthur stepped forward before Merilyn could answer, instinct propelling him to place himself half in front of her. His tone was iron, his stare unyielding. “She’s telling the truth. And if you so much as think of raising that spear at her—”

“Arthur,” she murmured quickly, her hand brushing his arm, her eyes never leaving Balinor’s. Her voice trembled with urgency, not fear. “You want proof?”

She lifted her hand, letting the staff slide soundlessly to the ground. Her breath steadied, her focus narrowing to the thrum in her veins. The magic answered, rising like a tide beneath her skin. Light shimmered at her fingertips—threads of gold and silver twining together until they took form.

The glow curved, delicate and deliberate, until wings unfurled. A butterfly hovered in her palm, its body pulsing with life. Its wings beat once, twice, scattering motes of light across the stone walls before it drifted free, alighting on the air between them. For a breath, it hovered before Balinor himself, the shimmer reflecting in his dark eyes, before dissolving into sparks that faded slowly, like the last notes of a song.

The air hung thick in its wake, the echo of the spell lingering like a heartbeat.

Balinor’s eyes had gone wide. He stepped closer, his face stripped bare of its suspicion, raw with something that looked very much like awe. “Hunith’s child…” he breathed, almost to himself. “She truly…?”

“Yes,” Merilyn whispered, her voice breaking. “She never told me until Gaius did. I only learned days ago.”

Behind her, Arthur’s hand settled firmly at her back, warm and steady, a silent vow that she would not face this moment alone.

A sound stirred in the shadows. Another figure stepped forward—a young man, tall and broad like Balinor but younger, his eyes a startling mirror of her own. He lingered just inside the mouth of the cave, gaze flicking between her and the man at her side. “Father?”

Balinor’s shoulders stiffened. “Marius. Inside.”

But the young man didn’t move. His eyes lingered on her, recognition dawning slowly, as if blood itself had whispered the truth.

Merilyn’s breath caught, her world tilting once more. Not only a father she had never known. A brother.

“Father?” The word left her lips raw, scarcely more than a mutter. It felt strange on her tongue—too sharp, too foreign, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. She stared at Balinor, at the man whose name had haunted her since Gaius had spoken it, and her chest ached with a thousand things she didn’t know how to say.

Balinor’s gaze darted from her to the young man in the shadows, his expression taut with unspoken things. “Marius,” he repeated, voice carrying a command that brooked no argument. “Inside.”

Merilyn’s breath came shallow, quick. A brother. Her brother. Proof that Balinor had survived… but not for her.

Her thoughts raced, a tangle of hurt and disbelief. You left Hunith. You left me. And yet you built a life here, far from the reach of Camelot, far from Uther’s shadow… and had another child.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She could almost see her mother’s face in her mind—the lines etched by worry, the years of struggle borne without complaint, the endless weight carried in silence. Hunith had raised her alone, bore the danger, shielded her secrets. All that time, Balinor had been alive. Breathing. Choosing.

The storm inside her pressed so hard she thought it might break her open. “You left us,” she whispered, her voice rough, violet eyes gleaming with unshed fury. “You left her.”

Arthur’s hand, still resting at her back, tightened ever so slightly, steadying her even as he remained silent. His gaze, sharp and protective, stayed locked on Balinor, daring him to deny her pain.

Balinor’s mouth opened, then closed again. The weight of her accusation seemed to strike him harder than the proof of her magic had. He looked older in that moment, shoulders stooping as if memory itself pressed down on him. His voice, when it finally came, was low. “It was not by choice.”

Merilyn’s heart twisted, pulled between the ache of wanting to believe and the raw wound of what Hunith had endured. Her eyes flicked back to Marius, who still hovered at the edge of the firelight, silent, watchful. She could not look at him without the question gnawing at her chest—why him? Why not me?

The cave was suddenly too small for all the truths it held. The air pressed in, thick and suffocating, every shadow heavy with what she’d never known.

Her vision blurred, not with tears at first but with the rush of her own pulse hammering in her skull. A brother. A father who had gone on living, breathing, choosing. Hunith’s face flickered behind her eyes again, weary but kind, alone in every burden. The pressure built until her chest seized and she couldn’t pull breath deep enough.

Merilyn staggered back a step, her hand flying to her sternum as though she could steady her lungs by force. But the air wouldn’t come right—it scraped shallow, ragged, panic flashing bright as lightning through her. Rage churned with sorrow, disbelief tangled with joy, and the swell of it all left her trembling, dizzy.

“Merilyn?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, urgent now. His hand caught her elbow before she could crumple, his warmth grounding against the icy edge spiraling through her. “Look at me—breathe. Just breathe.”

Her throat closed around the attempt. She shook her head violently, words breaking through in a rush of cracked sound. “He left us—he left her—and no one told me, no one thought—” Her voice collapsed into a sob, muffled against her knuckles as she pressed them to her mouth.

Arthur pulled her against his chest, one arm locking around her shoulders, the other bracing firm against her back. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and steady in her ear, the kind of voice that refused to waver. “You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.”

She clutched at him with shaking hands, fury and grief spilling over all at once. “I don’t know what to feel,” she gasped, the words torn and raw. “I should be happy—I have a brother, a father—but all I can think is why. Why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t she tell me?”

Arthur pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm and sure. "Only Balinor can give you those answers, Meri. Take a deep breath. You are okay. I promise."

His words anchored her like a rope thrown across a chasm. She dragged in a shuddering breath, then another, fighting through the constriction in her chest until the air reached her lungs in something resembling rhythm. Her whole body still shook, but Arthur’s hands were steady on her, his presence immovable.

She closed her eyes, letting the weight of his forehead against hers remind her she wasn’t alone, not abandoned—not this time. “I hate him for leaving her,” she whispered, the words spilling raw, jagged. “But I hate myself too, because part of me is glad he’s here. Glad I wasn’t completely alone.”

Arthur’s thumb stroked slow circles into her back. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. You don’t have to choose between the two. Anger and hope can live side by side.”

The quiet in the cave pressed around them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. She dared to open her eyes again. Balinor stood a few paces away, spear lowered now, his face lined with something more complex than suspicion—guilt, sorrow, perhaps even wonder. Behind him, Marius lingered near the shadows, his arms crossed tight, his gaze never leaving her as though he were trying to memorize every detail of the sister he hadn’t known he had.

Merilyn swallowed hard, her breath steadier now, though her chest still ached. She straightened slowly, her hands falling from Arthur’s tunic but not from his presence—his arm still wrapped protectively around her waist. His stance was unmistakable: he would not let either man move toward her without going through him first.

Her voice, though quiet, carried in the stillness. “You owe me answers, Balinor. And I deserve to hear them. Not tomorrow, not after the dragon, not when it suits you. Now.”

Balinor’s shoulders lifted, then fell with the weight of a man long accustomed to carrying grief. He set his spear aside at last, the sound of wood against stone sharp in the silence. “Then you shall have them,” he said, his voice rough. His eyes flicked once to Arthur, then back to her, shadowed with both caution and reluctant pride. “But be warned, child of Hunith—the truth is heavier than you think.”

Merilyn’s hands slid down her face, her nails biting into her own skin as if pain could anchor her. But it wasn’t enough. The fury tore through her chest, hot and jagged, until the words ripped out of her like a blade.

“You thought I’d be safer?” Her voice cracked the cavern air, shrill with grief. “If you had just stayed—if you had been there even a few years longer—maybe I wouldn’t have been taken! Maybe the Brotherhood wouldn’t have dragged me away, chained me like an animal, tortured me, tried to—” Her breath broke, a sob tangling with the scream. “Do you know what they did to me? What they tried to make of me?!”

The words echoed, ragged and raw, bouncing off the stone walls until they seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of the cave. Arthur flinched at the agony in her voice, his arm tightening around her, pulling her closer as if he could shield her even from memories. His blue eyes never left Balinor, burning with barely contained fury on her behalf.

Marius shifted, his jaw tightening, a muscle ticking near his temple. His eyes darted between his father and the sister he’d only just discovered, torn between disbelief and horror at the weight of what she carried.

Balinor looked gutted. The spear he’d set aside might as well have been driven into his chest. His face crumpled, pride and grief warring, and for the first time his voice shook. “Meri…” He faltered, as though the right to say her name had been stripped from him. “I didn’t know. Gods forgive me, I didn’t know.”

Her laugh was broken, hollow. “Of course you didn’t know. You weren’t there.” She tore herself half from Arthur’s hold, her violet eyes blazing, tears streaking down her pale cheeks. “You left us. You left me. And in the void you left, they found me.” Her chest heaved, every word another piece of her soul bared. “Do you know what it feels like to be used until you don’t even know where you end and the chains begin?”

Arthur’s hand cupped her cheek, firm but tender, dragging her eyes to his. “Enough,” he murmured, steady and certain, though his own throat worked with emotion. “You don’t have to bleed it all out for him right now. You both had your hardships. All you can do now is choose to move forward. Camelot needs a Dragonlord.”

Balinor straightened at Arthur’s words, the faint tremor in his hands steadying. His eyes found Merilyn’s again, and this time there was no denial, no shrinking away. “You have every right to rage at me,” he said, his voice rough but firm. “But you do not have the right to blame me for what the Brotherhood did. That was Uther’s war, Uther’s purge, Uther’s blind hatred. I did what I thought would keep you safe—even if it meant you hating me for it. I will bear that.”

Merilyn stiffened, her breath jagged in her throat. She wanted to scream at him again, to claw at the hurt still festering in her ribs. But something in the steadiness of his tone—something in the way he refused to crumple beneath her fury—struck her like cold water.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Because deep down, she knew. He hadn’t chained her. He hadn’t carved those scars into her. And yet she had poured it all onto him, desperate for someone to hold accountable, someone who wasn’t a faceless monster in the dark.

Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of that realization. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “Gods, I—” Her voice cracked. “I’ve been unfair.”

Arthur’s arm slipped more firmly around her, steady, grounding. He didn’t silence her this time—he simply held her upright while she forced the words out.

Balinor’s expression softened, though grief still lined it. “You have every right to your pain, Meri. I will not deny it. But do not chain yourself tighter by putting it all on me.”

Her chest heaved once, twice, before the breath left her in a sob that was half anger, half release. She dragged her hand down her face and let it fall, violet eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “We can hash out the family sins later,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, trembling between defiance and collapse.

Arthur’s lips twitched faintly, not in amusement but in approval of her resolve. His thumb brushed the back of her hand, grounding her once more.

Balinor inclined his head, slow and grave, as if in acknowledgment of a truce neither of them fully believed in yet. “Later, then,” he said. “For now… Camelot burns. And a Dragonlord must choose where he stands.”

Marius shifted in the shadows, his eyes flicking between them all—the sister still trembling in Arthur’s arms, the father bowed but unbroken, and the prince who stood as her shield. He said nothing, but the weight of his silence was a promise: the reckoning between them had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33

The cave walls pressed in on her like a weight, shadows stretching too heavy, the fire’s glow too sharp, every breath tasting of smoke and stone. Merilyn shook off Arthur’s steadying hand, unable to bear the closeness, the watchful eyes. “I need air,” she muttered, her voice rough, and before anyone could answer she slipped past Marius and pushed into the night.

The cool air struck her face like a slap, bracing after the suffocating heat within. She walked quickly, boots crunching against the damp ground until the murmur of voices dulled behind her, swallowed by the hush of the forest. The trees leaned close on either side, their branches dripping with the remnants of the earlier storm, silvered drops falling in quiet rhythm. She followed the faint sound of water until it drew her to a narrow stream winding bright as molten silver under the moonlight, its voice soft and insistent as it hurried over the rocks.

Merilyn dropped heavily onto the bank, tugged off her boots, and plunged her feet into the icy current. The cold shocked her skin, sharp and biting, but that was the point. She needed something immediate, something real—something that wasn’t grief gnawing at her or anger coiled hot in her chest. Bracing her palms against her thighs, she dug her nails into her own flesh until pain flared, hissing between her teeth as though the sound could anchor her.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, the word breaking harsh in the quiet. “What happened to you?”

The stream gave back her reflection, warped by the ripples: pale hair spilling loose in damp strands, violet eyes shadowed and fever-bright, the sharp defiance dulled from her features. She barely knew the woman staring back. Ever since the Brotherhood had seized her again, ever since Ryland’s hands and Ryland’s cruelty had marked her, her body felt thinner, her spirit ground down. And the aftermath—gods, the aftermath—had left her hollowed, killing whatever strength he hadn’t already tried to strip away, pressing her beneath a weight so crushing she feared she might never breathe freely again.

Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out, daring herself to hear them aloud. “You used to fight back. You used to laugh in their faces. And now? Now you crumble the moment the past breathes down your neck.” She bit down hard on her lip until she tasted iron, sharp and coppery on her tongue. “Enough.”

Silence followed, not empty but alive. The forest sang with crickets, and the steady rush of the stream filled the hollow spaces inside her. She clung to the sound, to her breath drawn in slow, deliberate pulls, letting the cold water bite her skin and root her to the earth beneath her. Straightening her spine, she rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes.

In. Out.

Little by little, the storm inside her eased, its fury softening into fragile stillness. She pictured the butterfly she had conjured in the cave, its wings glimmering gold and silver in the dark—delicate, yes, but alive, fluttering despite the shadows that had tried to snuff it out. That was still her. Somewhere under the scars, under the weight, she still remained.

When she opened her eyes again, the moonlight struck the stream, breaking into a thousand silver fragments that shimmered like scattered glass across the water. She dipped her fingers into the current, the chill biting, then pressed her wet palm over her heart, grounding herself in the cold, in the now, in the reminder that she still endured.

The stream steadied her. The rhythm of her breathing slowed, evening out as the storm within dissolved into ripples. She leaned back on her hands, tilting her face upward—and stilled.

Through the canopy, the clouds shifted, revealing the moon in her fullness. White-gold and radiant, she spilled her light across the stream until the entire surface gleamed as though transformed into liquid glass. It had been so long since Merilyn had lifted her eyes to the sky, so long since she had remembered what Lenora had once taught her in a voice threaded with reverence: The moon is not only to be observed. She is to be answered.

A shiver ran down her spine. Something old stirred in her blood, ancient and insistent. She rose to her feet, tugging free the ties of her cloak until it slid into the grass. The night air licked cool across her skin as she let go of the last barriers between herself and the world around her. Naked, she stepped into the stream. The water curled around her calves like a welcome.

Closing her eyes, she reached within. The runes inked into her skin answered first, faint glimmers tracing over scars that told their own story: of captivity, of survival, of choices that had cut deep. Her white hair caught the moonlight and seemed to glow from within, a halo cascading down her back.

She began to move. Slowly at first, the old pattern returning to her bones. Arms rising, palms opening to the sky, body swaying with the rhythm of the current. Then faster, stronger, a dance of spiral and sweep, her feet stamping in time with the pulse of the earth. She turned, arched, leapt—the water splashing silver around her as she gave herself over to the ritual she had not dared perform since her training with Lenora.

Energy coursed through her veins, answering her call. The exhaustion that had weighted her limbs for weeks melted into fire, into clarity. The moonlight sank into her skin, filling her, cleansing her. Every rune flared bright, every scar transformed into proof of endurance. She was not broken. She was alive.

Unbeknownst to her, three figures had come to the mouth of the cave. Arthur first, drawn by the absence of her warmth at his side. His breath caught as he beheld her, not in shame, not in lust, but in awe. Behind him, Marius stood wide-eyed, recognition and wonder dawning on his face. And Balinor—Balinor went very still, the spear in his hand lowering as though before something greater than himself.

Merilyn’s final turn slowed, her body sinking into stillness, arms lifted toward the full moon. Her chest heaved, her skin glistened with river water and light, her violet eyes blazing as she looked skyward. She was both rooted and transcendent, flesh and divinity all at once.

The stream stilled around her, and the night seemed to bow.

Balinor’s voice broke the silence, reverent and shaken. “By the Old Religion… she is not only my daughter.” His eyes burned with recognition, his voice almost a whisper. “She is the Arch Priestess. The Dragonlords… answer to her.”

Arthur’s hand tightened at his side, not from fear but from fierce pride. Marius stared, caught between reverence and kinship, as though seeing the truth of his sister for the first time.

Merilyn lowered her arms at last, water dripping from her fingers, her hair a shining banner in the moonlight. For the first time in weeks, her body felt whole, her spirit vibrant. She stood naked but unashamed, scars and runes illuminated, the truth of who she was undeniable.

The moonlight still shimmered across her skin when the world shifted beneath her. Merilyn’s breath caught, sharp and shallow, as the energy she had drawn began to unravel. The strength that had filled her only moments ago bled away too swiftly, leaving her legs trembling and her chest hollow, as though something vital had been pulled straight from her ribs. Her vision blurred, the stars above fracturing into a thousand shards of silver. She swayed once, then again, her balance faltering, until her body finally gave out. With a soft splash she crumpled into the shallow stream, the current rushing cold around her, stealing the last of the glow from the runes etched faintly along her skin.

“Merilyn!”

Arthur was already moving. He plunged into the water without hesitation, the cold biting at him instantly, soaking through fabric and flesh, but he paid it no mind. His arms closed around her shoulders, hauling her upright as her head lolled against his chest. Her pale hair spread through the current like spilled moonlight, drifting weightless, fragile as gossamer. He gathered her close, heedless of the stones beneath his knees, his breath coming ragged as fear drove into him.

“Stay with me,” he urged, his voice low and fierce, the words a command and a plea in one. His palm pressed against her cheek, his thumb brushing across her damp skin in frantic circles as if touch alone could anchor her. Her breaths came faint but steady, lashes trembling against her cheeks as though she fought to surface from a dream too deep. Relief struck him in the same instant as panic, leaving his chest tight and aching. “You’ve burned yourself out again, haven’t you?” His voice cracked on the words, half-scolding, half-breaking. “Foolish woman.”

Strength born of desperation drove him as he swept her into his arms, lifting her from the stream as though she weighed nothing at all. Water dripped from her clothes, soaking into his tunic, running in rivulets down his arms, but he didn’t care. He carried her to the bank and knelt in the wet grass, laying her gently upon the earth before cradling her close once more. His hand returned to her cheek, thumb stroking her skin with the kind of urgency only fear could conjure. “Merilyn,” he whispered, his voice roughened with dread. “Come back to me.”

Behind him, the shadows shifted. From the treeline Balinor stepped forward, the spear at his side forgotten, his eyes fixed on the faintly glowing runes that still marked her skin. There was no suspicion in his gaze now, only a solemn reverence edged with recognition, as though a truth long denied stood suddenly undeniable before him.

“Do not fear,” Balinor said at last, his voice quiet but steady, carrying the gravity of one who understood what Arthur could not. “She has not harmed herself.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, blue eyes blazing with the kind of fury only fear could stoke. “Not harmed—she collapsed!” His arm tightened around her, protective, almost possessive, as though Balinor might try to tear her from his grasp. “She’s freezing, barely breathing—”

“What you saw,” Balinor cut across gently, “was no accident. It was a ritual. The River Moon Dance—an ancient practice of the priestesses of the Old Religion.” His gaze lingered on Merilyn, his expression softened with something close to pride. “She called the moon’s power into herself, let it flood through her body until it purged the shadows weighing her down. Such strength takes everything for a time. That is why she has fallen into sleep.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his thumb still brushing against her cold cheek as if the motion itself might keep her tethered. “And you’re telling me she’ll just… wake?”

Balinor nodded once, the conviction in the gesture as steady as the mountain at his back. “By dawn she will rise as though the world itself has stitched her back together. The dance restores more than strength. It restores spirit. She will sleep soundlessly tonight, and in the morning she will be whole.”

Arthur looked down at her, his eyes drinking in the fragile lines of her face, the lashes resting pale against her cheeks, the faint rise and fall of her chest. A long, uneven breath escaped him, heavy with relief and yet still sharpened by anger that she had dared risk herself this way. “You’d better be right,” he muttered, pulling her closer against him, unwilling to trust even the earth to hold her in his stead.

Balinor said nothing more. He only watched in silence, the firelight catching faintly in his eyes, as though he saw in her not only the living proof of Hunith’s courage but also the enduring power of the Old Religion that he had thought long buried.

Arthur refused to set her down. Even when Balinor and Marius turned back toward the fire, he carried her with him, her weight cradled easily in his arms, her head pillowed against his chest. He lowered himself onto the furs without loosening his hold, adjusting only enough to make her comfortable, her pale hair spilling like silk over his arm. She slept on in soundless peace, her breath steady and even, but Arthur’s hand never left her shoulder. His thumb traced idle, steady circles against her skin as if the motion alone tethered her to him, as if she might slip away the instant he stopped.

The fire cracked and hissed, sparks leaping briefly into the smoke-thick air before dying into ash. Its glow painted the walls of the cave in restless shadows, each flicker stretching long and jagged across the stone. Across from him, Balinor watched in silence, his eyes catching the firelight, deep-set and sharp. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same unyielding lines as the mountains outside, and for a long while he said nothing. Arthur didn’t press for words. He kept his gaze lowered to the woman in his arms, to the faint glimmer of runes still lingering along her skin, their glow dim but undeniable.

At last Balinor broke the quiet, his voice low and rough, as though dragged up from years of disuse. “I expected a prince of Camelot to be quicker with his blade. Your king would call for my head—and hers—before the fire burned low.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed, but he did not look up at once. “Uther isn’t here,” he said simply, his tone even, certain.

A short, humorless huff escaped Balinor, not quite a laugh, more like a note of bitter acknowledgment. “No. He is not. And I see now why. He would never stomach this.”

Arthur lifted his eyes then, meeting Balinor’s with steady defiance. The firelight carved his blue gaze into steel. “I don’t care what my father thinks. She is mine to protect. That will never change.” His hand tightened against her shoulder as he spoke, each word struck like an oath. “If anyone threatens her—even you—they’ll answer to me.”

Marius shifted at that, his body taut with instinct, but Balinor raised a single hand and the younger man stilled. The dragonlord leaned forward, the flames catching in the lines carved deep around his eyes. He studied Arthur as if weighing the truth of him, his silence stretching heavy, searching. At last, when he spoke again, his voice had softened, carrying a thread of something almost like disbelief. “You love her.”

Arthur did not flinch. “More than my own life.”

For the first time, something flickered in Balinor’s expression—an old wound reopening, perhaps, or the sharp sting of realizing what years of exile had cost him. His gaze fell to the daughter sleeping soundly in another man’s arms, and for a moment his sternness slipped, stripped bare until he looked raw and painfully human. “Hunith would be glad to know her child is so fiercely guarded,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be nearly lost in the fire’s crackle.

Arthur’s throat tightened, but he forced the weight down, refusing to let it show. “She’s more than guarded,” he said firmly, every syllable deliberate. “She’s seen. She’s cherished. Whatever bloodline she bears, whatever prophecy the Old Religion dares to name her part of—that isn’t why I stay. I stay because she is Merilyn. Because I cannot imagine my world without her.”

The words hung in the cave, as steady and certain as the grip that anchored her to him.

Something eased in Balinor’s eyes, a faint softening that did not erase the years but acknowledged the truth spoken before him. He gave a single nod, slow and solemn, a gesture of unspoken recognition. “Then perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “she is safer than I dared hope.”

Arthur lowered his head once more, pressing his lips into the damp crown of her hair. The kiss was light, reverent, meant for her alone though she slept too deeply to hear. Still, he whispered into the strands, his vow quiet but absolute. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 34

When Merilyn woke, it was to the smell of smoke and pine, the warmth of furs beneath her cheek, and the soft hush of morning drifting in from beyond the cave mouth. For a long moment she lay still, blinking at the faint glow of embers, disoriented by the heaviness in her limbs. Then memory washed over her—moonlight, water, the dance, the sudden collapse.

Her pulse quickened, but the expected ache never came. Instead, she felt... whole. Not untouched—her scars still marked her, her body still bore the thinness of weeks of strain—but her spirit felt steadier than it had in years. The weight that had pressed on her chest, the gnawing exhaustion that had dulled her edges, was gone. She drew a breath, slow and deep, and it didn't scrape raw. For the first time since Lenora's teachings, she felt like herself.

Someone had dressed her while she slept—her shift was clean, her cloak draped across her shoulders, the damp gone from her hair. A pang of vulnerability stirred at the thought of Arthur's hands doing it, gentle, protective, and she pressed her fingers to the fabric at her collar, steadying herself.

The cave was empty. The fire crackled low, but the men were gone. From outside came the murmur of voices—Arthur's firm baritone, Balinor's gravel, Marius's younger timbre, all blending with the morning birdsong. She could not make out the words, but their cadence carried a strange calm. No clash of anger. No raised threats. Just... talking.

Merilyn pushed herself upright, drawing her knees to her chest. Her body felt light, but her mind was a tangle. Relief at her restored strength warred with dread of facing Balinor again. Gratitude for Arthur's unwavering presence tugged at her heart, even as guilt pricked sharp—she had been cruel last night, unfair in her anguish. And Marius... her brother. The word still felt foreign, untested on her tongue.

Her violet eyes caught the faint shimmer of runes along her forearm, fading now but still glowing faintly like embers under skin. She traced them with her fingertips, and a shiver ran through her. They had all seen her—every scar, every rune, every truth she had hidden behind illusion and armor. There was no taking it back.

And yet, instead of shame, a strange calm settled in her chest. They knew her now. Arthur had held her through it. Balinor had named what she was. Even Marius had looked at her with something she couldn't quite name—kinship, maybe awe.

She was not alone.

Drawing in another steadying breath, Merilyn rose and moved toward the cave mouth, her boots whispering over stone. The light outside was pale and new, the kind that promised a day not yet touched by fire or grief. She paused just before the threshold, listening again to the men's voices.

Merilyn squared her shoulders and stepped into the morning.

The forest was washed in silver and green, the damp earth fragrant from the night's rain. Just beyond the mouth of the cave, Arthur stood with Balinor and Marius, the three of them framed by shafts of sunlight filtering through the pines. They turned at the sound of her boots on stone, but it was Arthur who moved first.

"Merilyn." His voice was breathless with relief, as if he had been holding it in all night. He crossed the space between them in strides too quick to be careful, his armor clinking faintly, and before she could speak, his arms wrapped around her.

The embrace was fierce, full-bodied, his face pressed into her hair as though he needed to assure himself she was real. She let herself sink into him, smiling against the fabric of his tunic when he pulled back just enough to look at her.

"You're—" His words faltered, caught between wonder and disbelief. His blue eyes scanned her face, her posture, the brightness in her eyes. A smile tugged at his lips, boyish and unguarded, breaking through the hardness he wore like a second skin. "You're different. Lighter."

She lifted a hand to his cheek, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. "I feel different."

His expression softened even further. He bent to press a quick, reverent kiss to her lips, then another to her brow, lingering there as though he could drink in the warmth of her steadiness. "Gods, you scared me last night," he murmured against her skin.

Her smile curved, small but real. "I know. I'm sorry."

Arthur shook his head, pulling her back into his chest as if apologies were unnecessary. His heart thudded steady under her ear, grounding her in its rhythm. For the first time in weeks, she realized she wasn't only breathing—she was alive.

When she finally lifted her head, Balinor was watching them with a curious expression—something caught between surprise and reluctant admiration. Marius stood beside him, arms folded, but there was no scorn in his eyes. Only wonder.

Arthur's hand slipped down to lace with hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. She followed his gaze, meeting her father's dark eyes across the morning light.

Merilyn let Arthur's hand fall gently from hers, though the warmth of his touch lingered as she took a step closer to Balinor. Her heart knocked hard in her chest, but it wasn't the frantic stammer of panic this time. It was steadier, clearer, as if the moonlight still echoed inside her.

Her violet eyes locked onto his, unflinching. "We don't have the luxury of time for riddles, Balinor. Last night I gave you my grief and my anger. But I need to hear it plain now, from your lips. Why did you stay away? Why build a life here, when Hunith and I were left to carry the silence you abandoned us to?"

The words were firm, but not screaming. They came threaded with pain, yes, but also the demand for truth, unclouded by panic.

Balinor straightened, the lines of his face sharpening in the daylight. He no longer looked merely wary—he looked like a man seeing the strength of Hunith reborn in her, and something more besides. "I told you once, it was not by choice. But you deserve the full truth." His gaze dipped, softened almost imperceptibly. "I loved your mother. I loved you. But staying would have damned you both. I thought distance would keep Uther's eyes from you. I thought sacrifice meant safety. I was wrong."

Merilyn's jaw tightened, but she held her tongue. For once, she did not let the fury burn first. She let the weight of his words sink into her chest, measured against the scars she carried.

Silence settled, and for the first time Marius broke it. He stepped out of the shadow of the cave, the morning light glinting in eyes so much like her own. His voice, when it came, was low, careful, but steady. "I never knew I had a sister," he said, glancing between her and Balinor. "He didn't tell me. He kept you a secret, same as he kept me. But I can feel it now, standing here. We are blood."

Her breath caught at the simple word. Sister. No venom, no doubt—just recognition.

Marius's expression softened, and something like a smile ghosted across his mouth. "It's nice to meet you."

Merilyn's lips parted, but for a heartbeat no sound came. Her throat felt tight, the weight of too many emotions pressing upward all at once—relief, anger, sorrow, and something perilously like joy. She swallowed them back and managed the smallest, wavering smile. "It's... nice to meet you too," she whispered, the words almost foreign.

Arthur's hand brushed lightly at her back, not urging, only steadying. She drew strength from that touch and took one step nearer to Marius. Up close she could see more clearly—yes, her eyes in his, but Balinor's jaw, his height, the breadth of his shoulders. A reflection of family she'd never been allowed to claim.

"I spent years thinking I had no one but my mother," she said softly, her gaze flicking between them both. "That I was some... mistake hidden away. And now I find I have not only a father but a brother." She shook her head faintly, the laugh that left her edged with disbelief. "The world has a cruel way of keeping secrets."

Marius's expression sobered, and he glanced toward their father, a shadow flickering across his face. "He thought he was protecting me too. Protecting us all. But... maybe it was more hiding than protecting."

Balinor's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. His eyes were on Merilyn again, unyielding, filled with an ache that looked carved into him. "I cannot undo what's been lost. I cannot give you back the years Hunith bore alone, nor the burdens you carried. But I would have you know, child... not a day passed when I did not think of you. You were never forgotten."

The words hit her harder than she wanted them to. For a moment her vision blurred, tears threatening again, but she steadied her breath. No, she would not crumble now. Not when she finally felt the ground beneath her feet.

She lifted her chin, her violet eyes clear. "Then let your actions speak that truth now. Help us stop the dragon. Help me prove that your choice to stay away wasn't for nothing."

Balinor's gaze softened, reverence threading through the grief. He inclined his head, a warrior's vow in the simple gesture. "You have it. Whatever else may lie between us, you have it."

The campfire cracked low, sparks chasing upward before vanishing into the night. Arthur slept a few paces away, sprawled on his cloak, the steady rhythm of his breathing blending with the rustle of the forest. Marius had curled against a tree, his sword resting near his hand, but his eyes had finally closed. Only Merilyn and Balinor remained awake, shadows and firelight painting them in shades of gold and black.

Balinor's hands worked steadily over a piece of wood, the sharp edge of his knife shaving curls that fell into the fire. His face was etched in concentration, but his eyes kept flicking toward her, as if expecting her to speak.

Merilyn hugged her knees to her chest, cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. For a long time she just listened to the night—the sigh of wind through the branches, the murmur of the fire. But the question pressed until she could not hold it back.

"Tell me about her," she said at last, her voice quiet but cutting through the hush.

Balinor's knife stilled. His dark eyes lifted to hers, shadowed and cautious. "Her?"

"Marius's mother." Merilyn's throat tightened as she forced the words out. "The woman you built a life with after you left us."

The silence stretched long enough she wondered if he would refuse. But then he sighed, setting the half-carved figure aside. His gaze shifted to the fire, distant, softened by memory.

"She was called Alys," he said slowly, as though speaking her name summoned ghosts. "A woman of Cenred's people. Strong—fierce, even. She did not flinch at the sight of a hunted man, nor at the curse of dragonlord blood. She gave me... a chance to stop running for a time. A chance to breathe."

Merilyn's chest ached. The image of him finding shelter, finding love, while Hunith carried every burden alone made her jaw clench, but she bit down the bitterness. Not yet.

"And then she gave me Marius," Balinor continued. "Her birth was hard—too hard. She never rose again. I buried her with my own hands and swore I would not fail our son. From then on, it was just the two of us." He glanced toward where Marius slept, his features softening with pride. "We moved from village to village, never too long in one place. We mended tools, traded dragonlore for food, kept to the shadows when Cenred's men grew suspicious. He learned to fight young, because there was no other way to survive. Every day, survival was our life's work."

Merilyn drew her cloak tighter, the weight of his words settling in. She had imagined abandonment as an act of selfishness. Instead, what she saw in his eyes now was exhaustion, sacrifice, love bent toward survival. It didn't erase the pain Hunith had borne. It didn't erase the years she herself had lost. But it complicated them—gave them edges she hadn't been prepared for.

"And us?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "Did you think of us?"

Balinor's eyes lifted, raw with unguarded truth. "Every day. I would watch Marius sleep and wonder if you were safe in Hunith's arms. I would see your face in his when he laughed. You were never far from me, Meri. Never forgotten. But I thought distance was mercy. I thought if I stayed away, Uther would stop hunting. I was wrong."

The fire popped, sparks flaring before they died. Merilyn's hands tightened on her knees, her heart heavy with anger and longing, with something dangerously like forgiveness that she wasn't ready to grant.

Balinor's gaze lingered on her, steady in the shifting glow of the flames. His knife lay forgotten at his side, the whittled shape abandoned. For a long while he said nothing, as if weighing the right to speak at all. Then his voice broke the quiet, low and careful.

"I saw them," he said. His eyes flicked briefly to her arms, to the skin she hadn't thought much about when she'd pulled her cloak tight. "The scars. They tell a story no father wants to imagine his daughter surviving." His throat worked. "What happened to you, Meri?"

The question landed like a stone in her chest. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her cloak, breath held until her ribs ached. A dozen memories surged—the press of cold walls, the clink of chains, the sound of her own screams—but she forced them back down, locking them where they belonged: behind her.

Her violet eyes lifted, sharp in the firelight. "It doesn't matter," she said. The words were quiet, but firm. "It happened. I endured. That's all you need to know."

Balinor flinched as if she had struck him, but he didn't press. His weathered hands flexed once on his knees before settling. He gave a slow nod, respect in the gesture even as sorrow etched deeper into his features.

"You're stronger than I deserved you to be," he murmured.

Merilyn's jaw eased, though her chest still burned. She looked back at the fire, watching the embers pulse. "I don't want to keep bleeding from old wounds," she said softly. "I want to live. To fight for what's ahead of us. Not drown in what's already passed."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not suffocating. Balinor leaned back against the log behind him, eyes never straying from her. For once, the distance between them felt like something that could be crossed.

His chest heaved, the light dimming in his eyes, but he turned back to Merilyn. For a moment it was as if the battle, the blood, even the pain were stripped away—only the man remained, weathered and broken, but seeing his daughter clear for the first time.

"I am glad..." His voice cracked, but he pushed the words through, breath hitching. "I am glad I lived long enough to see you. To know you are more than the memory I carried. Stronger, brighter than I ever dared to imagine."

The dawn was pale when Merilyn stirred, the thin warmth of sun pushing through the canopy. Her eyes caught on the little carving lying near her cloak—a dragon, wings spread mid-flight, its edges still rough from the knife. She turned it in her hands, lips trembling at the care etched into every line.

The camp was quiet. Arthur crouched nearby, watching the treeline, his expression tense. Marius still slept in a shallow doze, one hand curled around the hilt of his blade. Balinor tended the fire, movements steady, as though nothing in the world could shake him.

Then Arthur stiffened, head snapping toward the trees. He moved in an instant, crossing to Merilyn and pressing a firm hand over her mouth before she could speak. “Cenred’s men,” he whispered, voice sharp as flint.

The warning came just as the first figures broke through the underbrush. Steel flashed, boots churned mud, and shouts shattered the hush of morning. Arthur’s sword was out, clashing against the first soldier to reach the clearing.

Merilyn rose at once, staff flaring with light as she swung it across the head of another, the crack of impact echoing through the camp. Marius joined her, blade flashing, the strength in his shoulders marking him as his father’s son.

Balinor caught the sword Merilyn tossed him with the ease of a man who had wielded steel all his life. He met the enemy head-on, every strike fierce and deliberate, his grey-streaked hair catching the light of the flames. For a while it seemed as though they might hold—the four of them together, back to back, cutting down one wave after another.

Then Merilyn’s staff was wrenched from her grip. She turned just in time to see the blade arcing toward her throat—too fast, too close.

“Merilyn!”

Balinor was there in an instant, his sword flashing. He drove the soldier back, but the strike meant for her cut deep into him instead. His cry split the morning as the blade slid between his ribs.

“No!” Merilyn caught him as he staggered, her knees buckling beneath the sudden weight. Her hands pressed to the wound, magic sparking desperately against the flow of blood, but she already knew—it was too deep, too final. “Please—don’t—”

His hand caught hers, holding it steady against his chest. His dark eyes found her violet ones, raw and full of pain—but his gaze shifted past her, to where Marius stood frozen, horror etched into his young face.

“Marius,” Balinor rasped, his voice trembling but fierce. “Listen to me.”

Marius dropped to his knees beside them, gripping his father’s arm. “No—don’t speak, you’ll waste your breath—”

“You must hear this.” Balinor’s voice sharpened with the authority of a man who had no time left. He reached up, cupping his son’s cheek with a bloodstained hand. “The gift passes through you now. You are the last Dragonlord. The bond is yours to claim. The dragon will answer to no one else.”

Marius’s eyes widened, his breath breaking. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Balinor cut him off, a flicker of fire in his gaze. “You are strong enough. Stronger than I was. And you will not stand alone. You have your sister—” His gaze flicked to Merilyn, shining with pride even as his strength faltered. “—and you have Camelot’s prince beside you. Together you will endure.”

Blood bubbled at his lips, his voice failing, but he forced the words out one last time, each syllable a command, a vow. “Make me proud, my son.”

Merilyn's throat burned, her tears falling freely now as she gripped his hand tight, as though sheer will might tether him to the world. "Don't say it like this—don't make it sound like goodbye."

Balinor's bloodied fingers brushed against her cheek, leaving a streak as tender as it was desperate. "Meri... I have loved you from the moment I first held you in my arms. Even when I was far, even when I was silent—I loved you. I love you both." His gaze shifted between them, father to children, pride and grief blazing all at once. "My greatest sorrow is leaving you behind. My greatest joy is knowing you found each other."

Her sob broke into the quiet, sharp as steel splintering. "I forgive you," she whispered, though her heart shook with the weight of it. "I forgive you, Father. Just... don't leave."

But the fire in him was fading, pulled by something greater than will. His final breath trembled past his lips as he whispered, "You'll never be alone again."

And then he was still.

Marius bent low, clutching his father's shoulder, his own tears spilling unchecked. Merilyn cradled Balinor's head against her chest, her sobs shaking through her until Arthur's arms wrapped around them both, anchoring them as the forest fell silent but for the echo of loss.

Arthur was the first to shift, his sword still clutched in one hand, point buried uselessly in the dirt. He stared at Balinor's still form, his chest heaving with the weight of battle and grief. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw.

"Camelot is doomed."

The words rang like a death knell. Marius lifted his head sharply, his eyes blazing with denial, but no sound came. It was Merilyn who stirred, her tears drying hot on her cheeks as she looked up at Arthur. Her violet eyes glowed faint in the dawn, steady even as her heart cracked.

"No," she whispered, then louder, firmer, her voice cutting through the hush. "No, it isn't. Marius can take his place." She turned to her brother, her hand finding his bloodstained one and gripping it tight. "You are our father's heir. The gift is yours. Camelot still has a Dragonlord."

Marius's lips trembled, disbelief warring with grief. But when her eyes held his, unwavering, something in him shifted. He nodded once, jaw clenched. "Then I will not fail."

Merilyn exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead to Balinor's one last time. "We'll finish this for you."

They built the pyre with their own hands—Arthur gathering fallen branches with a grim determination, Marius cutting logs with steady strokes, and Merilyn weaving dried grasses between them, her fingers trembling as she worked. Together they lifted Balinor's body onto the wooden bier. Merilyn laid the carved dragon on his chest, her tears dripping onto the rough wood.

When the flames caught, they stood shoulder to shoulder, the heat washing their faces as the smoke curled into the brightening sky. None of them spoke. None of them needed to. The fire spoke enough—release, farewell, and the vow to carry forward.

When the last embers sank into ash, Merilyn turned to the others, her voice low but resolute. "We ride hard. Camelot can't wait."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but pride shone through the grief in his eyes as he squeezed her shoulder. "Then let's move."

They mounted swiftly, Marius astride his father's horse, his posture straight despite the weight pressing on him. Arthur led them out of the clearing, his bannerless armor catching the pale morning light. Merilyn rode at his side, her white hair streaming behind her, the smoke of her father's pyre still clinging to her cloak.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35

The ride back to Camelot was long and punishing, the sky weeping steadily as though the heavens themselves mourned what they carried. Rain sheeted down in unrelenting waves, plastering Merilyn’s white hair to her cheeks and soaking her cloak through until the weight of it dragged at her shoulders, but she hardly noticed. Her thoughts were still in the forest, with the scent of smoke and ash that clung to her skin, the memory of flames consuming her father’s pyre burned too vividly behind her eyes. Even as the citadel’s towers rose dark against the storm-heavy horizon, the grief pressed close, refusing to be left behind.

The blare of trumpets split the rain as their company rode through the gates, watchmen calling down from the battlements to herald the prince’s return. Arthur spurred his horse hard into the courtyard, dismounted with a stiff, mud-splattered stride, and without a word made straight for the council chamber. His jaw was locked tight, the tension in his shoulders betraying both exhaustion and fury. Merilyn followed close, Marius just behind, the weight of their secret pressing with every step, heavy as a stone lodged between their ribs.

The War Room breathed unease, the air damp and thick with the mingled scents of wet wool, burning tallow, and hastily stoked braziers that gave more smoke than heat. Uther stood at the head of the table, his crown catching the light from the flames, advisors bracketing him like shadows, while Sir Leon stood pale but resolute at his side. The chamber fell silent as Arthur entered, rain dripping from his cloak and pooling on the flagstones, every eye drawn to him and those who flanked him.

Arthur wasted no time on courtesy. He dropped to one knee before his father, the words breaking from him hoarse but steady, each one measured like a blow. “I’m sorry, Father. I failed you. The last Dragonlord is dead.”

Merilyn’s throat caught around a sob she refused to release. She pressed her lips tightly together, locking the grief inside, while beside her Marius lowered his gaze to the floor, his shoulders drawn taut beneath the cloak Arthur had thrown across him.

For a fleeting instant, Uther’s expression shifted—something that might almost have been relief flickering in his eyes before it hardened into cold steel. His voice rang low and brittle. “There are many years when I might have wished for that news.”

Arthur’s head lifted sharply, his blue eyes fierce. “All is not lost, Father. We can fight the beast ourselves—on our own terms, in open ground, mounted, where we have room to maneuver.”

“There is no point,” Uther snapped back, but the edge of his voice wavered, undercut by fear rather than conviction.

Arthur surged to his feet, the motion sudden and violent, his fist slamming against the table so hard the maps and markers jumped. “So what then? We stand here and watch Camelot burn?”

The words hung in the air, cutting through the chamber until silence pressed like a vise. Uther’s mouth thinned, and after a long, taut moment, he gave a single sharp nod. “You have my blessing.”

Arthur turned at once, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights. His voice rang with command, firm and unyielding. “I need a dozen men. Those who do not ride will carry no stain on their honor—but those who volunteer must know the truth: the chance of return is slim.”

Sir Leon was the first to step forward, his chin high, eyes steady with resolve that left no room for hesitation. One by one the others followed, until twelve knights stood encircling their prince, the firelight glinting off steel and gilding their silence with solemnity. They spoke no vows, yet their wordless loyalty rang louder than any oath that might have been sworn aloud. Arthur’s gaze swept over them, his eyes hard with the weight of command, yet pride shone through the steel, bright and unhidden, a flicker of light against the shadow of what lay ahead.

Merilyn felt the weight of it all pressing into her chest, pride and dread entwined so tightly they became indistinguishable. The relentless march of time was carrying them forward to a battle she could not halt, no matter her magic, no matter her will. Her throat closed as she looked toward Marius, his fists clenched at his sides, his head bowed low, cloaked in silence. Arthur’s lie had hidden him for now, but the truth pressed dangerously near, a storm biding its time.

Later, in the solitude of her chamber, the silence seemed louder still. Merilyn sat hunched at the edge of her bed, the small dragon figurine heavy in her palm. Its carved wings caught the lamplight, blurred through the sheen of her tears until she could hardly distinguish the grooves beneath her fingertips. She traced its ridges again and again as though the simple, grounding act might hold her together while her heart threatened to come apart with every breath. The door creaked, and she did not raise her head when Gaius’s quiet footsteps crossed the room.

Her voice was raw when it broke the stillness. “I couldn’t save him.”

Gaius’s face fell, sorrow etching deeper into the lines of his years. “Oh, child.”

“He said… the gift passes from father to son,” she whispered, her throat burning with the words. “That it was Marius now. But when I faced Kilgharrah before—my magic was useless. What if—what if he can’t do it?”

The physician lowered himself slowly to the edge of the bed, his old hand warm and steady as it closed over hers, fingers curling around both the figurine and the trembling clutch of her palm. “Your father wasn’t dead then. Only at his passing could the gift move forward. The bond is Marius’s now. Time will tell if he is strong enough—but he will not stand alone.”

The words were meant as comfort, but they only deepened the ache in her heart. She curled in on herself, rocking gently, her arms clutched tight around the wooden dragon as though it were a lifeline, the last tether to the father she had barely known.

Elsewhere, in Arthur’s chambers, the prince buckled the final strap of his armor. Merilyn’s hands worked clumsily at the ties, pulling too tightly, the tremor of her fingers betraying the storm she tried to swallow down. Arthur glanced at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a wry attempt at levity. “Well, look on the bright side,” he murmured. “Chances are you won’t have to clean this again.”

Her glare flashed through the blur of tears, sharp as ever. “You must be careful. Don’t force the battle.”

“Yes, Sire,” he teased softly, though his tone was gentle enough to disarm the bite in her words.

“I’m serious,” she pressed, the plea cracking in her voice. “Let matters take their course.”

Arthur’s hand came down over hers, brief but steady, his touch grounding. “Merilyn… if I die—”

“Don’t,” she cut in sharply.

“I have to say it.” His gaze locked with hers, fierce and tender all at once, the weight of his honesty cutting deeper than steel. “If I die, know this—you’re worth every risk.” His voice carried the finality of a vow, and for a moment she could not breathe beneath the ache it left in her chest.

Her ribs constricted, her heart twisting into a knot of love and fear that threatened to spill into words she could not shape. She wanted to seize him, to cling to him, to beg him not to go. But before she could, the horns sounded from the battlements, their call splitting the air with sharp urgency. Arthur reached for his sword with a calmness that masked the storm beneath, the motion fluid, resolute. When she grasped for her own, desperate not to be left behind, he glanced at her with a half-smile that almost undid her.

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to save your royal backside?” she muttered, her voice rough, her defiance a flimsy shield against her terror.

“At least you’ve got your sense of humor back,” he replied, clapping her shoulder with brisk affection before turning, striding toward the door with a commander’s resolve.

She followed, because she could do nothing else.

Night had fallen heavy by the time they reached the clearing. The forest lay in shadow, the canopy broken open above the field as though the heavens themselves had torn apart to witness what was coming. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of scorched earth, the ground blackened in patches where Kilgharrah’s fire had already seared it. The knights shifted uneasily in their saddles, their mounts stamping and snorting, wide-eyed with the instinctive fear only dragons could rouse. The silence between each beat of their hearts was deafening.

Arthur raised his sword, his voice ringing out steady and sharp as steel. “Hold firm.”

Then came the sound—wings like thunder, the sky itself trembling beneath their force. Kilgharrah descended in a sweep of shadow vast enough to blot out the stars, fire already glinting in the cavern of his throat.

“Hold! Hold—now!”

The command cracked through the air like a whip, and the knights loosed their spears. The volley streaked upward, but Kilgharrah tore through them like a storm wind, his scales unbroken, his fury untempered. His tail lashed, scattering men and horses as if they were toys. His roar split the night, fire blooming in waves that sent beasts screaming and men falling, armor blackened, cries drowned in the chaos.

Arthur’s orders vanished into the roar of battle, swallowed whole by the fury of the beast. In the tumult, Merilyn’s horse reared and bucked, throwing her hard onto the charred ground. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, blood copper-hot in her mouth as she staggered up, dazed but unbroken. Her staff answered her call with a sharp crackle of light, flashing into her grip as the dragon’s shadow passed over her, blotting out the pale glow of the moon.

“No,” she breathed, fire sparking in her violet eyes as her voice broke into a command older than language itself. “Stop!”

But the battlefield had already descended into chaos. Men scattered in blind terror, armor clattering as they fled, while riderless horses bolted through the haze with eyes rolling white. The air was a choking blend of smoke, ash, and the acrid stench of charred flesh. Kilgharrah’s wings beat with the power of a storm, each stroke sending tremors through the ground that rattled stone and bone alike. His molten gaze fixed with deadly precision on Arthur, who had dragged himself upright, battered and scorched but unyielding. The prince’s grip tightened on the spear, his jaw clenched, and though flame had already licked too close to his armor, he stood with a defiance that burned brighter than fear.

“Come then,” he muttered, voice low but fierce, the vow meant for the dragon alone. “You’ll not take Camelot while I stand.”

Kilgharrah’s chest swelled, his throat glowing with the build of fire until the world itself seemed to narrow into a single, terrible instant—the beast’s fury gathering to break against one man’s unbending resolve.

“Arthur!” Merilyn’s scream tore across the battlefield, raw and desperate, as she stumbled toward him, her staff blazing with desperate light, her power crackling at her fingertips as if the storm itself had bent to her will.

The dragon’s fire erupted, a torrent of molten breath. Arthur hurled himself aside, rolling through the mud as the flames scorched past. He came up on one knee, spear gripped in both hands, and with all the strength left in him, drove the point deep into Kilgharrah’s side as the beast swept low.

The roar that split the night was deafening, a sound that shook the marrow of every living thing. Kilgharrah reared back, wings thrashing, and with a single sweep of his massive tail, he struck Arthur down. The prince was flung like a ragdoll across the churned earth, his body hitting the ground with brutal force before he lay still.

“Arthur!” Merilyn’s cry rang through the din as she lurched toward him, terror clawing at her throat. But before she could reach him, another figure surged forward, breaking through the haze of smoke and fire.

Marius.

He had lingered at the edges of the fight, sword in hand yet useless against such an adversary. Now, with his father’s last words echoing in his memory, he let the blade fall into the dirt, the clang drowned by the roar of the dragon. His chest heaved, his eyes wide with fear, but when he stepped forward into the open, his voice was steady.

“Enough!”

Kilgharrah’s head snapped toward him, smoke curling from his nostrils, molten eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat the great beast hesitated. Something unseen pulled taut between them—the ancient bond of lineage, the weight of blood and power older than kingdoms.

Marius faltered, his knees threatening to buckle, but Merilyn was there in an instant. Her hand caught his arm, her grip fierce, her presence anchoring him like stone amid the storm. Her violet eyes blazed as she leaned close. “You can do this,” she whispered, fierce and sure. “You are the Dragonlord now.”

Her words seemed to pour strength into him. He drew himself up, shoulders squaring, chin lifting, and began to speak—not with the fear of a boy, but with the cadence of a man wielding a gift greater than himself. The syllables of the Old Tongue rolled from his lips, words Balinor had once entrusted to him, words older than kings or crowns:

“Dragorn. Non didlkai. Kari miss, epsipass imalla krat. Katostar abore ceriss. Katicur. Me ta sentende divoless. Kar… krisass.”

The sound reverberated through the clearing, thrumming deep in the marrow of the earth itself. Kilgharrah faltered mid-roar, wings slowing, his massive body trembling beneath the weight of command woven into every syllable. With a shuddering rumble that shook the ground, the dragon lowered his head until his burning eyes were level with Marius’s. Then, with a long exhale, he bowed.

Merilyn’s breath caught, tears stinging her eyes as she pressed a trembling hand to her lips. Arthur stirred where he had fallen, groaning as he rolled onto his side, mud streaking his face. Through the haze of pain his vision cleared, and he blinked toward the impossible sight: Marius standing tall, his voice still echoing in the air, while the last dragon bent in deference before him.

Kilgharrah’s voice rolled over them like distant thunder. “I am the last of my kind. Whatever wrongs I have done, do not make me responsible for the death of my noble breed.”

Marius swallowed hard, fear trembling in him though his voice rang firm. “Go. Leave this place. If you ever bring fire against Camelot again, I will end you.” His hand lifted, not in threat but in command, the authority of his blood undeniable. “You have been shown mercy. Now you will give it in return.”

The dragon’s eyes lingered on him for a long, terrible moment before they shifted, burning gold settling on Merilyn where she stood at his side, her runes faintly aglow in the light of the burning fields. “Young Dragonlord,” Kilgharrah rumbled, “and Arch Priestess. What you have shown is what you will be. I will not forget this clemency. Our paths will cross again.”

With a thunder of wings, the dragon surged upward into the clouds, his silhouette vanishing into the night until only silence remained.

Merilyn sagged, exhaustion nearly folding her where she stood, but Arthur was suddenly there, coughing, mud-streaked, his arm looping around her shoulders. A wild laugh broke from his chest, half disbelief, half hysteria. “He’s gone? You—you did it?”

Marius turned to them, pale but alight with something fierce and unshakable. “We did it,” he said softly.

Arthur laughed again, this time with relief, his forehead brushing briefly against Merilyn’s temple before he staggered toward his knights, calling them to regroup. When they rode back through the drawbridge, smoke curling from the battlements but Camelot still standing, Uther watched from the high window. He released a single, shuddering breath and turned away.

In the courtyard below, Gwen ran to Arthur and flung her arms around him, her voice breaking against his shoulder. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Arthur’s arms closed around her, but his gaze lifted briefly over her head to Merilyn, who stood with Marius at her side, gripping his hand as though she would never let it go. Gaius reached her next, drawing her into a fatherly embrace. “My girl,” he whispered thickly, relief trembling in every word. “You came back.”

Merilyn’s violet eyes shimmered as she looked to Marius, his shoulders squared though grief still clung to him. “No,” she said softly. “We came back.”

The courtyard emptied slowly, the smoke carried off on the wind until only the scent of damp stone and charred wood lingered. Arthur had gone with his knights to report to Uther, leaving Merilyn standing with Gaius, Erynd, and Marius under the wavering torchlight. She saw how rigidly her brother held himself, the weight of Balinor’s legacy pressing hard on him. She touched his arm, firm yet gentle.

“Come with me,” she murmured. “You need somewhere to rest.”

Marius followed without protest, his long stride slowed by exhaustion. Together they wound their way through the lower town, past shuttered windows and streets littered with ash. When they reached her little cottage tucked in the narrow lane, Merilyn pushed open the door and lit the lantern by the hearth. The familiar space greeted her—worn table, a single bed, herbs drying from the beams—but for the first time she saw it truly: too small, too bare, built for one life lived in shadows.

She glanced at Marius, broad-shouldered and weary as he ducked through the doorway, and laughed under her breath, a rueful sound. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”

He gave a faint, tired smile. “I didn’t want to say it, but… no. You’ve been living like a bird in a cage.” His eyes swept the cramped room, the low ceiling, the single cot, the shelf of worn books. “It’s hardly enough for one, let alone two.”

She sighed, leaning against the table, fingers brushing its scarred surface. “Then it’s settled. This will be your home now. I’ll fetch the blankets from the chest. It may be small, but it’s safe, and it’s yours.”

His eyes widened, voice catching. “Merilyn—no. I can’t take your home. You’ve already given me too much.”

She shook her head firmly, violet eyes gleaming. “You’re my brother. This is the least I can do. Besides—” her mouth curved into a wry smile “—I’m hardly ever here. The palace keeps me busy, and Arthur…” she trailed off, heat rising in her cheeks, though the knowing smile lingered.

Marius arched a brow, but chose not to press. He lowered himself into the single chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and for the first time since she had met him, some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said simply. “For everything.”

Merilyn touched his hand briefly before slipping out into the night. The air was cool against her face as she crossed the quiet town, climbing the narrow stair to Gwen’s chambers. She rapped lightly on the door, and it opened almost at once. Gwen’s face lit with relief and joy, though her eyes were still red from weeping.

“You’re safe!” Gwen exclaimed, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

Merilyn laughed softly, muffled against her shoulder. “I am. Better than that—I found my brother.”

Gwen drew back, astonishment widening her eyes. “Your brother?”

“I’ll explain everything later,” Merilyn promised, slipping inside and closing the door behind them. The chamber was warm, the fire low, the scent of lavender thick in the air. Merilyn sank onto the bed with a sigh. “I gave him my cottage. It was too small for the both of us, and—truth be told—I’ve outgrown it.”

Gwen tilted her head, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “So where will you stay?”

Merilyn smirked, tugging at her damp cloak. “Here, if you’ll have me. At least for appearances.”

That earned a giggle from Gwen, who sat beside her and bumped her shoulder playfully. “Appearances? You mean for the rare nights you aren’t sneaking up to the prince’s chambers?”

Merilyn laughed, color blooming across her pale cheeks. “Most nights,” she admitted, unable to keep the sparkle from her eyes. “But it would be nice to have somewhere else to lay my head when I need it. And someone who won’t ask too many questions when I come in at dawn.”

The two of them dissolved into soft, conspiratorial laughter, the sound warming the small chamber. Gwen reached over and squeezed her hand, her eyes shining. “Of course you can stay here. You’re family to me too, Merilyn. Always.”

For the first time in what felt like an age, Merilyn let herself relax. The battle was behind them, her brother safe, Arthur alive, and Camelot still standing. In Gwen’s laughter and the promise of a new home, she felt something she hadn’t dared to hope for in weeks: a future.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36

The wheel of seasons had turned. Half a year had passed since the dragon’s fire had scarred Camelot’s walls and the ashes of Balinor’s pyre had drifted into the sky. Six months since the kingdom had nearly fallen and Arthur had risen to command in the shadow of his father’s fear. The scars remained, stitched into stone and soul alike, though Camelot marched on as though sheer will alone could erase them.

Merilyn knew better.

She stood at her window in the physician’s chambers, the city sprawled below her, torches glimmering like fireflies against the stone. Her white hair caught in the breeze from the slit of an opening, faintly luminous in the moonlight. To anyone else, she was still the awkward manservant “Merlin,” bustling through the day at Arthur’s side, unnoticed but always there. But in the hush of night, in the hours when shadows blurred into truth, she was herself again—Merilyn, priestess, daughter, dragonlord’s blood.

And Arthur’s.

The bracelet at her wrist—a simple band of leather and silver—lay warm against her pulse. Always warm when she thought of him. It flared hotter in moments of peril, the tether between them unbreakable. More than once in the past months it had burned in warning, and she had thrown herself through smoke and chaos to find him alive, battered but unbroken. He wore the twin of it beneath his armor, hidden where only he knew, but she had seen him thumb the edge of it in quiet moments, as if reassured by its weight.

Arthur’s world had shifted too. He bore more of Camelot’s burden now than ever before, Uther’s vigor waning as the king retreated deeper into silence and drink. Arthur carried the council, led the knights, and walked among the people with a steadiness that belied his exhaustion. He laughed less, but when he did, it was real. And always—always—Merilyn was near, catching him when the weight threatened to crush him.

Not that they had spoken of what lay between them. Not truly. The words had burned on her tongue a hundred times, and his hands had lingered on hers too long, but the walls of Camelot pressed in, and secrets—hers most of all—made their love a dangerous thing. Still, there were stolen glances, fleeting touches, the bracelet’s heat when she drifted too far.

Marius had found his place as well. Once a stranger, now a shadow in the royal household, his broad shoulders and Balinor’s eyes made him a familiar presence in the training yard. The knights had learned to respect him quickly; his gift as Dragonlord was unspoken, but those who saw the steadiness of his command in battle instinctively followed. He was Arthur’s soldier now, his loyalty sharpened by grief and new purpose, though when the day’s duties ended, he always sought his sister’s company, the bond between them a tether neither could ignore.

And Erynd—ever watchful, ever protective—had grown fully into his role at her side. The court might have called him Arthur’s most unflinching guard, a man of iron discipline and steady blade, but those who looked closer saw where his true loyalty lay. His eyes, sharp and restless, flicked too often toward the servant boy called “Merlin,” watching not merely for danger but for the strain of secrets far older than oaths of knighthood. In private he teased her still, needling her in ways only he dared, but there was gravity in him now, a tempered steel that had not been there before. Six months had honed them all into weapons, and Erynd was no exception.

Yet even as time reshaped them, one ritual remained untouched. On the night of every full moon, Merilyn slipped beyond Camelot’s walls, shedding the skin of Merlin and walking the hidden paths to the sacred clearing where her Priestess Guard awaited. Cloaked figures formed a ring around the circle, their faces veiled against the world but their voices steady, familiar, rising together in chant. Here, Merilyn was not servant, not shadow, not the jester who carried Arthur’s armor or endured his scolding. Here she was what the Old Religion whispered her to be—the Arch Priestess reborn, the vessel of power and the hand of balance. Together they worked in secret, offering healing to the wounded, guidance to the lost, sanctuary to those still hunted for their gifts. Camelot’s walls could not contain such work, nor could Uther’s hatred quench it.

Tonight the moon swelled full and bright above the trees, spilling its silver across the clearing. The runes etched into Merilyn’s skin glimmered faintly in its light, their glow mirrored by the hum of her staff where it touched the earth. She felt the pulse of magic rise and fall around her, a tide of power and belonging that always left her steadied yet aching. The chant wrapped her in warmth, the circle breathed with her heartbeat, but beneath it all lay the weight of the double life pressing heavier against her chest with each passing moon. Something had to give soon—she knew it as surely as she felt the thrum of energy under her feet.

When she returned to Camelot, the city was hushed in sleep. The streets of the lower town lay dark and shuttered, the torches along the battlements guttered low, but the silence felt brittle, no true peace, only the pause before a storm breaks. Morgana had been gone for a year now, and her absence festered like an old wound. Rumor had soured into shadow, whispers twisting her name into both fear and longing, and Merilyn could feel the tightening of it in her bones—the threads of destiny pulling taut, straining toward some inevitable clash.

She touched her necklace as she slipped back through the dim corridors of the citadel—the open charm Arthur had once pressed into her hands. Its moonstone core thrummed faintly against her skin, the enchantment woven into it the anchor of her disguise. Without it, “Merlin” could not exist. Without it, her carefully crafted secret would unravel. She remembered the way Arthur’s eyes had held hers when he gave it, steady and sure, his voice quiet as he told her it would protect her. It had become more than protection now. It was the fragile veil between two lives, the thread that allowed her to walk as both man and woman, servant and priestess, hidden love and secret destiny.

The corridors closed around her like the ribs of some ancient beast as she slipped into the physician’s chambers. Gaius stirred from his bench where he had dozed over his herbs, his lined face softening when he saw her safe. He asked no questions; he never did. Perhaps he feared the answers, or perhaps he knew better than to burden her further when the weight she carried was already more than most could endure. She offered him a small, weary smile before retreating to her narrow cot. But sleep would not come. Her mind remained restless, ears pricked to every shifting sound of the castle, every faint tremor in the air, as if even in the stillness the storm had already begun to gather.

By dawn, the stillness had broken. Camelot woke uneasy. The guards on the walls shifted with restless vigilance, their armor clinking louder than usual, and in the great hall whispers spread like smoke curling through rafters. Arthur stood at the council table with a map of the borders unfurled beneath his hands, his brow furrowed in lines carved deeper by another sleepless night. Merilyn took her place at his side, unseen by most, as invisible as ever in the guise of Merlin, but her eyes were on him. The set of his shoulders told her the truth before he ever spoke—he had not slept, and the fire in his eyes burned sharper than usual, honed by worry.

“Another patrol lost,” Leon reported grimly, his voice cutting through the chamber. “We found the remnants near the valley road. They were slaughtered.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the table. Across from him, Uther sat at the head of the council, his eyes glassy, his lips pale, as though illness or age had dulled the edge of his wrath. He waved a hand for silence, but his voice faltered before it could carry. It was Arthur who answered, his tone sharp and steady as steel.

“We cannot keep bleeding men on the borders while we chase shadows,” he declared, the words ringing with the weight of command. “We must focus on Morgana. She is out there somewhere, and every day we waste gives Morgause more time to tighten her hold.”

Merilyn’s stomach twisted at the name. Morgana. A year gone, yet her presence haunted every stone. Merilyn’s guilt was a constant bruise beneath her ribs—she had tried to end Morgana’s path before it twisted too far, and failed. Now Arthur’s determination was laced with grief he rarely let anyone see.

After the council finally broke, the great chamber echoing with the scrape of boots and the heavy hush of unspoken doubts, Merilyn lingered behind. She followed Arthur into the armory, where the air smelled of oil and steel, and the walls glimmered faintly with torchlight on polished armor. The clink of metal filled the silence as he moved with restless purpose, pulling down pieces of his kit as though donning the weight of it might drown out his thoughts.

She stepped close, hands steady even when her chest was not, and tightened the strap of his gauntlet. The leather creaked softly beneath her fingers, her focus on the task though her eyes searched his face from beneath her lashes. His gaze flicked to hers, sharp and questioning, though he did not look away.

“You think I’m wrong,” he said at last, his voice quiet but edged, not a question so much as a challenge.

Merilyn hesitated, breath caught in her throat, before she exhaled a soft sigh. “I think chasing vengeance blinds you,” she answered, her tone gentler than her words. “We’ll find her—Morgana—but not if you burn yourself out on every bandit who crosses the border.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening with the weight of all the battles he could not fight at once. For a long moment he stood unmoving, then his hand shifted, brushing against her wrist with deliberate slowness. The touch was fleeting, but it carried more weight than words could bear. “You sound like Gaius,” he muttered, though the harshness in his tone faltered.

“Perhaps he’s wiser than you give him credit for,” she murmured in return, the corners of her mouth curving just enough to soften the sting. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, visible only for a heartbeat before the mask of duty closed over his expression again.

The bracelet at her wrist pulsed with sudden heat, a reminder of the bond between them, echoing with his unspoken fear and stubborn courage. It sent her pulse racing, and she swallowed hard, fingers fumbling briefly before she tightened the last buckle. She meant to step back, to let him square his shoulders and face the world again, but he did not let her retreat.

Instead of retreating, his hand lifted, calloused palm brushing against her cheek in a touch that was at once unpracticed and achingly deliberate. The roughness of his skin contrasted with the delicacy of the gesture as his fingers slid upward, catching a single curl that had escaped from where she had bound her hair. He tucked it carefully back behind her ear, but his touch lingered far longer than propriety allowed, as if reluctant to part from her. Her breath caught sharply in her chest, stilled by the intimacy of it, and when his thumb traced the curve of her jaw in a quiet stroke of tenderness, she felt her heartbeat stumble in its rhythm, each thud heavy with something unspoken.

“Merilyn…” he began, her name falling from his lips with the weight of a vow, raw and reverent, as though he had been holding it on his tongue for longer than she would ever know.

Before she could summon an answer, his mouth was on hers, fierce yet fragile, a kiss forged not from passing impulse but from all the moments of restraint that had threatened to break them both. The world outside the armory seemed to dissolve in an instant. The clamor of Camelot, the heavy mantle of destiny, even the distant promise of war—all of it melted into silence. There was nothing left but him: the searing warmth of his body, the taste of iron and fire on his breath, the desperate press of lips that had ached for this union far too long. The kiss carried both longing and release, a fragile defiance of time itself, and for a heartbeat, she felt as though they stood outside the reach of fate.

When at last he pulled back, it was not distance but closeness he sought. His forehead rested gently against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek as though afraid that letting go would mean losing her entirely. His breathing was uneven, each exhale brushing her skin with heat, and his eyes—soft but burning—held none of the cold restraint of a prince bearing the weight of a kingdom. In that moment, he was simply a man, stripped of duty, who had found the one thing steady enough to anchor him.

“You’re the only one who makes me forget the rest of it,” he whispered, his voice roughened by honesty, the confession trembling with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself.

Merilyn closed her eyes, her heart aching with the sharp truth of it, the bracelet at her wrist warm as though it too shared in the storm swelling within her. For once, she did not resist the pull of her feelings. She leaned into him, into the fragile sanctuary carved out of their fleeting closeness, knowing it could not last but needing it all the same.

The illusion of stillness shattered with the turning of time. The forest pressed close around them on the next day’s march, its damp breath heavy with moss and the lingering weight of rain. Every sound in that green-locked world seemed sharpened—the drip of water slipping from leaf to leaf, the groan of boughs bending against the wind, the dull squelch of hooves dragging free from the mud. The canopy allowed only shards of fractured daylight to fall, splintering the path ahead into shards of green and silver so that the ground seemed more mirror than earth. The air clung wet against their cloaks and skin, steeped in the rich scent of rot and rain.

Merilyn shifted in her saddle, the leather creaking beneath her as she tried to ease the persistent ache that had grown worse since morning. She muttered an “Ow,” the sound barely more than a breath, yet Arthur caught it as easily as he caught the rhythm of his own heartbeat. His ears, sharpened by years of vigilance, were never slow to mark her discomfort.

He twisted in the saddle, his golden head turning with a trace of amusement in his expression, one brow arched as the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is there something wrong with you?” he asked, his voice light, yet edged with teasing, as if he already knew the truth and relished drawing it from her.

She met his gaze with narrowed eyes, lifting her chin in the kind of defiance that came as naturally to her as breathing. “I’ve been on a horse all day,” she said, her tone as sharp as the look she gave him.

Arthur’s smirk widened, brightening into that unguarded flash of boyish mischief that broke through only when the armor of duty slipped, leaving behind the young man beneath the prince. “Is your little bottom sore?” he asked, the teasing softened by the unmistakable delight of needling her into a reaction.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation, her tone flat and unembarrassed, each word dropped like a stone in a still pond. Then, as her lips curved with the spark of her own mischief, her violet eyes caught the fading light through the guise of Merlin. “It’s not as fat as yours.”

Arthur barked a laugh, sharp and incredulous, the sound so sudden and loud it startled a raven from the branch above, its wings thrashing against the canopy as it fled. “You’ve got a lot of nerve for a wimp.”

“I may be a wimp,” she countered, her voice quick and bright with challenge, “but at least I’m not a dollophead.”

His frown came instantly, brows drawn in a look of complete incredulity, as though the word itself had offended his very bloodline. “There’s no such word.”

“It’s idiomatic,” she replied breezily, her chin tilted with airy confidence, as if her explanation should have satisfied the argument before it even began.

“It’s what?” he pressed, blue eyes narrowing.

“You need to be more in touch with the people,” she told him with mock solemnity, lifting her chin higher, daring him to press her further.

Arthur’s gaze grew suspicious but still carried the glint of amusement. “Describe ‘dollophead.’”

“In two words?” she asked, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“Yes.”

“Prince Arthur.”

His glare could have cut clean through steel, cold and cutting, but she only grinned back, her expression radiant with quiet triumph. Beneath her sleeve, the bracelet at her wrist pulsed with heat—not warning this time, only warmth—echoing the subtle flicker in his eyes when he fought against the smile that threatened to betray him.

But before either could hurl another retort, the forest itself intruded. A whistle cut through the air, cruel and sudden, sharp as a hawk stooping upon its prey. One of the red-cloaked guards at their flank gave a strangled cry as an arrow slammed into his chest, his body pitching sideways from the saddle. Arthur snapped upright at once, his voice ringing through the trees like a sword drawn from its sheath.

“On me!”

The undergrowth erupted. Shadows moved and took shape, men pouring out from between the trees, blades glinting with the last dregs of daylight. The clash was immediate and violent, steel against steel sparking like fire struck in the gloom. Horses screamed and reared, hooves lashing the churned mud as the air filled with the raw stench of sweat, blood, and the fetid breath of the forest floor torn apart by battle.

Merilyn swung down from her mount, staff leaping to her hand on instinct, but she stilled at the last instant—too dangerous, too revealing. Instead, she snatched for a fallen sword, its hilt slick with rain. Her grip had barely tightened before the first blow came down, shuddering through her arm so fiercely the weapon spun free, clattering into the mud.

Her lips moved quickly, the language of her ancestors spilling hot from her tongue. Ecg geteoh þing to. The bandit’s blade jerked as though seized by an unseen force, every scrap of metal on his body snapping toward it—dagger, belt buckle, even the iron helm upon his head—until the weight pulled him backwards in a graceless fall, his cry muffled by the forest floor. Another came at her with a roar, and Merilyn thrust out her hand. A towering oak shuddered to life, its trunk groaning before it splintered and toppled, crashing down with a thunderous roar that scattered men like crows startled from a field.

She stumbled, boots slipping in the churned muck as she ran toward Arthur. Ahead, a bandit loomed with his blade raised high, the glint of triumph in his eyes as he prepared to cleave into Arthur’s unguarded back. With no time to think, Merilyn flung out her hand again. A discarded spear answered her call, ripping free from the mire and whistling through the air with deadly precision, burying itself in the man’s chest before he could strike.

Arthur spun at the sound, blue eyes sweeping the chaos until they fell upon her sprawled in the mud, breathless, her face streaked with earth. His scowl deepened even as his blade cut another enemy down, his voice carrying sharp over the clash of battle. “We’re not playing hide and seek, Merlin!”

She pushed herself upright with a groan, hair plastered across her brow, streaks of mud clinging stubbornly to her skin. “Dollophead,” she muttered under her breath, though the faint curl of a smile tugged at her mouth despite the exhaustion burning through her limbs.

At last the bandits broke, the clearing falling to ragged silence broken only by the groans of the wounded and the hiss of rain dripping through the leaves. Arthur stood tall at the center, his sword still loose in his grip, his chest heaving as he scanned the shadows for what might yet come.

A twig snapped. Both their heads turned, weapons raised again, every nerve raw and waiting.

Through the smoke and mist, a figure stumbled into view, gown torn, hair tangled, face pale and streaked with dirt and blood.

“Morgana,” Arthur breathed, lowering his sword as the world seemed to tilt beneath him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37

The physician’s chambers carried the familiar, heavy scent of dried sage and old parchment, the air clinging with the smoke of the brazier that glowed dully in the corner. Shadows from the low flames flickered across the shelves, glinting off glass jars and worn tomes that had seen years of careful use. Beyond the stone walls, Camelot had settled at last into uneasy quiet; the revelry marking Morgana’s return had dwindled into silence, leaving the courtyards empty and the banners sagging in the still night. But here, in this room, the quiet was restless, like the hush before a storm. Every creak of the floorboards and soft clink of glass seemed sharper, more deliberate, underscoring the tension that simmered between them.

Gaius moved with his usual slow efficiency, returning jars to their places along the shelves, but Merilyn could see the weight in his motions. His hand lingered too long on the lid of each container, fingers tapping lightly before releasing, and he never let his gaze rest on her for more than a heartbeat. The avoidance spoke louder than words, telling her that he already knew what she was struggling to say. She sat hunched on the narrow bench, her elbows braced against her knees, twisting her fingers together until her knuckles whitened. Against her pulse, the leather bracelet Arthur had given her pressed warm and steady, a fragile anchor as her stomach churned with dread.

Marius leaned against the wall near the hearth, arms folded across his chest, his posture imposing in the firelight. His silence was heavier than words, his dark eyes fixed on his sister with a mixture of protectiveness and suspicion, as though he were waiting for a truth he did not want to hear. Beside the door stood Erynd, quiet as ever, one hand resting with studied nonchalance on the hilt of his sword. Yet his eyes betrayed him; they were sharp, hawk-like, flicking from Merilyn to Gaius and back again, measuring every pause and shift in tone, reading the unspoken currents that passed between them.

The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable, and at last Merilyn broke it. Her voice cut into the brittle air, low but firm. “Did you talk to her?”

Gaius turned his head, glancing over his shoulder. His expression was carefully schooled, his tone neutral. “She’s sleeping.”

Merilyn swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making the motion ache. “Did she… did she say anything about me?”

“Nothing as yet.” Gaius’s reply was measured, quiet, accompanied by the soft clink of glass as he replaced another jar on the shelf.

Her chest tightened, breath catching against the weight of inevitability. She dropped her gaze to her restless hands. “Well… she’s going to.”

The words drew movement at once. Marius pushed off from the wall, his broad frame unfolding like a storm cloud, his brow furrowed deep. “What do you mean by that?”

Gaius’s head snapped toward her, his eyes sharp with warning. “Merilyn—”

“She knows.” The admission slipped out, steady but raw, her voice barely above a whisper. She forced herself to lift her chin, though the act felt like stripping herself bare. “She knows I tried to poison her.”

The air in the chamber seemed to thin all at once. Marius froze mid-step, his jaw slackening as if her words had struck him across the face. Erynd straightened slowly, his body tense, the hand on his sword tightening in reflex—not in threat, but in the instinctive readiness of a man bracing for violence. Even Gaius stilled, the jar in his hand set down too carefully, as though any sudden sound might shatter the fragile moment.

“You did what?” Marius’s voice cracked with disbelief, roughened by the sheer impossibility of her confession.

Gaius lifted a hand, his tone quick with urgency, striving to douse the fire before it caught. “She had no choice. Camelot was dying. The curse that strangled this kingdom came from Morgana. Either Merilyn acted, or the whole realm would have fallen.”

But Merilyn shook her head fiercely, dragging her hands up through her white hair, fingers tangling until her shoulders trembled with the effort of holding herself together. Her voice wavered, but her words were firm. “Don’t excuse me, Gaius. Don’t you dare. I mixed the poison with my own hands. I handed her that water skin. Whatever the reason, whatever the cost—I did it. And I am honestly just glad that she survived.”

The brazier popped then, a log collapsing into embers with a hiss that seemed to echo her words, filling the silence with a restless whisper. The chamber, already thick with the weight of secrets, seemed to shrink around them, the walls pressing closer, the smoke clinging heavier in their lungs.

Marius stared at her as though he had never seen her before, the firelight carving deep shadows across his face. His jaw clenched, then unclenched, the muscle working as though he warred with himself, torn between fury and grief. At last his voice broke free, rough and jagged. “Glad she survived?” he repeated, the disbelief burning in every syllable. “You’re speaking of our kin, Merilyn. Of someone who trusted you, who loved you like a sister. You poisoned her, and you can stand there and say you’re glad she survived—as if that somehow makes it right?”

Her violet eyes lifted, shimmering with unshed tears, but there was no anger in them, only exhaustion. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself a thousand times if there had been another way? I prayed for one. But the curse was rotting Camelot from within, and every spell I tried to unravel it only made the sickness spread. If she had died, Marius—yes, it would have been on my hands. But if I had done nothing? Thousands would have died. I carry her life, and theirs, both, on my soul.”

Silence stretched until it frayed at the edges. Erynd shifted at the door, his eyes narrowing, his voice low and sharp as the steel at his hip. “You gamble too much with guilt, Merilyn. One secret nearly crushed you. What happens when this one finds the light?” He let the words hang, the hard truth behind them cutting deeper than any blade. “You know as well as I do—if Morgana speaks it, Uther won’t weigh curses or reasons. He’ll see only betrayal. He’ll see only sorcery.”

Gaius turned quickly, his lined face stern with warning. “That must not happen. Uther would not hesitate to put her to death. We are walking on the edge of a blade as it is.”

Merilyn rose suddenly, the bench scraping across the stones. The firelight caught her hair, white as winter frost, and for a heartbeat she looked more spirit than woman. Her voice trembled, but it did not waver. “Then let him come for me if that is my fate. I will not bury the truth in silence any longer. I tried to kill Morgana. And if the day comes when that truth is dragged into the open, I will face it.”

Marius crossed the floor in two long strides, his hands gripping her shoulders, shaking with the force of his own conflict. “No,” he said hoarsely, eyes burning into hers. “You are my sister, and I will not watch you walk to the pyre because of a choice made in desperation. You should have told me before, but I know now. And now you’ll never face it alone.”

Erynd’s mouth curved into something between a grimace and a smile, his hand dropping from his hilt at last. “You’ve always been reckless, Merilyn, but you’re not a fool. If Uther comes for you, he’ll have to carve his way through the three of us first. And I’ve been waiting years for an excuse to take the king down a peg.”

Despite herself, a ragged laugh escaped Merilyn, though it was wet with tears. She leaned her forehead briefly against Marius’s chest, his arms tightening around her, while Gaius looked on, his face a mixture of sorrow and pride. The secret was no less dangerous for being spoken, but in that moment, for the first time since the poison had touched Morgana’s lips, she did not bear it alone.

The chamber was cloaked in candlelight, the shadows curling up the stone walls like smoke rising from an unseen fire. The hearth had burned low, embers sinking into a wavering bed of orange that cast restless flickers across the floor. The air was warm but close, heavy with the scent of wax and singed wood. Morgana sat poised at the edge of her bed, her posture taut, though her face carried the artful mask of weariness, every detail arranged as if painted by hand. When Arthur entered, that mask trembled—just enough to suggest fragility, the barest crack in the façade.

“I was kept in a cell for almost a year,” she whispered, her voice breaking as though the words themselves were too heavy to bear. Her lashes lowered, her expression shaped into pain so practiced it bordered on perfection. “I thought I’d go mad.”

Arthur stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tightening, blue eyes dark with anger and sympathy alike. “How did you escape?”

“They moved me about a week ago. I don’t know why—perhaps because of the patrol from Camelot.”

His brows knit together sharply, the edge of suspicion in his voice as he asked, “The patrol found you?”

Morgana’s gaze fell, lashes trembling as though under the weight of grief. “I thought I was going to be free. But then I saw them killed. Every one of them, cut down before my eyes. That night, when the bandits grew drunk on their spoils, I took my chance. When I saw you…” She let her voice falter then, carefully measured, as though emotion had robbed her of breath. “…I couldn’t believe it.”

She rose with fluid grace and stepped into his arms. Her embrace clung fiercely, almost desperately, but her eyes, hidden over his shoulder, gleamed cold and distant, untouched by the warmth she projected. She held him long enough to sell the illusion before drawing back with a faint, tired smile. “I think I need to rest.”

Arthur touched her shoulder gently, concern etched clearly across his features. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe now.” His words rang with knightly assurance, the promise of protection heavy on his tongue.

He left her with that comfort, shoulders squared, his step firm with the certainty of a man who believed his duty fulfilled. Merilyn followed at a distance, her steps slower, more hesitant, the weight in her chest pulling her toward the threshold like an anchor. She had almost reached the door when Morgana’s voice slipped through the hush of the chamber, soft but sharp enough to cut the air clean.

“Merlin. I want to speak to you.”

Merilyn froze, her spine stiffening as though she had walked into a blade. Slowly, she turned back. The candlelight caught in Morgana’s eyes, dark pools that glittered with something unreadable.

“I know what you did,” Morgana said, her voice hushed but carrying an edge that sliced clean through the quiet. “You tried to poison me.”

Merilyn’s breath hitched, her throat working painfully as she forced the words past it. “I didn’t want to.”

The silence that followed stretched taut, suffocating in its weight. For a heartbeat it seemed it might break into fury, but then Morgana’s expression softened, her mouth curving into a fragile smile. She leaned forward, her tone low, almost tender. “It’s all right, Merlin. I understand. You were just trying to protect your friends. I would have done the same.”

The words slid over Merilyn like balm, yet beneath them her nerves burned as though set alight. She blinked, searching Morgana’s face for sincerity, but found only shadows shifting in the candle’s glow. “Really?” she whispered, hope and doubt warring in her voice.

“I was so naïve before,” Morgana murmured, her gaze dropping in feigned shame, lashes shielding her expression. “I didn’t understand what I was doing. But now…” She lifted her eyes again, summoning tears that glistened with practiced ease. “I’ve seen the evils in this world. I’ve seen firsthand what it is Uther fights against. You don’t know how much I regret everything I’ve done. I only hope you can forgive me.”

Merilyn’s heart twisted at the plea, torn between suspicion and the desperate need to believe. She wanted it to be true, wanted to believe that Morgana could return to her, that their bond was not yet lost to shadows. Her own voice broke as she whispered back, “I am so sorry for everything you’ve been through. It’s good to have you back.”

Morgana’s smile lingered, soft as moonlight on still water, but as Merilyn turned to leave, her expression shifted. Her eyes hardened, sharp and glittering like shards of glass in the dark, the mask of gentleness slipping away the moment she was unseen.

Arthur’s chambers smelled of leather and polish, the familiar tang of oiled steel blending with the smoke that curled lazily from the hearth. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, gilding the crimson banners that draped the walls and scattering gold across the polished floorboards Merilyn had scrubbed clean on her hands and knees. She straightened at last, wiping a strand of damp hair from her brow, satisfaction tugging faintly at her lips. For once the chores were finished, the weight in her chest eased just slightly, and the room—bright and orderly—felt almost like sanctuary.

Arthur stepped through the door with the easy authority of command still clinging to him like a cloak, though his shoulders eased as he crossed the threshold of his chambers. His eyes flicked toward the servant crouched near the bucket and cloth, narrowing with mock suspicion as though her posture alone were suspicious. “What are you looking so happy about?” he asked, his tone a blend of curiosity and challenge.

Merilyn rose at once, brushing her damp hands against the front of her tunic. Her violet eyes glinted faintly beneath the guise of Merlin, her mouth tugging upward with quiet satisfaction. “The sun is shining, we found Morgana, and I’ve just finished all my chores,” she said, the words delivered with a rare trace of pride, as though completion of such small labors might balance the weight of her other burdens.

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt, more interested in striding deeper into the chamber than in celebrating her triumph. His boots thudded against the newly scrubbed boards, heedless of the faint gleam still clinging to the wood.

Merilyn’s alarm flared, her hand darting out in protest as she took a quick step forward. “Er, do you have to go in there right now?” she asked, urgency sharpening her voice.

Arthur paused mid-stride, his brows lifting in faint surprise. “Why?”

She tilted her chin toward the polished floor, her words careful but edged with warning. “I just washed the floor.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t slip,” he replied airily, waving a dismissive hand as though that were the only concern worth naming.

Her lips parted in disbelief, incredulity flashing across her face. “You really have no idea, do you?” she shot back.

“All you have to do is wipe it,” Arthur countered without hesitation, his voice full of princely assurance, as though he had spent his life tending floors rather than commanding men.

Her arms crossed over her chest in defiance, her chin lifting. “And how would you know?”

Arthur turned back toward her, one golden brow arched in haughty reproach. “I beg your pardon, Merlin?”

“You’ve never had to do it,” she retorted, daring him to argue.

His mouth curved into a slow smirk, mischief brightening his eyes. “Oh, I know how to use a cloth and bucket.”

“Oh, yeah?” she challenged, her tone half-suspicious, half-daring him to prove it.

“It’s easy. Here—let me show you.” With a suddenness that made her flinch, Arthur strode forward, snatched the cloth from her hand, dipped it into the bucket, and with exaggerated care dragged it across her face as if polishing wood.

She sputtered, jerking back in outrage, droplets clinging to her lashes, but his smirk only widened. “Would you like me to show you how to use the bucket?”

Her violet eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, her voice cutting with warning. “No.”

“Good.” The word was little more than a growl of triumph. With deliberate slowness, Arthur tipped the bucket, sending a cascade of murky water spilling over her head. It poured in heavy sheets, soaking her hair, plastering her tunic to her skin, drenching her boots until they squelched against the floor. He rapped the empty pail smartly with his palm like a drum, turned on his heel, and strode from the chamber without so much as a backward glance.

For a long moment Merilyn sat frozen, water dripping steadily from her nose and lashes, streaking down her cheeks until it pooled at her collar. Her chest heaved once, twice, and then she drew in a long, steady breath. Her jaw set, and a wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Dollophead,” she muttered under her breath, voice thick with amusement and promise.

Rising, she snatched her staff from where it leaned against the hearth, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the firelight. Whispering a single word beneath her breath, she tapped it lightly against the floor. The enchantment pulsed outward in invisible ripples, sinking into the stones like rain into soil. A moment later, from somewhere down the corridor, came a sharp, resounding crash, followed by Arthur’s startled curse as the ceiling above him released a torrent of icy, foul water—colder and filthier than the bucket she had endured.

Merilyn’s smile sharpened as she wrung out her sleeve with exaggerated patience. She listened to the sound of his indignant shouting echoing down the hall, every oath and furious protest sweet as music. Then, humming lightly to herself, she gathered up the empty bucket and returned to her work as though nothing at all had happened.

The heavy pound of boots thundered down the corridor moments later, each step fast and furious, echoing like drumbeats against the stone. Merilyn did not lift her head from her work, though the faint twitch tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her anticipation. She wrung the edge of her tunic sleeve with exaggerated patience, as if the task demanded her full attention, until the door slammed open with such force it rattled against the hinges.

Arthur filled the doorway, drenched from head to toe, water streaming in rivulets down his brow, his golden hair plastered in sodden clumps against his forehead. His cloak sagged heavily against his shoulders, darkened to near black, and each squelching step forward left a trail of muddy water across the boards she had only just scrubbed. His eyes blazed with indignation, and his voice cracked like thunder through the chamber. “Merlin!”

She snapped her head up at once, widening her eyes in feigned innocence. “Yes, sire?”

Arthur jabbed a finger toward her, droplets spraying from the cuff of his sleeve as though the gesture itself had been wrung out of the storm. “What—what was that?”

Merilyn blinked, schooling her features into polite confusion. “What was what?”

He gaped at her, mouth parting as if the sheer audacity of her reply might make him combust on the spot. “Don’t you dare play stupid. The ceiling opened up above me as though the heavens themselves had chosen me for vengeance! I nearly drowned in the corridor!”

Her lips twitched, fighting the urge to curl upward, but she pressed them into a straight line and clutched the bucket to her chest like a shield. “Oh dear,” she said gravely. “Sounds as if you walked under a leaky pipe.”

Arthur’s boots squelched as he stalked closer, each step leaving a darker stain across the floor. “A leaky pipe?” His voice rose, incredulous. “That was half the citadel’s rainwater. I should have you thrown in the stocks for this.”

Merilyn tilted her head with practiced innocence, her expression all wide-eyed submission. “For what, sire? Cleaning too thoroughly?”

His jaw worked furiously, every muscle in his face caught between outrage and the undeniable pull of amusement that flickered at the edges. At last, unable to contain it, he barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh, throwing his soaked hands wide as water sprayed from his sleeves. “You think this is funny?!”

“I think,” she answered sweetly, her violet eyes sparking with suppressed laughter, “that it suits you. Wet dog is a good look.”

Arthur’s nostrils flared, his whole frame taut with the effort of maintaining dignity. For a moment, he looked ready to upend another bucket over her head purely out of spite, but the only water in sight was the torrent dripping steadily from his own tunic. He gave a low growl, shaking his head with sharp, irritated flicks that sent droplets scattering, more hound than prince.

“This means war, Merlin,” he declared, his voice low and edged with mock severity. “Mark my words—you’ve started something you cannot possibly win.”

He pivoted sharply and strode toward the door, his sodden cloak dragging a wide, wet trail across the floorboards she had polished to a shine. Merilyn bit her lip until he was gone, then let the laughter break free, bubbling up unrestrained until it filled the chamber like music.

Arthur’s voice carried back not long after, cutting through the laughter like a gauntlet flung to the ground—low, dangerous, and yet threaded with a spark of something less grim: mischief, challenge, the kind of pride that would not suffer being shown up by a servant before half the garrison. Already the knights had sensed the shift in tone; their cheers rose in a wave, drawing tighter around the muddy practice ground beyond the hall.

Merilyn blinked as the roar reached her, caught for half a heartbeat between dread and anticipation. She stepped into the yard just in time to see Arthur pluck a practice blade from the rack. Without hesitation, he hurled its twin toward her. The wooden hilt skidded through the muck and came to rest against her boots.

The circle of knights erupted with approval, voices raised in a chorus of delight. “Fight him, Merlin!” someone bellowed, and the chant took root, stamping the rhythm of expectation into the sodden earth.

Merilyn bent to retrieve the sword, her braid slipping forward over her shoulder as she straightened. Her fingers closed around the muck-streaked hilt, sticky and slick with rainwater, but she lifted it with steady hands. Tilting her chin, she met Arthur’s gaze, her violet eyes glimmering with challenge. “You’re certain you want to humiliate yourself further? After all, the mud seems fond of you.”

Arthur’s grin sharpened, his teeth flashing in the torchlight as he raised his blade in salute. “If anyone’s ending on their backside again, it won’t be me.” Without waiting for her answer, he lunged, boots kicking up clumps of wet earth as the crowd roared.

Their swords clashed with a ringing crack that silenced the jeers for an instant. Arthur pressed hard, his strikes quick, testing, his weight bearing down as though he expected her to fold immediately. But Merilyn’s arm held steady, her body adjusting with ease. Each blow met hers and was turned aside, the rhythm almost graceful—until she twisted her wrist at the last moment and sent his blade sliding wide.

Arthur stumbled a step, recovered, and came at her again with renewed ferocity. The knights shouted their approval, the yard filled with the roar of boots stamping in the mud. Merilyn ducked under his swing, spinning light on her feet, her laughter bubbling up despite herself. “Careful, sire,” she called, their blades striking again with a thunderclap of wood on wood. “Wouldn’t want to chip your princely pride.”

Arthur growled, his attacks faster now, sharper, the point of his practice sword forcing her back, step by step. He was strong—stronger than her by far—but she had speed, and she had cunning. She let him think he was driving her into the circle’s edge, her boots slipping deliberately in the muck. At the last instant, when his next strike came arcing down, she shifted. Her sword slid under his guard, hooked behind his ankle, and with a sharp tug she swept his legs from under him.

Arthur went down hard, flat on his back in the mud with a splatter that echoed off the courtyard stones. The knights roared so loudly the sound shook the walls, laughter and cheers blending into one wild din.

Merilyn stood over him, breath quick but steady, the tip of her practice blade hovering just above his chest. Mud streaked her sleeve, a smear across her cheek where his swing had glanced her, but her grin was triumphant, wide and wicked. “Well, look at that,” she said, her voice carrying clear over the crowd. “Seems it is you after all, sire.”

Arthur blinked up at her, mud dripping from his hairline, his chest heaving. For a heartbeat his pride warred with the absurdity of it all. Then, against his will, a laugh burst out of him—short, incredulous, rich with disbelief. He shoved himself upright, flinging muck from his hand.

“This isn’t over,” he warned, though the laughter in his eyes betrayed him.

“Of course not,” Merilyn replied, twirling her sword before tossing it back into the rack. She leaned close just enough for only him to hear, her tone sweet as honey. “I’d hate for you to admit defeat so soon.”

The knights’ cheers swelled anew, their chant of Mer-lin, Mer-lin echoing across the yard while Arthur dragged himself to his feet, glowering at her with mud-streaked dignity.

Chapter Text

Chapter 38

The Hall of Ceremonies glowed with firelight and festivity, its vaulted rafters draped with banners of crimson and gold that stirred faintly in the warm currents rising from the braziers along the walls. The long tables were heavy with roasted meats and overflowing goblets, nobles and knights pressed shoulder to shoulder as laughter rang bright beneath the high arches. For the first time in many months Camelot felt whole, its stone heart alive with celebration.

At the head of the gathering stood Uther Pendragon, a goblet lifted high in his hand. The years had not been kind to him—grief and iron-willed rule had carved deep lines into his brow and left his gaze perpetually shadowed. Yet tonight, pride and wine softened those edges, and for once the weight of the crown seemed lighter. His voice carried with rare warmth as he addressed his people. “Standing here,” he said, the words rolling through the hall with solemn resonance, “seeing so many happy faces, seems almost like a dream. I can tell you, I have not felt like this in a long time.”

Arthur lounged at his father’s side, golden head tipped in faint amusement. He leaned just close enough that his voice carried to the knights nearest the dais, his quip deliberate. “What, drunk?”

Muffled laughter rippled through the court, contained yet unmistakable. Uther’s lips twitched, though he raised his goblet higher with dignified insistence. “Drunk with happiness,” he corrected firmly, his gaze softening as it settled on Morgana where she sat not far below. The torchlight made her dark hair gleam, her painted smile artful and precise. Uther’s voice thickened as though memory pressed on his throat. “I would have searched the entire world—the seas, the skies, the stars—for that smile. To have it stolen from me was like a blade to my heart. Morgana, there are no words. You mean more to me than you will ever know.”

He lifted his cup in salute, the golden liquid catching the light like flame. “To Lady Morgana.”

The hall rose in chorus, voices thundering as goblets lifted high. “To Lady Morgana!” The vaulted space rang with it, echoing like a tide of triumph. Morgana inclined her head with graceful precision, her smile the very picture of gratitude, though her green eyes gleamed with something harder, something hidden beneath the veil of light.

As the cheers ebbed into chatter and laughter once more, Uther’s hand trembled faintly around his goblet. The brightness of the hall seemed suddenly to weigh upon him, pressing against his temples until his composure wavered. “I need some air,” he muttered, passing his cup to a servant before slipping from the dais with a stiffness disguised as dignity.

At the table below, Merilyn reached for the wine jug before Arthur could, tilting it carefully to refill his goblet. The brush of her wrist against his sent a faint pulse through the leather bracelet at her arm, its warmth grounding her as she focused on the simple motion of pouring. Arthur caught her eye and offered a fleeting, crooked smile, the kind that tightened something in her chest, and she might have lingered in that fragile ease had the sound not torn through the hall.

A scream.

Not the slurred revelry of drunken voices, not laughter pitched too loud from flushed nobles, but a cry raw and broken, dragged from a man’s throat and filled with terror. Silence fell like a blade. Every goblet stilled midair, every laugh choked off, until the hall was gripped in heavy stillness.

Merilyn’s head snapped toward the doors, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Uther,” she breathed.

Arthur was already rising, his goblet shoved aside, but Merilyn moved first. She darted through the frozen crowd, skirts whispering against stone as she forced her way forward, ignoring the startled calls that followed her. The doors loomed tall, their iron hinges groaning as she shoved them wide and bolted into the night.

The courtyard lay in uneasy shadow, the torches guttering low and casting jagged shapes across cobblestones slick with dew. Uther was crumpled by the well, his once-imposing figure curled in on itself like a broken child. His hands clawed helplessly at the air, his eyes wide and glassy, his cries piercing the night. “Ygraine! Please—please!” His voice cracked into raw sobs as though he could tear his lost wife back from death by sheer desperation.

Two guards rushed forward, uncertain in their duty, but Merilyn barreled past them without hesitation, her shoulder striking one aside as though instinct alone lent her strength. She dropped hard to her knees at the king’s side, the cold bite of the stones cutting through her gown, grounding her in the urgency of the moment. Uther’s body convulsed violently, his limbs jerking with a terror that poured from him unchecked, raw as a storm unbound. His eyes rolled, glassy with visions none of them could see, and his hands clawed at the air as if fending off phantoms.

“Be still,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her palm against his brow. Magic rose in her blood like a tide answering its moon, spilling through her hand in a golden pulse that veined across her skin before sliding into him. The force of it burned her teeth and set her jaw aching, but she held firm until his body jerked once more, then stilled. His breath caught, hitched painfully, then softened into an even rhythm. The wild light drained from his eyes as his lids fluttered closed, and at last he sagged bonelessly into her arms, the torment dulled into unnatural sleep.

Arthur skidded into the courtyard moments later, his sword half-drawn, breath heaving from the sprint. He froze at the sight before him: his father limp against Merilyn’s shoulder, her hand still faintly aglow where it touched his brow. His voice cracked with both shock and suspicion. “What did you do?”

Merilyn lifted her gaze, violet eyes gleaming in the guttering torchlight, her chest rising and falling with the lingering strain of the spell. Her voice steadied, though her throat burned with the weight of her admission. “I made him sleep. It was the only way.” She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering. “Arthur… he was calling for your mother.”

The words fell between them like a blade, sharp and unyielding, conjuring ghosts that neither had been prepared to face. Arthur’s expression faltered, grief flickering across his features before he forced his jaw to steel. He reached down, his hand brushing against hers as together they eased Uther’s body onto the stones. For one suspended heartbeat their eyes met—pain and trust, fear and something unspoken burning hot in the fragile space that bound them.

Behind them, the guards hovered uncertainly, torn between duty and fear, until Arthur straightened and his voice cut through the night like command ringing from a blade. “Help me take him to his chambers. Now.”

The torches in Uther’s chambers burned low, their light throwing restless shadows across the carved canopy of the king’s bed. Arthur carried his father inside with a gentleness at odds with the storm that knotted his shoulders, his movements steady even as his jaw remained tight. Uther’s face lay pale against the pillows, lips parted with shallow breaths, sweat glistening across his brow like dew caught in firelight.

“Careful,” Morgana urged from the foot of the bed, her voice taut with concern. She lingered by the post, dark eyes darting from Arthur to the king’s slackened features. “Is he going to be all right?”

Gaius stepped forward, his hands steady as he adjusted the covers with practiced care. The lines of his face deepened in the flickering glow, worry etched into every crease. “He should sleep until morning,” the physician murmured at last, his tone weary but firm. When his task was done, he stood back, his gaze heavy with more questions than he dared voice.

Arthur exhaled a long breath, but the sound carried no relief. His eyes lingered on his father, shadowed with turmoil, before he turned abruptly on his heel and strode from the chamber. The sharp echo of his boots rang harshly against the stone, a rhythm of frustration he could not contain. Gaius followed in his wake, and Morgana’s gaze trailed after them, her expression unreadable as the door closed behind them.

The Phoenix Corridor stretched cool and solemn around them, high windows admitting faint drafts that teased the flames of the sconces and stirred their light into restless dance. Arthur’s pace was sharp, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “What could’ve made him like this?” he demanded, his voice pitched low but edged like tempered steel.

“I’ve no idea,” Gaius replied carefully, his tone meant to soothe though it did nothing to ease the tension.

Arthur stopped short, whirling on him. His face was flushed, his blue eyes burning with frustration and something perilously close to fear. “Gaius, he was lying on the ground crying.” The word cracked on his tongue, as if tied to Uther Pendragon it no longer fit.

“Exhaustion,” Gaius tried, though even as he said it, the excuse sounded brittle in the air.

Arthur stepped closer, his voice tightening with demand. “Gaius. What aren’t you telling me? What’s wrong with him? Tell me.”

The physician hesitated, his hands folding together as though to steady his resolve. His gaze dropped, weighing each word against the consequence it might unleash. At last he said quietly, “When I found him, he was mumbling. Most of it was incoherent, but…”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “But what?”

Gaius drew a slow breath, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his own reluctance. “He kept mentioning your mother’s name.”

Arthur froze, the weight of the words hitting him like a physical blow. Silence thickened between them, heavy with ghosts that pressed from every side. When at last he spoke, his voice was softer, rough with disbelief. “He never talks about her.”

“No,” Gaius admitted, his voice gentle with regret. “But he claimed that he saw her. In the well.”

Arthur’s breath caught sharply, his fists clenching once more as his thoughts reeled. “Did the guards see him in this state?”

“I think you’re worrying too much,” Gaius said quickly, though the worry in his eyes betrayed the falsehood of his reassurance.

Arthur’s voice rose, echoing down the long corridor. “If the people get to know about this—”

“Then we say that he was ill,” Gaius cut in, his voice firm now, his gaze locking onto Arthur’s with steady conviction. “But that he has recovered.”

The prince stared at him, chest rising and falling beneath the weight of duty pressing hard against fear. At last he dragged a hand over his face, his expression drawn tight. He said nothing further, but his silence carried the shape of resolve: whatever truth haunted Uther Pendragon, the image of a king must endure, even if the man beneath the crown was crumbling.

The council chamber the next day was heavy with tension, the air close and stale from too many bodies gathered beneath its vaulted ceiling. The torches in their sconces burned low, their flames snapping sharply in the silence, casting restless shadows that crawled across the carved stone walls. Around the circular table, lords and knights leaned close over parchments and goblets, their voices hushed, their movements tight with unease. The smell of wax and steel mingled in the air, undercut by the faint tang of smoke.

Arthur stood at the fore, his hand resting with familiar ease on the hilt of his sword, his voice steady as it carried over the chamber with the practiced authority of command. “We’ve had reports that mercenaries are streaming into Cenred’s kingdom,” he announced, his tone clipped, businesslike, betraying none of the restless energy simmering beneath.

A ripple of murmurs stirred the gathered council, glances darting across the table like minnows startled in shallow water. Uther straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening, his gaze sharp as he demanded, “Do we know why?”

Arthur inclined his head, his expression grim. “There is rumour that Cenred is amassing an army. I think we should send a patrol to assess the situation before it grows worse.”

But Uther did not respond. His attention had drifted, his face turning away from the matter at hand, his eyes fixed on something far beyond the table, beyond the chamber, beyond reason itself. His breath sharpened, drawn in ragged gasps, his features paling as though the life were draining from them.

“Father?” Arthur prompted, his voice tightening, unease bleeding through the edges of command.

The chamber stilled. One by one, lords and knights followed the king’s gaze, searching the dim corners and polished stone for the source of his distraction. They found nothing but shadows and torchlight. Yet Uther’s eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on a sight no one else could see.

Arthur turned slowly, following the line of his father’s stare, and the blood in his veins ran cold.

A child stood in the shadows of the chamber. Barefoot, soaked through, water dripping steadily from his limp garments to pool darkly on the stone floor. His eyes were hollow, black pits of grief, and his skin was leached of all color, pale as river stone. Wet strands of hair clung flat to his skull, framing a face that was more accusation than innocence. The boy did not speak. He did not need to. His silence rang louder than any words.

Uther surged violently to his feet, his chair crashing backward against the wall with a splintering crack. His hand lifted, trembling as he pointed straight at the figure. “Leave me alone,” he snarled, his voice a fractured thing, trembling between fury and terror. “Get out of here!”

Arthur stepped forward in alarm, reaching toward his father with a hand half-raised in appeal. “Father, will you—”

“I said get out!” Uther roared, his voice breaking into a thunderous bellow that seemed to shake the chamber itself. His eyes darted wildly, locked on a vision only he could see, unseeing of the lords, the knights, even of Arthur standing before him. His arm thrust outward, finger quivering with fury and terror in equal measure. “Get out! I’ll have you hanged!”

Gasps swept the chamber, the court unraveling into chaos. Some of the lords recoiled from the king as though his madness might leap from his lips to infect them, while others pressed back against the stone walls, their pale faces drawn tight with fear at what his words might mean for the realm. In the center of the chamber, the ghostly figure wavered—its sodden form flickering like a candle guttering in the wind—before it dissolved entirely, leaving behind only a dark pool of water spreading slowly across the polished stone.

Uther’s chest heaved, his hands clawing desperately at the empty air as though he might still seize the apparition. “You hanged!” he spat, the words torn ragged from his throat. “You… you…” His voice cracked into sobs that seemed to hollow him, leaving the once-mighty king a broken shell in the eyes of his court.

Arthur and Sir Leon surged forward together, seizing Uther by the arms as he thrashed, his body jerking violently with the incoherence of his cries. “You hanged them!” he screamed again, the words splintering into a storm of anguish that echoed through the vaulted chamber. The knights struggled to restrain him, dragging his trembling form away from the table as nobles scattered in horrified silence.

The great doors slammed shut behind Arthur and the guards with a force that rattled the iron bands, but the echo of Uther’s shouts lingered in the hall long after he was gone, a jagged wound carved deep into the dignity of Camelot.

The Phoenix Corridor beyond was quieter, but only in sound. The very air seemed strained, drawn taut like the string of a bow ready to snap. Gaius strode quickly beside Merlin, his robes whispering across the stones, his expression grim and shadowed by thought. Merlin kept pace at his side, his own eyes fixed on the floor, his mind circling the vision of the drowned child as though it might spring up again in the next corner.

“There must be some explanation,” Merlin urged at last, his voice pitched low, glancing back toward the council chamber as though expecting to see the phantom trailing them still.

Gaius shook his head, his tone grave, each word edged with the weight of memory. “During the Great Purge, Uther drowned many he suspected of sorcery.” His steps slowed, his shoulders stooping further under the recollection. “And some—God help them—were children. Innocents, killed for the magic they were born with.” He lifted his gaze to Merlin, sorrow dark in his eyes. “Perhaps his conscience is finally playing its tricks.”

Merlin swallowed hard, the image of the boy’s dripping hair and hollow stare seared into his mind. His voice was taut when he spoke. “Whatever it is—”

“Whatever it is,” Gaius cut in, his own voice tightening with urgency, “we can no longer hide this. A king’s hold on his people is a fragile thing, Merlin. If they start to lose faith in him, I fear for Camelot itself.”

Before Merlin could answer, the deep clang of warning bells split the night, reverberating through the stones beneath their feet. The sound was sharp and commanding, the herald of danger at Camelot’s very gates.

The night pressed heavy over the citadel, the air thick with the tang of blood and damp stone. Beneath the looming shadow of the drawbridge, a knot of figures bent low over the crumpled form of a guard. His breaths were shallow, rattling faintly in his throat, the torchlight glinting off the crimson that soaked through his tunic. Gaius crouched swiftly beside him, his old hands surprisingly steady as he pressed cloth against the wound, his keen eyes assessing the depth of the injury.

“Take this man to my chambers,” the physician commanded, his tone clipped with urgency. He did not spare a glance upward, his attention fixed wholly on the failing guard. “He needs tending, and I need to speak with Arthur at once. The matter cannot wait.”

Sir Leon barked orders at once, gesturing to two of the Red Cloaks. Their armor clattered as they stooped to lift the wounded man, carrying him toward the citadel with hurried steps, the torches painting streaks of gold across their helms. Merlin followed a few paces before stopping short, tension knotting his features, his thoughts already racing ahead to what this sudden attack might signify.

By the time they gathered again in the council chamber, the vast hall was quieter than usual, though no less heavy with tension. The air itself felt strained, thick with the weight of expectation, while the torches along the walls guttered fitfully, their flames throwing long, restless shadows across the carved stone. The chamber smelled faintly of smoke and old parchment, the murmurs of the lords and knights circling the table subdued as though each man feared to raise his voice too high.

At the head of the table stood Arthur, broad shoulders squared, every inch the commander he had been raised to be. Yet the taut line of his jaw betrayed the strain of the past days, a storm held barely in check behind his eyes. He braced one hand on the table, the other brushing instinctively at the pommel of his sword, a habit that betrayed unease more clearly than any words.

The scrape of boots against flagstone drew every gaze toward the door as Gaius entered swiftly, his dark robes whispering across the stones as he crossed the chamber. His face was set, grim and shadowed, and in one hand he carried something small yet heavy, its presence alone commanding silence. He stopped at the table, his voice carrying the weight of certainty that stilled even the most anxious whisper. “The sentry must have been attacked during the night.”

Arthur’s brows knit, his hand tightening at his sword. “Who could have done this?”

Without a word, Gaius set the object he carried onto the table. The torchlight caught on polished steel, revealing the cold gleam of a dagger, its blade still slick with blood. The hilt bore a carved sigil, intricate and unmistakable, the lines of its design seeming to writhe in the wavering firelight.

Arthur reached for it, lifting the weapon into the glow. His eyes narrowed as recognition failed him, suspicion sharp on his face. “This… what is it?”

“That,” Gaius said, his tone low and grave, “is the sigil of the Bloodguard.”

Uneasy murmurs swept around the table, knights shifting uncomfortably, lords exchanging wary glances. Arthur stilled them at once with a sharp glance, his voice tightening like a drawn bowstring. “The Bloodguard?”

Gaius inclined his head. “Warrior-priests, sworn to protect the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. Their loyalty was bound to them in life and death alike.”

Arthur shook his head, disbelief flashing across his face. “Surely they were wiped out during the Great Purge.”

“Not all of them,” Gaius countered, his voice weighted with memory that seemed to bend his shoulders further. “Some endured. Some hid. And if this blade has found its way into Camelot’s walls, it means at least one of them is here.”

Arthur’s expression hardened, his grip tightening around the dagger until his knuckles whitened. “Then you believe there is a traitor in Camelot.”

The torchlight carved deep shadows into the lines of Gaius’s face as he inclined his head once more. “It is possible, sire. But the sentry yet lives. If he wakes, he may tell us who struck him.”

Arthur’s gaze snapped up sharply, the words igniting a spark of hope and suspicion alike. “He’s still alive?”

“Indeed,” Gaius confirmed, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed the urgency beneath. “And if fate allows, he will speak soon enough.”

The chamber fell silent again, but it was not the stillness of peace. It was the taut hush of men who knew that danger had breached their walls, that the enemy they feared might already be among them.

Later that night, Merilyn slipped silently through Uther’s chambers, her footsteps muffled on the thick rushes strewn across the floor. The fire at the hearth burned low, its glow reduced to a bed of restless embers that threw long, uneasy shapes against the carved posts of the bed. She set a small vial of potion carefully upon the bureau, the glass catching the dim light before she moved across the room.

The king lay restless beneath his covers, his face pale and glistening with fevered sweat, his features twisted as though even in sleep he wrestled against shadows that refused to release him. With a careful hand, Merilyn drew the blankets higher over his trembling frame, the gesture both instinctive and protective.

It was then that the silence fractured. A faint sound, quiet but distinct. Drip… drip… drip.

Her head snapped toward the sound, her heart pounding as her gaze swept the chamber with frantic urgency. Droplets of mud, dark and slick, spattered the floor beside the bed, falling one after another in a steady rhythm that made her pulse lurch. She followed the trail upward, each drop catching the glow of the firelight until at last she saw it—something unnatural, something wet and wrong, seeping sluggishly from beneath the mattress as though the stones themselves bled filth into the room.

Before she could move, footsteps approached. Morgana entered with quiet grace, her tread feather-light, her face carefully composed into an expression of poised calm. Instinct gripped Merilyn before thought could intervene. She slid swiftly to the floor, pressing herself into the shadowed space beneath the bed, the chill of stone biting against her arms and knees. Her shoulder brushed against something slick. She recoiled, but her fingers had already grazed it—a twisted, pulsing root, its skin damp and warm as flesh. The stench of rot and wet earth clung to it, and in that instant she knew it for what it was: a mandrake, alive in a way no root should ever be.

Morgana bent without hesitation, her hand slipping into the dark recess as though she had done so a hundred times before. Her fingers closed confidently around the root, and she drew it out without so much as a glance beneath the bed. Black mud dripped onto the hem of her gown, but she did not flinch, her composure unshaken. She tucked the cursed thing into her cloak with practiced ease, her movements brisk and certain, then swept from the chamber with a purposeful stride.

Merilyn scrambled out from her hiding place, her heart thundering so violently she feared it might betray her. She lingered for only a single breath, her eyes flicking once to Uther’s restless form where he twisted in fevered sleep, before she hurried after Morgana.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39

Through the winding passages of the citadel, past the still courtyards and the shuttered houses of the town, she followed. The torches dwindled the farther they went, until only the moon guided their way, silver light spilling across the cobblestones. Morgana never faltered, never looked behind her, her figure a purposeful shadow slipping through the gates and vanishing into the waiting dark of the forest.

Merilyn trailed at a careful distance, her staff clutched tightly in her hand, each step carrying her deeper into the truth she had dreaded. The forest pressed close around her, its breath damp with pine and earth, its silence broken only by the creak of branches overhead. Every flicker of moonlight across her white hair felt like a beacon, every crackle beneath her boots like thunder in the hush. Her bracelet pulsed faintly against her wrist, a steady warmth that tethered her to Arthur even across the miles, reminding her of what she fought to protect.

Morgana moved with uncanny certainty, her stride sure, until at last she stepped into a clearing ringed by ancient oaks. The moonlight spilled freely here, silvering the moss and the low mist curling above the roots. Morgana’s cloak trailed behind her like spilled ink, her dark figure commanding the center of the circle. Another form already waited there, tall and composed, her hood sliding back with deliberate grace to reveal Morgause. Her beauty was as cold as it was striking, carved with the perfection of marble, her eyes sharp enough to slice the night itself.

“Sorry you had to wait,” Morgause said, her voice smooth and even, carrying easily across the still air. “There was much to discuss.”

Morgana’s lips curved faintly, her features softening in a way Merilyn had never once seen within Camelot’s walls. “But your visit was successful?”

Morgause’s expression gleamed with triumph, her pride plain in the flicker of her eyes. “Cenred’s army rides for Camelot on my command.”

Morgana’s smile sharpened, reverent and edged with awe, her gaze fixed on her sister as though nothing in the world were more certain. “There is nothing you cannot do.”

“It is you that gives me strength, sister,” Morgause replied, stepping forward with the grace of a queen, her dark cloak rippling across the moss as she laid her hands on Morgana’s shoulders. For a heartbeat her tone softened, but the steel beneath her words remained. “How goes the battle for Uther’s mind?”

Morgana’s eyes glinted, shadows deepening within them, her voice low and smooth as velvet laced with poison. “When Cenred marches on Camelot, he will find a kingdom without a leader.”

“Finally,” Morgause breathed, satisfaction thick in her tone, her smile curving with dangerous delight. “We are ready.”

Yet even in triumph Morgana’s expression wavered, serpent-sharp but imperfect, faltering just long enough for unease to show through. Her gaze slid aside, restless, touched by doubt. “Not quite. Merlin suspects me.”

Hidden in the trees, Merilyn froze, her stomach twisting painfully at the sound of her name carried on Morgana’s lips. Her fingers tightened around her staff, every nerve quivering with dread.

“Has he told Arthur?” Morgause asked sharply, her voice slicing through the night like a drawn blade.

“Not yet,” Morgana admitted, her jaw clenched tight, frustration taut across her face. “But he will.”

Morgause’s eyes hardened, the cold beauty of her face sharpening into menace. “Then we must stop him.”

Morgana’s smirk returned, cruel and assured, her composure restored like a mask snapping back into place. “That will not be difficult.”

Morgause tilted her head, curiosity glinting cold in her gaze. “Why?”

Morgana turned then, her eyes flicking unerringly toward the trees where Merilyn crouched. The smile that curved her lips was slow and poisonous, the edge of a blade unsheathed. “Because he’s already here.”

Merilyn’s pulse lurched into her throat. Before she could retreat, Morgana’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking. “Did you really think I was that stupid, Merlin?”

Every instinct screamed at her to fight, but instinct also screamed to survive. Pride crumbled before urgency, and she spun, bolting into the trees. Her cloak whipped behind her, branches clawing at her arms, roots snagging at her boots as she ran. But the pounding footsteps behind her were swift, steady, disciplined, and from the shadows they came—cloaked figures with eyes burning like embers, movements honed to kill. The Bloodguard.

A staff struck her back with bone-jarring force, the blow driving the air from her lungs. Rough hands seized her arms before she could summon her magic, twisting her wrists until sparks of pain shot up her arms. She thrashed once, twice, desperate, but there were too many. The forest blurred around her, the earth tilting beneath her as they forced her down, dragging her to her knees before Morgana and Morgause.

Morgana’s smile was poisonous, her green eyes glittering with triumph as she stepped closer. “The great Merlin,” she mocked, her voice dripping with venom as she savored the name. “So clever you thought you could shadow me. And yet here you are.”

Merilyn’s chest heaved, her mind racing for escape, but her eyes stayed fixed on Morgana. For all her bravado, grief tore through her heart at the sight—her sister in all but name, the one she had fought for, prayed for, now lost utterly to the shadows.

The world returned to her in fragments: damp moss beneath her cheek, the rasp of iron biting into her wrists, the cold weight of chains pinning her arms cruelly behind her back. Her ankles were shackled, the links heavy enough to drag an ox, and the night pressed thick with the musk of pine and smoke. She groaned, forcing her head up, her violet eyes hazed but already searching, already defiant.

A shadow moved before her. Morgause knelt with fluid grace, her cloak spilling like liquid night across the earth. The moonlight traced her face, cold and perfect, a beauty carved from marble, untouchable and terrible in its certainty. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a predator’s curiosity as she studied her captive.

“You intrigue me, Merlin,” Morgause said, her voice smooth as silk stretched over steel. “Why does a lowly servant risk everything for Arthur—and for Camelot?” Her gaze raked over Merilyn’s face, dissecting every flicker, unyielding. “You know the answer, but you will not tell me. Why? Time and again, you put your life on the line. There must be a reason.”

Merilyn forced her breath into steadiness, swallowing hard against the knot that threatened to choke her. The illusion still clung to her—Merlin’s face, Merlin’s form—yet the charm at her throat pulsed faintly beneath her tunic, its rhythm fragile, faltering, as though one more strike might shatter the disguise entirely. Even so, she lifted her head despite the bite of iron chains pulling her low, defiance sparking in her violet eyes as she met Morgause’s gaze. Her voice was roughened by strain but steady, unyielding. “I believe in a fair and just land.”

Morgause’s lips curved, the expression caught between mockery and pity, her beauty sharpened to a cruel edge by the firelight. “And you think Arthur will give you that?” she asked, her tone sliding smooth as a knife into flesh.

“I know it,” Merilyn replied, her voice hoarse, each word scraped from the rawness of her throat yet carrying a certainty that struck deeper than steel.

For the first time, Morgause’s composure faltered. Surprise flickered through her eyes—brief, sharp, gone in the next breath as though swallowed whole by her discipline. She leaned closer, her shadow falling across Merilyn’s face, her voice low and cutting as she pressed. “And then what? You think you’ll be recognised, Merlin? Is that your dream? All this, just so one day you can remain nothing more than a serving boy at a king’s heel?” Her sneer deepened, curling her perfect mouth into something venomous. “No. There’s something more. Something you refuse to tell me. Isn’t there?”

Merilyn’s fingers dug into the damp earth, nails caked with moss and mud as her jaw locked tight. “I told you,” she forced out, every syllable clenched between her teeth.

Morgause studied her with eyes like cold flame, weighing silence as if it were proof. At last she straightened, the warmth gone from her face, her mouth a flat line as her voice rang with quiet menace. “Very well. Then you can carry your secret to your grave.”

Her pale hand rose, fingers curling with deliberate grace as she murmured in the Old Tongue: Weorc untoworpenlic.

The chains binding Merilyn flared at once, searing with sudden crimson light as ancient sigils burned alive along the iron. Pain tore through her like lightning. She gasped, arching against the strain as the shackles constricted, biting deep into wrists and ankles until the pressure ground against bone. The iron scorched her skin with the stench of seared flesh, the sound of sizzling meeting the damp air, and still she bit down on her cry, jaw locked, teeth cutting into her tongue until the copper taste of blood filled her mouth.

“You chose to poison one of my own,” Morgause said, her tone cold as stone, her eyes bright with merciless fury. “And you will regret it.”

Merilyn lifted her head despite the fire lacing every limb, forcing her gaze to hold Morgause’s. Her breath hitched once, but her voice came quiet, trembling not with weakness but with grief. “I already do.” The words carried a meaning Morgause could not know, an ache born not of guilt for the act but for the bond shattered by it.

The chains pulsed hotter with each heartbeat, the glow surging in rhythm with Morgause’s spell. The agony built into a tide of white fire, spreading through Merilyn’s veins until even her magic recoiled, smothered beneath the binding enchantment. Her body shook against the ground, yet she clung to defiance with every shred of will she had left.

Morgause’s mouth curved again, cruel and pleased, her triumph glittering like frost. She turned away with the elegance of inevitability. “You chose to poison one of my own,” she repeated softly, venom threading her tone. “Now the Old Religion will see you broken.”

From the shadows, a new sound rose, faint at first—a dry, skittering rasp that dragged across stone and leaves. Merilyn stiffened, dread sinking like ice into her chest. She knew that sound. Eight legs scraping against the earth, the hiss of venom primed in the dark. Her pulse thundered as hulking forms emerged from the treeline.

The Serkets.

Grotesque and glistening, their armored bodies loomed, gleaming dully in the moonlight as their barbed tails arched high, poison dripping in luminous droplets that hissed where they struck the moss. Their mandibles clicked, their fetid breath shrouding the clearing in a reek that made her stomach twist.

“No,” she breathed, twisting against her bonds, the iron biting deeper into her raw wrists. The chains rattled furiously but held firm. She summoned her magic, heart screaming for release, but the binding smothered every spark, leaving her powerless.

The first Serket lurched forward, its clicking jaws inches from her face, its venom glistening. Morgause’s voice rang smooth and merciless over the hiss and skitter. “Farewell, Merlin.”

The tail lashed high, a blur of chitin and venom. Merilyn jerked sideways, her shoulder slamming into the dirt as she tried to crawl free, wrists tearing raw against the glowing chains. For a heartbeat she thought she had escaped—then white-hot agony ripped across her back.

The stinger buried deep, driving venom straight into her spine. She cried out, the sound wrenched raw from her chest. The burn ignited instantly, spreading like wildfire through her blood. Her limbs went heavy, her breath shallow, every heartbeat thundering slower, weaker.

She clawed at the earth, desperate, nails breaking in the dirt. Another Serket scuttled closer, its stinger poised, ready to strike again. Panic surged, but even as her body failed, her mind lashed outward with every ounce of her will.

Marius. Help me.

It wasn’t a whisper this time—it was a scream flung through the bond they shared, fierce and unrelenting. Her plea carried not only her voice, but her fear, her love, her desperation.

For a terrible moment there was nothing. Only the hiss of venom, the rattle of her chains, the scrape of monstrous legs drawing closer.

Then the air itself seemed to shift.

A low thunder built in the distance—not of storm, but of wings. Leaves shivered. Branches cracked. The earth trembled beneath the weight of something vast and ancient.

The Serkets shrieked, their attention snapping skyward. Even Morgause’s confident smirk faltered, a flicker of doubt shadowing her gaze.

The roar split the night.

Kilgharrah burst through the canopy in a storm of wings and flame. His fire poured down like a tide, engulfing the clearing in searing light and heat. Serkets screeched as their armored shells blistered and cracked, their bodies thrashing before the inferno.

But it wasn’t Kilgharrah alone.

Upon the dragon’s neck sat Marius, his dark hair whipping wildly in the gale, jaw set with the grim determination of a man who carried not only his own fate but his sister’s as well. He did not falter, did not waver. There was no fear in his eyes, only a fierce steadiness, the kind born not of command but of blood. He rode as though he had been born to it, his body moving with the rise and fall of the beast beneath him, his bond to the dragon as natural as breath. His voice rolled through the clearing like thunder, though his lips barely moved, the words striking straight into Merilyn’s mind. Hold on, sister.

Kilgharrah’s flames roared across the night, a storm of fire that forced Morgause back. She threw up her arm, her cloak snapping as the inferno seared the air, the force of the blaze breaking the threads of her spell. With a cry of fury, she stumbled into the shadows, every line of her body rigid with rage, before she vanished into the trees.

The enchanted chains binding Merilyn split apart, the sigils etched along them glowing white-hot before the links shattered into molten shards that hissed against the damp earth. She collapsed forward, her breath tearing from her lungs in a ragged gasp, venom burning deeper into her veins like acid. Her vision swam, the clearing blurring into light and shadow, but still she clung to consciousness by sheer will.

The dragon’s fire subsided into a low, menacing rumble as Kilgharrah descended heavily, wings folding with the weight of a storm come to rest. Marius slid down the great curve of his scaled neck with practiced surety, landing hard upon the scorched earth. In three strides he was at her side, catching her before she could fall fully, his arms a wall of strength against her failing body.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, his voice rough but fierce, each word a promise as he gathered her into his hold.

Her breath came shallow, her head lolling weakly against his shoulder. “You came,” she whispered, her voice so faint and fractured by pain it barely carried beyond her lips.

Marius tightened his hold, anchoring her closer. He glanced up at the dragon towering above them, Kilgharrah’s molten eyes burning down like two suns. “You called,” he answered simply, the truth as unshakable as the ground beneath their feet.

Kilgharrah lowered his massive head, smoke curling from his nostrils, the clearing trembling with the weight of his presence. The stench of scorched earth and charred carapace thickened the air, the broken corpses of Serkets lying shattered across the moss, their armor cracked and steaming.

Marius tipped his head back to meet the dragon’s gaze. “She needs the court physician. Now.”

The dragon’s reply rumbled through the ground, through bone and blood alike, his voice a resonance of fire and stone. Climb, Kilgharrah commanded, the word reverberating in Marius’s mind, heavy as the earth, sharp as flame.

Marius shifted Merilyn carefully, cradling her limp body close as he mounted the ridged neck of the beast once more. Kilgharrah’s scales were hot beneath his palms, ridged and unyielding like living stone, pulsing faintly with ancient power. He settled her against him, one arm wrapped protectively around her as his other hand braced against the dragon’s spine.

“Hold, sister,” he whispered again, though her head only lolled weakly against his chest, her white hair tangled against his tunic. The moonstone pendant at her throat glimmered faintly, its magic struggling to shield her even as it dimmed beneath the venom.

With a roar that shook the heavens, Kilgharrah swept his wings wide and leapt skyward. The ground vanished beneath them in a rush of fire and ash, the wind screaming past as the forest below shrank into a patchwork of shadow and silver. The rhythm of his wings drowned out everything—the whispers of the night, the distant walls of Camelot—until there was only sky and the relentless power of his flight.

Merilyn stirred faintly, lips moving in a half-formed whisper that reached Marius’s ear in fragments—Arthur’s name, a broken plea, the edge of pain. His grip tightened, his jaw clenched as he bent close. “I’ve got you,” he repeated, steady and low, as much for himself as for her.

Kilgharrah’s vast shadow swept across the sleeping countryside, his wings devouring miles with each beat. The lights of Camelot soon flared on the horizon, torches pricking the dark like a crown of fire set upon the hills. Relief surged hot in Marius’s chest—closer now, closer to safety, though the weight of his sister in his arms reminded him how fragile that safety might be.

The dragon circled once above the citadel before descending in a thunder of wings. The gale of his landing sent guards scattering, their shouts lost to the deafening rush of wind and smoke. Stones rattled in their mortar, and the very gates trembled as Kilgharrah’s talons struck the earth.

Marius slid down once more, still holding Merilyn close, her shallow breaths ghosting against his tunic. Kilgharrah’s head lowered until his molten gaze engulfed them both, his final words a growl that vibrated through marrow. The rest is yours, Dragonlord. Guard her well.

Then, with a sweep of wings that blotted out the stars, the dragon launched back into the night, his silhouette dissolving into the darkness.

Marius staggered toward the gates, his arms locked around Merilyn, his voice breaking through the stunned silence as he shouted for aid. Guards rushed forward, their faces pale not only at the sight of the dragon’s departure, but at the far stranger revelation—that this man had commanded it, and that the limp body of the servant boy Merlin hung in his arms like a broken secret carried home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 40

The wind of the dragon’s departure still churned the torches when the portcullis rattled up and the inner gates burst wide. Marius staggered across the threshold with Merilyn cradled tight against his chest, his voice cracking through the night as he bellowed for aid. Guards spilled from their posts in a clatter of boots and spears, faces blanched, eyes darting skyward as if the shadow of wings might fold back over them at any moment. It wasn’t the dragon that held them, though; it was the sight of the prince’s servant—mud-streaked, white hair matted with sweat, lips blue at the edges—hanging limp in the arms of the man they’d seen ride a legend out of the dark.

Arthur hit the courtyard at a run, bareheaded, half-armored, the buckle of his vambrace flapping loose where he hadn’t stopped to strap it. The bracelet under his sleeve had seared his skin as he crossed the training yard; it still burned now, hot enough to hurt, a brand of fear that drove him faster than any shout. Erynd pounded at his shoulder, clearing a path with a barked order and a sweep of his forearm, and Gaius followed hard behind, clutching a leather satchel that rattled with glass and iron.

“What happened?” Arthur demanded, the question ripping out of him before he’d even stopped moving. He didn’t wait for an answer. He took Merilyn from Marius in one smooth, possessive motion, and the set of his jaw went from steel to something brittle when he felt the heat of her skin and the frightening slackness in her limbs. “Gaius!”

The physician was already there, fingers at Merilyn’s throat, then at the corner of her eye where a dark thread of venom had gathered like ink. He peeled back her torn tunic with clinical care that could not quite disguise the tremor in his hands. High on her back, just under the shoulder blade, the puncture wound gaped—small, cruel, and ringed with a livid flush that spidered outward in thin black veins. His mouth flattened into a line. “Serket,” he said, voice grim, not loud and not soft, but the word was a verdict all its own. “Get her inside. Now.”

Arthur didn’t argue. He moved, cradling Merilyn as if she were made of blown glass. Erynd sprinted ahead and shouldered the doors open, bellowing for a clear passage, while Marius kept pace on Arthur’s other side, one hand hovering near in case the prince stumbled. The corridor swallowed them in a rush of torchlight and echoing steps, the stink of smoke and dragonfire giving way to the cleaner bite of tallow and stone. Somewhere above, a bell tolled once more, then fell silent, as if the citadel itself were holding its breath.

They barrelled into the physician’s chambers and the room came alive with controlled chaos. Gaius pointed with the edge of his chin and Arthur laid Merilyn on the cot, then stood aside just far enough to let the old man work and not an inch more. Erynd dragged a table nearer with a scrape, Marius seized the water ewer and poured without being told, and Gaius’s hands moved like a conjurer’s—knife to cut away cloth, cloth to staunch, jar to mortar, pestle driving crushed leaves into paste while he muttered a litany of measurements under his breath.

“Feverfew and starthistle to slow the spread,” he said, half to himself and half to the room, “and poppy to keep her under while we work.” He glanced once at Arthur, the look brief and knife-sharp. “Serket venom travels fast. We must be faster.”

Merilyn seized then, a sudden shudder that rippled through her like a wave; Arthur caught her shoulders and pinned them gently to the mattress, his voice a low, steady line that she could follow back if any part of her was listening. “Easy. Easy, you stubborn thing. I’ve got you. You hear me? I’ve got you.”

Her lashes fluttered, a fractured strip of violet showing through as her eyes tried and failed to focus. Her lips shaped a name that could have been his or a prayer; either way, Arthur bowed his head until his forehead touched her temple, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to the heat of her skin and the burn of the bracelet and the drumbeat-thud of a promise he would not break.

Marius stood at the foot of the bed, shoulders squared, jaw rigid, a man forcing stillness over the instinct to move, to do. Dragon-smoke still clung to him, a sour tang woven through the sweat and the iron, and when Gaius needed the basin he had already lifted it, when Gaius needed more water he was halfway to the hearth. Only when the poultice went on—a cool, green-smelling weight pressed around the wound—did he allow himself a breath that wasn’t edged.

Gaius dosed a cup and tipped it against Merilyn’s mouth, coaxing, then braced his palm to her jaw until the swallow came. “Good,” he murmured, approval softening his scowl. “Again.” He glanced up without lifting his hands. “Marius, more bandage. Arthur, hold there. Erynd, fetch the brazier closer and give me light.”

They moved as ordered, a wordless machine of will and worry. The room filled with the simple sounds of saving a life—the rip of linen, the rattle of glass, the hiss of coals when a stray drop of tincture struck the heat—threaded through with the small, involuntary noises Merilyn made when the poison surged and ebbed. The blackness around the wound slowed its march by degrees, the veins paling to a sullen gray beneath the poultice, and the iron bite in the air eased enough for Arthur’s shoulders to sag a fraction.

Only then did he look up, eyes finding Marius’s with a question he hadn’t yet had room to ask. “How?”

Marius’s answer was quiet and without flourish. “She called. I answered.” A beat passed, the words as simple as a bridge laid between two cliffs. “Kilgharrah answered.”

The chamber stank of blood and bitter herbs, firelight guttering low in the brazier until shadows writhed across the walls like restless spirits. Gaius bent over Merilyn’s limp body, his hands steady even as his lined face betrayed strain. A damp poultice clung green and dark against the venom’s wound, but her breathing had grown shallow, each rise of her chest weaker than the last until even Arthur, kneeling close, could no longer will the motion into steadiness.

“Come on—” His voice cracked, rough with desperation, as his hands cupped her pale face. He bent low, his forehead pressing to hers as though closeness alone might tether her to life. His whisper broke, raw as a wound. “Stay with me, you stubborn girl. You don’t get to leave me like this.”

But the bracelet at his wrist was cold. The silver band that matched it, usually pulsing warm where it clasped hers, lay inert against lifeless flesh. The moonstone at her throat, once faintly glowing with its quiet light, had gone dark.

Gaius pressed his fingers first to her throat, then to the fragile line of her wrist, his brow furrowing, his breath catching. At last, his shoulders sagged, his eyes closing under the weight of what he had to say. His voice came low and ragged. “She’s gone.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, his blue eyes wild and hollow. “No.” His grip on her shoulders tightened, his voice climbing in disbelief as though volume alone could undo the truth. “No! She’s not—she can’t be—” He broke, his words collapsing into sobs as he bent again, curling over her like a shield, his broad frame shaking with the grief he had never let anyone see, not even in childhood.

At the doorway, Morgana froze. She had come on the heels of the guards, drawn by the rush of voices, but the sight before her pierced sharper than any blade: Merilyn stretched pale and still across the bed, Arthur bowed over her with anguish carved into every line of his body, and Gaius standing hollow-eyed beside them. For one heartbeat Morgana could not breathe, grief catching sharp in her chest.

Darkness pressed close to Merilyn’s mind, sound ebbing and swelling like waves on stone. Arthur’s voice was the first to reach her through the fog—raw, broken, closer than her own heartbeat. Stay with me… you don’t get to leave me like this. She longed to answer, to reach up and touch his face, but her body remained stone, her limbs weighted with venom and shadow. Chains still seemed to drag her down, memory of their bite clinging even here.

Then Gaius’s words cut through—She’s gone. The pronouncement tolled like a bell, final and merciless. Yet Arthur’s denial followed hard after, sharp enough to pierce the veil between her fading awareness and the world. His voice, ragged with fury and despair, burned through her like fire through ice. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was still there, but her lips would not part, her tongue heavy as lead. Only the faintest hum from the bracelet tethered her, even cold as it was, its echo stubborn as the man who wore its twin.

She felt Morgana’s presence like a shadow at the door—the sharp intake of breath, the stumble of steps closer, the broken sound of grief. Yet beneath it ran something colder, a faint vibration of satisfaction, bitter and cruel. For Morgana, it was not Merilyn who lay lifeless, but Merlin, the servant she despised. The thought shivered jagged through Merilyn’s fading mind, raw and painful, and though she wanted to flinch away, her body would not move.

Then a new sensation cut through the void—a bitter taste spreading across her tongue, sharp and acrid. Herbs. A warmth unfurled sluggishly in her chest, burning its way into her veins. Gaius. His potion slid through her like fire chasing venom, clearing the fog in uneven bursts. Her lungs strained, then seized, then stirred faintly with breath. Her heart stuttered, faltered, and lurched once more into rhythm.

Between those faltering beats, voices bled back to her—Arthur’s sobs against her skin, Marius’s voice like iron at the foot of her bed, Erynd’s low growl holding Morgana at bay. Across the thread she shared with them, she whispered—not aloud, but within the bond itself, words ringing as clear as a bell. I am here. Do not mourn me. Let them think me gone.

Arthur’s grip convulsed around her hand; Marius’s head bowed once in grim acknowledgment. Neither spoke, their silence the only protection her fragile secret had left.

The darkness tugged again, but with it came clarity. If Camelot believed Merlin had died here, then perhaps her path was no longer choice but necessity. To return not as a servant hidden in shadows, but as Maryana—the noblewoman she had crafted, the guise that could stand openly at Arthur’s side. Dangerous, yes, but the thought rooted deep, steady and undeniable.

Morgana lingered longer than the others. Her hand pressed white-knuckled against the doorframe, her lips thin, her face twisted between grief and some darker triumph. Arthur did not see her—he was bent too low, his shoulders hunched protectively over Merilyn’s still form, his frame trembling with sobs he tried and failed to swallow. At last Morgana turned sharply on her heel, skirts whispering against stone as she fled down the corridor, her shadow swallowed by the torchlight.

Silence draped heavy in her absence. Gaius wiped at his damp eyes with the back of a sleeve, Marius stood unmoving and grim at the foot of the bed, and Arthur clung to Merilyn’s hand as though by force alone he could anchor her.

Merilyn’s chest stirred with the faintest of breaths, fragile at first, then another, each one steadier than the last as the potion’s fire crept deeper through her veins. Her heart, which only moments ago had faltered into silence, began to lurch back into rhythm—weak, uneven, but undeniably alive. She fought to open her eyes, lashes trembling against her cheek until at last the blurred world swam back in fractured shards of firelight and shadow.

Arthur’s head jerked up at the movement, his whole body snapping taut. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow with grief, widened until he looked almost like the boy he had once been—staring as though at a miracle he had not dared to hope for.

Merilyn’s lips parted. Her voice rasped out, broken and raw, yet laced with that stubborn spark that always belonged to her. “Well,” she croaked, one violet eye barely cracking open, “if this is the afterlife… it’s far too noisy.”

Arthur let out a sound that was half a sob, half a laugh, his hand tightening painfully around hers as though he might anchor her to him by sheer force. Gaius sagged back in his chair with a muttered prayer of thanks, relief breaking the stoop of his shoulders, while even Marius’s stony face softened, a ghost of something like a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

Merilyn let her eye drift shut again, exhaustion tugging her back under, but her lips twitched faintly in the ghost of a jest. Even half-dead on a cot, she gave them proof that she was still herself.

The brazier burned low, its coals glowing faintly beneath a crust of ash, sending up the acrid scent of scorched cloth and bitter herbs. Gaius’s desperate tools remained scattered across the table, the remnants of his struggle to pull her back from the brink. An hour had passed since her heart had stilled, yet the weight of that moment lingered, pressed into every breath and glance within the chamber.

Merilyn shifted against the pillows, drawing herself upright despite the weakness that pulled at every limb. Her skin was bloodless pale, a sheen of sweat clinging still to her temples, but her violet eyes burned clear once more, defiant against the shadow that had nearly claimed her. Marius hovered close, his hand braced on the bedframe as though he could keep her steady by will alone. Arthur had not moved far from her side at all; his chair was dragged close enough that his knee brushed the mattress, his hand still clasped firmly at her wrist as if terrified she might vanish if he let go. Erynd kept vigil by the door, arms folded across his chest, eyes sharp and unblinking, a sentinel carved from stone.

“I need you to listen,” Merilyn began, her voice hoarse but steady, her words edged with urgency. Her fingers lifted toward her throat, brushing the moonstone-and-opal necklace that glimmered faintly in the firelight, its magic still a fragile shield. “Morgause bound me in the woods tonight. She sent the Serkets. Morgana was with her.”

Arthur surged half to his feet, the motion abrupt, his jaw clenching hard, blue eyes flashing with fury and betrayal. “I knew it,” he bit out. “I knew she couldn’t be trusted—”

“Arthur.” The sharpness of her tone cut through his anger like steel through smoke. Her thin, trembling fingers tightened around his wrist, forcing his gaze back to hers. She shook her head, violet eyes unwavering. “She’s not lost. Not yet. Whatever Morgause has done, whatever lies she has woven, Morgana can still be brought back.”

“She nearly killed you,” he snapped, the words shuddering, his voice breaking on the weight of the truth. “And my father is—”

“—under a spell,” Merilyn finished firmly, refusing to let him twist away. “A mandrake root. I saw it with my own eyes. Morgana planted it beneath his bed.” Her voice steadied as she swept her gaze across them all, daring any of them to doubt her. “That is why he sees visions that are not there. That is why he is falling apart. This isn’t his mind failing him—it’s sorcery.”

Gaius exhaled heavily, confirmation in the weary dip of his head. Arthur’s fists curled, his shoulders rigid as if torn between storming Morgana’s chambers and collapsing under the weight of it.

Merilyn lifted the necklace from her throat. The metal was cool now, the charm inert. For a long moment she turned it in her palm, watching the firelight catch against the opal, then she set it aside on the table with finality. “Merlin is dead. Let them believe it. If we’re going to face Morgause and Cenred’s army, I cannot waste my life hiding behind a name anymore.”

Arthur stared at her as though she had struck him, his breath catching on the edge of protest. “If you walk the halls as yourself—”

“I’ll be careful,” she interrupted gently, a faint smile ghosting across her lips despite the pallor of her skin. “Sneakiness comes naturally.” Her gaze moved between Arthur, Marius, and Gaius, her voice softening with resolve that cut deeper than her exhaustion. “But I have to do this. I won’t keep pretending while Camelot burns.”

For a moment, silence thickened the chamber. The only sound was the hiss of the brazier as a coal broke apart beneath its own weight, scattering sparks across the ash. Then Marius inclined his head, his solemn expression the anchor between them all. “Then we protect you as yourself,” he said, his voice steady, carrying the quiet gravity of a vow. “Together.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, the storm in his eyes torn between fear for her safety and pride in her defiance. At last he nodded once, sharp and decisive, as if yielding to something larger than himself. His hand closed around hers again, tighter this time, as though sealing a pact. “Then no one lays a hand on you,” he promised, his voice raw but certain. “Not Morgana. Not Morgause. Not anyone.”

Merilyn let herself sink back against the pillows, her breath loosening for the first time since venom had scorched its way through her blood. The bracelet at her wrist stirred faintly, pulsing warm once more, answering Arthur’s vow with its own quiet rhythm. For now, that small spark of connection was enough.

The corridors still spun faintly around her when she forced her body up the stairwell. One hand pressed hard against the wall for balance while the other clutched her staff, the polished wood steadying her when her strength threatened to give way. Each step reopened the ache still burning faintly in her veins, the venom’s shadow not yet gone from her blood. Her body screamed at her to stop, to rest, but she pressed forward. She had felt it the moment her eyes opened—the rot still pulsing at the heart of the citadel. The mandrake’s poison had not been rooted out.

By the time she and Gaius pushed open the doors to the king’s chambers, the sight within confirmed her fears. Chaos had consumed the once-regal room. Curtains hung half-torn from their poles, sagging toward the floor like wounded banners. A table lay overturned, its goblets and dishes shattered across the rushes in glittering shards. The fire smoldered low, unable to chase back the heavy air that clung to the chamber.

In the corner crouched Uther Pendragon. Once he had been the image of unshakable authority, broad shoulders and steel eyes, but now his frame curled tight into itself like a man broken. His face was ashen with terror, beads of sweat running down into the deep furrows of his brow. His eyes darted wildly, tracking horrors no one else could see, his mouth working soundlessly before a ragged whisper broke free.

“Uther? Uther!” Gaius hurried forward, his robes whispering over the shards of glass as he dropped heavily to his knees beside the king. His hands reached for Uther’s shoulders, trying to ground him, but Uther clawed at him with trembling fingers, his gaze fixed beyond the physician’s shoulder, on something only he could behold.

Merilyn followed his line of sight—and her stomach clenched. The air in the center of the room shimmered faintly, heavy with magic. And then the visions flickered into being: a woman, dripping wet, her pale gown clinging to her skin. Her eyes were wide, imploring, framed by drowned hair plastered to her skull. Behind her, five children stood in silence, their faces ashen, their small hands clasped to their chests, water pooling at their bare feet.

“Please!” Ygraine’s voice split the chamber, raw with grief. The children swayed, their hollow eyes fixed on Uther.

The king’s roar broke into sobbing gasps. “No—no! Forgive me!” He pressed his fists against his temples, rocking back and forth. “Get them away!”

Merilyn’s pulse raced. She could feel the enchantment’s hum beneath the floor, hear the faint dripping whisper that marked the mandrake’s presence. She didn’t hesitate. Crossing swiftly to the bed, she dropped to her knees and shoved her hand beneath the frame. Her fingers brushed damp, slick roots twisted into the mattress frame, still pulsing faintly as if alive. The stench of earth and rot choked her throat.

“Got you,” she hissed. With a yank, she tore the mandrake free. The blackened root writhed, its twisted mouth splitting in a silent scream.

She hurled it into the fireplace.

The chamber shook with the sound—a shriek, piercing and inhuman, so sharp it made her ears ring. The fire flared green, then orange again as the root curled into ash. The visions blinked once, twice, and then dissolved into nothing but shadows.

Uther slumped in Gaius’s arms, his breath ragged but his gaze clearing. “It—it was her,” he rasped. “Ygraine—she… she was here…”

“It was an enchantment, Sire,” Gaius soothed, his voice gentle but insistent. “No more than cruel trickery. You need to rest now.”

Together, Merilyn and Gaius guided the king back to the bed. He trembled still, eyes darting to every corner of the room as though expecting the ghosts to return. Gaius poured quickly from his satchel, a draught thick with valerian and poppy. He raised the cup to Uther’s lips with a firm but steady hand.

“Please drink this, sire,” he urged. “It will help you to sleep.”

For a moment Uther resisted, teeth clenched, but his strength was spent. He swallowed, grimacing at the bitterness. His eyes slid shut almost at once, breath easing as the potion took hold.

Merilyn stood at the bedside, her chest still heaving, her fingers smudged with soot from the fire. She glanced at Gaius, who nodded faintly, relief softening the strain at his eyes.

But when her gaze dropped to Uther’s slackened face, she couldn’t help but shiver. He looked smaller somehow. A king undone not by blade or siege, but by his own haunted sins.

Morning light poured through the curtains as Merilyn tugged them open, flooding Arthur’s chambers with a golden wash of sunshine. Dust motes spun lazily in the beams, illuminating the chaos sprawled across every corner of the room. Clothes lay discarded in untidy heaps, goblets tipped on their sides, parchment scattered across the floor as though a storm had torn through the place.

Merilyn stopped dead, her mouth falling open. “What in the name of the gods happened here?”

Arthur looked up from where he sat, tugging absently at the straps of his vambrace, a picture of feigned innocence. “What happened,” he drawled, “is that I’ve had to make do without a servant. That’s what happened.”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned from the sunlight to face him, hands flying to her hips. “I wasn’t gone for that long.”

He gave her a look—half affronted, half sulky prince. “Without my permission.”

Merilyn scoffed, striding toward him, her braid swinging with the force of her indignation. “I was dying, Arthur. Forgive me for not checking in with you first.”

His expression softened instantly, guilt flickering behind his eyes. He set the vambrace aside, rising from his seat and closing the distance between them in a few strides. His hand found her arm, thumb brushing lightly over her sleeve. “Don’t say it like that.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Don’t make a joke of it. You scared the hell out of me.”

Her irritation faltered, melted by the raw truth in his tone. For a moment, the noise and mess of the room fell away, leaving only the quiet thrum of the bracelet at her wrist—warm again, steady, answering the one he wore. She tipped her head up to meet his gaze, violet eyes softening. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Arthur studied her, his eyes roaming her face as though he were testing the truth of her words against the flicker of her expression. At last he released a long, uneven breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough for relief to creep through. His lips curved faintly, trying to twist that relief into arrogance. “Good. Because I clearly can’t be left alone.” He gestured broadly at the state of his chambers, the scattered garments and overturned cushions bearing silent witness to his chaos. “This—” he declared with theatrical flair, sweeping a hand toward the mess “—is what happens when you abandon me.”

The corner of her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward despite her attempt to look unimpressed. “You’re blaming your inability to pick up your own socks on me?”

“Of course I am,” he replied without a hint of shame, his grin finally breaking through.

She shoved his shoulder with a laugh that slipped past her lips before she could stop it. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he countered smoothly, leaning close with a grin that turned sly, “are still my servant.”

Before she could sharpen a retort, his hand shot out. With the speed of a knight on the practice field, he snatched a stray tunic from the floor and, in one swift motion, tossed it squarely into her face.

Merilyn sputtered, pulling the fabric away with a scandalized cry, her cheeks burning red with outrage. “Arthur Pendragon!”

Arthur only laughed, stepping quickly back out of reach, his blue eyes gleaming with unrepentant mischief. “Consider it retaliation for all your cheek.”

“Oh, you are not getting away with this.” Her voice dropped into a dangerous purr as she reached for the nearest pillow, hefting it in both hands like a weapon forged for vengeance.

She squared her stance, the pillow clutched as if it were a knight’s shield, and Arthur caught the shift in her posture too late. With a swift swing, she struck him squarely across the chest. The muffled thump landed with surprising force, knocking him half a step back. He let out a startled grunt that melted quickly into laughter.

“You dare strike your prince?” he demanded, eyes blazing with mock indignation as he clutched his chest and stumbled dramatically against the bedpost.

“You threw dirty laundry at me,” she shot back, advancing with the pillow raised high. “That’s treason against good taste if nothing else.”

Arthur ducked her second blow, laughter spilling from him as he lunged to catch the pillow. She twisted away at the last instant, her braid whipping over her shoulder like a banner in battle. Her counterstrike landed true, thwacking him squarely across the back with satisfying force.

“You fight dirty,” he said between gasps of laughter, spinning around to grab her wrist.

“I learned from the best,” she retorted, wriggling free. Then, with a sudden shove, she used his own momentum against him, sending him sprawling backward onto the bed.

Arthur landed with a bounce that mussed his hair even further, laughter rolling out of him unrestrained. “You’ll regret that,” he warned, his grin wicked, his breath short with amusement.

Merilyn barely had time to register the glint in his eyes before he lunged again, catching her by the waist. They tumbled together across the tangle of sheets, wrestling with half-serious determination, half-playful glee. Laughter mingled with grunts and mock curses as each tried to gain the upper hand. Her pillow swung once more, but this time he caught it mid-arc, twisting it from her grasp and tossing it with dramatic precision to the far corner of the chamber.

“You fight like a girl,” Arthur crowed triumphantly, his grin broad as he rolled to pin her shoulders.

“I am a girl, you clot-pole!” she shot back, breathless, her laughter woven through the insult as she shoved hard against his chest. Her knee jabbed into his side—not enough to wound, but enough to drive the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp that dissolved quickly into helpless laughter.

The tussle collapsed into a tumble, both of them sprawling sideways across the bed, tangled in sheets and one another. Their cheeks were flushed, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. Arthur braced one forearm against the mattress beside her head, his body angled above hers, his golden hair falling loose across his brow. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief, but beneath the glint was something softer, a look that lingered, dangerously close to tender.

The room fell quiet save for the rough cadence of their breathing. Merilyn felt the heat of his weight hovering above her, the faint press of his bracelet against hers where their arms brushed, that familiar pulse of warmth that always rose when their hearts beat too close together. Her lips parted, a reckless remark hovering on her tongue—

The chamber doors banged wide.

“My lord—” A guard burst in, then froze mid-stride, his eyes going wide as the sight before him registered: the prince of Camelot half-pinned across his servant in a tangle of rumpled sheets and flushed cheeks.

Arthur jolted upright so fast he nearly cracked his head on the bedpost. He scrambled to put distance between them, his voice cracking once before he wrestled it back into authority. “What in hells are you doing barging in without knocking?”

The guard, red-faced and radiating the regret of every life choice that had led him to this moment, stammered, “S-sire, the council is assembled. They… they’re waiting on you.” His mortified gaze flicked once to Merilyn, who was already pushing herself upright, cheeks blazing as she smoothed her tunic and tugged her braid into order.

Arthur raked a hand through his disheveled hair, jaw tight as he tried—and failed—to recover dignity. “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment.”

The guard bowed sharply, then nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to retreat. The door slammed shut, leaving a silence thick with the echo of his mortification.

Arthur turned his head toward her. His mouth twitched. She snorted.

Laughter burst from them both, uncontainable, shaking the mattress beneath them as they doubled over, the tension of near-disaster unraveling into giddy relief.

“Gods, I’d better make myself scarce before we’re caught again.” Merilyn slid from the bed, breath still hitching with laughter as she buckled her belt. She smoothed her tunic with exaggerated care, trying to hide the grin tugging at her mouth. “If I’m the reason you walk into council pink-cheeked and grinning, Leon will never let you live it down,” she warned, already backing toward the door.

Arthur leaned against the bedpost, palms braced on either side, his posture lazy as a cat trying to appear regal after tumbling off a wall. “Leon will hold his tongue,” he declared loftily, before undermining the effect by nudging a stray boot under a chair with the side of his foot. “I’m his future king.”

“Mm. And I’m the one who taught him how to smirk,” she countered, a teasing spark in her eyes.

At the threshold, she paused, her head tipping toward him. The moment stretched between them, warm and precarious, a taut thread woven from laughter and the risk of something deeper. Arthur crossed the distance in two strides, his movements sudden yet unbearably gentle. He reached up, brushing back the rogue curl that had slipped free from her braid, his knuckles lingering against her cheek.

He didn’t claim her mouth—too dangerous, with guards still hovering nearby. Instead he bent to her temple, pressing a kiss that lingered there like a vow unspoken, a promise of all the words his title would never allow him to say aloud.

“Be careful,” he murmured against her skin.

“Always,” she whispered, the bracelet at her wrist answering with a soft, steady heat that matched the pulse beneath his. She slipped into the passage and let the door thud shut between them.

The corridor air was cool on her flushed face, tasting faintly of stone dust and oiled leather. Merilyn drew a long breath to steady herself and angled away from the main stair, choosing the narrow servant’s stairwell that threaded the castle’s ribs. Her body still complained with each step—the Serket’s poison left a ghost-burn in muscle and bone—but the world had sharpened since the mandrake died. Every torch crackle and distant clatter set her senses humming, a clean, focused hum that felt like coming back to herself after months of moving through fog.

At the landing she paused by a narrow window slit. The lower town unfurled beyond—rooftops like weathered scales, smoke thinning to lace above the chimneys, the outer fields washed in the pale gold of a wan morning. Too peaceful for the rumors hissing through council. Too quiet for the army she knew was coming. A shadow crossed her reflection in the flawed glass; when she looked down she saw her own features bare of glamours, the opal-and-moonstone charm absent from her throat. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she was only herself in Camelot’s halls. No gray-blue glamour to blunt the edges of her bones. No borrowed clumsiness to make noble eyes slide past her. Merilyn, simply—white hair, witchlight eyes, and a heartbeat that insisted she could stand here as she was and not be swallowed whole.

“Not for long,” she told that reflected girl with a wry, private smile. “But long enough.”

She took the last flight quick and light, cut across the Physician’s Corridor, and slipped into Gaius’s chambers on a breath of herb-scent. Marius and Erynd were already there. Marius had stripped down to a clean shirt and a leather jerkin, dragon-smoke finally chased from his clothes; he rose the instant she entered, the relief flaring across his face quickly banked into his usual, stoic calm. Erynd lounged against the shelf near the door with a swordsman’s patience, the posture easy until you looked at his hands—loose on the belt, yes, but close enough to steel to make a thief reconsider his life.

“You should be abed,” Gaius said without turning from his mortar, but the scold lacked its customary bite.

“And miss all the fun?” Merilyn moved to the table, touched Marius’s forearm in passing. “Thank you,” she said simply. No titles. No half-sketched jokes to make the moment easier. The words settled between them with the weight they deserved.

“Answer when you call. That’s the oath,” Marius replied, just as simple. The set of his mouth softened into something like a smile.

Erynd tipped his head, eyeing her color. “You look less corpse-like, at least. Ten out of ten for breathing.”

“High praise,” she deadpanned, and the corner of his mouth kicked up.

Before the banter could find its stride, the bracelet pulsed against her pulse—once, twice, a warning heat that wasn’t fear so much as urgency tugging the thread taut between her and Arthur. She focused, testing the bond. Not pain. Not danger. Summons. She exhaled, some tension uncoiling from her shoulders. “They’ve started,” she said. “Council.”

“Then go be the shadow at his elbow,” Erynd said, already straightening.

“Not a shadow,” Marius corrected quietly, eyes on Merilyn. “Not anymore.”

She felt the truth of it land in her chest. “Not anymore,” she echoed, and reached for the short cloak hanging from a peg. She didn’t take the necklace; she drew the hood high instead, let white hair spill like frost from its edge, and cinched the clasp at her throat. If courtiers glimpsed her in a turn of corridors, they’d see a slight noblewoman with the Physician’s scent about her—not the prince’s servant reborn. Until Maryana stepped fully from the mask, she would borrow the angle of light and trust her feet.

Council hummed like a wasps’ nest by the time she drifted to the antechamber. Voices bled beneath the heavy door, low and heated; the guards at their posts shifted, exchanging those tiny, wordless looks men wear when they know more than they’re allowed to say. Merilyn kept her chin down and slipped along the wall toward the small viewing grill that opened a sliver onto the chamber beyond.

Arthur stood at the round table’s head, shoulders squared, eyes hard enough to cut. Leon had the map spread, fingers braced on its corners; Sir Elyan and Percival flanked him, faces set. Uther was absent—the chair at his right conspicuously empty. Nobles clustered like unsettled birds, and over their murmur came Arthur’s voice, cool and steady in a way that made her chest ache with pride.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41

The council chamber burned with somber light, the torches along the walls sputtering in shallow drafts, their glow casting wavering shadows across the carved stone. Crimson and gold banners hung heavy from the rafters, their silken folds sagging as if already burdened by the tidings they bore. From a narrow gap in the wall—a secret passage she had stumbled upon years ago when chasing echoes through Camelot’s hidden bones—Merilyn pressed herself against the cool stone, her breath shallow, violet eyes fixed intently on the chamber below.

The council had gathered in full strength, the long table crowded with armored knights and grave-faced lords, their polished helms resting against their elbows as if even steel had grown too heavy to bear. Sir Leon stood at the center, helm tucked firmly beneath his arm, his expression carved in grim lines that betrayed the unease he tried to master. Higher up, on the dais where the throne loomed like judgment itself, Arthur sat—not yet crowned, but the absence of Uther hung over the chamber like a ghost, and it made Arthur’s place in that seat undeniable. The silence that pressed around them was not the silence of reverence but of fear, taut and suffocating, the kind that clung to the skin and made the air feel close, as though even the stone walls of Camelot sensed the weight of catastrophe drawing near.

“I estimate they will reach the city within two days,” Leon reported at last, his voice steady but shadowed with the burden of the words. His announcement fell like a tolling bell, each syllable ringing against the vaulted ceiling and settling heavily upon every ear in the chamber.

Arthur’s head snapped up sharply, his voice cutting across the stillness like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Under whose banner do they march?”

Leon’s reply came quick, though it carried no surprise, only the weary resignation of a man confirming what they had all long suspected. “Cenred’s, sire. We knew he was amassing an army.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, the cords in his neck tightening as his fingers flexed against the carved armrest of the throne until his knuckles whitened. “How many men?”

“Twenty thousand,” Leon answered grimly. “Perhaps more.”

The words did not echo so much as sink, heavy and final, falling over the chamber like ash smothering embers. Even from her hidden vantage in the wall, Merilyn felt her stomach knot and twist, the number pressing into her like a weight that threatened to crush the breath from her chest.

Gaius stepped forward into the wavering firelight, his robes whispering over the stones, his lined face pale in the glow of the torches that sputtered and hissed against a stray draft. His eyes flicked across the council, then to Arthur, sorrow etched in every crease. “I fear news of the king’s illness has spread beyond our borders,” he said gravely, his voice carrying the weight of years. “Cenred sees opportunity.”

“Then we must find a way to appease him,” Leon urged quickly, desperation threading through his words, his plea sharp against the suffocating quiet. “There must be something we can offer, some concession that might stay his hand.”

Arthur’s eyes blazed, blue and fierce, their fire a match to the steel at his hip. His voice cut clean and unyielding. “That is not what my father would do. He would never bow to our enemies.”

Gaius drew a measured breath, the sound faint but trembling with the weight of his concern. His tone was quiet, reasonable, but the faint quiver beneath it betrayed his unease. “Forgive me, sire, but we are outnumbered two to one.”

Arthur leaned forward in his seat, his body taut with conviction, every line of him echoing Uther’s unyielding pride, his defiance, his refusal to bend. His eyes swept across the faces at the table, his voice ringing with iron. “And what would Cenred demand in return for his mercy? What territories would he strip from us, what concessions would he claim?”

Gaius clasped his hands together, folding them tight against his chest as though bracing himself for the answer he had no desire to give. “We need not give him anything,” he said carefully, his voice even despite the tension in his shoulders. “But a delay—any delay—could buy us time.”

Arthur’s voice rang sharper than steel, his temper slicing through reason like a blade drawn in anger. “It shows weakness, Gaius,” he declared, his words striking the chamber with the weight of judgment. His gaze swept the table, daring contradiction, his eyes hard as iron. “There is only one course of action open to us.”

The scrape of his chair against stone echoed through the vaulted hall as he rose, the sound harsh in the stillness. He stepped forward not as Uther’s son but as a man fate had thrust unwillingly into command, bearing the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders. When he spoke again, the words carried the force of steel freed from its sheath, cutting clean through the silence. “We must prepare the city for siege.”

Unease rippled outward from the council table. Murmurs stirred like a restless wind through dry leaves, the knights shifting in their seats, their grim faces betraying the doubts they dared not voice too loudly. Leon moved forward, his frown deepening, his voice low yet firm. “Are you certain that is wise, sire?”

Arthur’s gaze locked on him, unflinching, his voice ringing with certainty that brooked no argument. “The castle is our strongest weapon. No army has ever taken Camelot.”

Leon hesitated, searching his prince’s face for some sign of hesitation, some chink in the armor of his resolve. “And what of the people in the outlying villages?” he asked more quietly, the weight of their fate heavy in the question.

Arthur’s expression softened, though only slightly, compassion threading briefly through his otherwise unyielding resolve. “Give them refuge within the city walls,” he ordered.

Leon pressed again, his voice roughened by the cost. “And their homes, their livelihoods? Cenred will burn everything in his path.”

Arthur’s reply was swift, resolute, leaving no room for further protest. “Then at least they will have their lives. Go. Ready the army.”

The council chamber dissolved into motion, benches scraping, the heavy tramp of boots filling the vaulted air as knights filed out to carry the order. Servants rushed in their wake, scattering to the garrisons with tidings that carried the weight of war. Arthur descended from the throne in silence, his shoulders squared with defiance though his eyes, clouded and heavy, betrayed the storm within.

From her hidden vantage in the wall, Merilyn’s heart hammered. She slipped back into the narrow passage, the cool stone brushing her shoulders as she wound her way down until it spilled her out into the open night.

The battlements stretched before her, the air sharp with the scent of rain and stone. Torches hissed in the wind, their flames bowing sideways, their glow casting fleeting light across Arthur’s solitary figure. From that height, the city lay below them, its courtyards already stirring with the first uneasy motions of preparation. But Arthur had sought the walls not to command, but to escape—to breathe beyond the crush of eyes and to let the mask slip, if only for a heartbeat. He leaned heavily against the parapet, one hand gripping the stone as if it alone kept him upright.

Merilyn’s steps were soft, her boots muffled on the worn stone as she approached. He did not turn, but she knew he had heard her. Their bond ran too deep now; his awareness of her was as constant as her own of him.

“You did well in there,” she said quietly, her voice pitched low, meant for no ears but his. “I mean it. You stood like a king.”

He gave a sharp huff of laughter, humorless and raw. “I stood like a man pretending to be one. Siege engines, catapults, twenty thousand men—” His hand clenched tighter on the stone, knuckles blanching. “I am risking hundreds of lives, Merl—” He caught himself, the name choking him, his blue eyes sliding to hers. For a moment the mask cracked, and she saw not the prince nor the commander, but the boy beneath, fragile beneath the weight of expectation. His voice broke lower, rough and unguarded. “I don’t know if I can carry this.”

She stepped closer, the night air tugging strands of white hair free from her braid, silver threads catching in the torchlight. Without hesitation, she set her hand over his, her palm warm against his cold knuckles. “You don’t carry it alone.”

He turned to her then, his eyes searching her face as if the certainty she spoke might be carved there in truth. His voice came tight with equal parts challenge and despair. “And what will you do, hm? Stand at my side with a bucket of water? Hide behind the lines with your books? You can’t fight this war for me.”

Merilyn drew in a breath, her throat taut, the words sharp against the air as she spoke them. “Not as Merlin, no. But as Emrys—I will walk onto the battlefield with you.”

Arthur stilled, the wind whispering between them, tugging at his cloak, lifting the stray strands of her hair. His voice, when it came, was roughened with suspicion, the edge of fear hidden beneath. “You’ve used that name before. What does it mean? What are you hiding from me?”

Her pulse thundered, but she did not look away. The moment had come. “Emrys is what the Old Religion calls me. It is… my true name. The prophecy binds it to me. To us.”

Arthur’s brows knit, confusion carving lines into his tired features. “Prophecy?”

The word soured on his tongue, his frown deepening. Prophecy meant chains, meant fate tightening like a noose, meant lives dragged by shadows he could not master. His jaw flexed, stubborn, defiant, but his eyes held to hers, refusing to look away even as the weight of her revelation pressed down upon him.

Merilyn swallowed, her throat dry despite the chill of the night. She had hidden this truth for so long that saying it aloud felt like prying open a wound she had kept stitched shut. “The druids spoke of three threads bound together,” she said softly, her fingers tightening on the stone beneath his. “Arthur Pendragon. Morgana le Fay. And me—Emrys. Three paths, woven into one tapestry. Light, dark, and the one who stands between.”

The torchlight painted her hair in silver fire, shadows playing in the violet of her eyes. She could see the disbelief beginning to rise in him, the stubborn shake of his head he hadn’t yet given. So she pressed on, her voice low, steady, each word heavy with the weight of truth.

“The prophecy says Morgana and I are bound as sisters—two sides of the Old Religion, destined to clash. Her fall, my rise. My fall, her rise. It doesn’t say which of us wins—it says only that the fate of Albion depends on the choice between us.” She lifted her gaze fully to his, unflinching, though her heart pounded hard enough to bruise. “And it says you, Arthur… you are the heart of it all. The once and future king. The golden flame that must survive, or the world will drown in shadow.”

Arthur’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes searched hers as if he might find a lie there, something he could dismiss with a scoff. But there was nothing to find.

At last he shook his head, the words spilling out like a defense against inevitability. “Prophecies are riddles, Mer—” he broke off, catching himself again, softer now—“Merilyn. They twist truths to frighten us. They are chains forged by madmen with visions.”

“And yet,” she whispered, her voice catching on the sharp edge of honesty, “how many times have you felt it? That pull. The battles we’ve fought—Kilgharrah’s fire, Morgause’s schemes—always circling back to Morgana, to you, to me. You’ve felt it, Arthur. Tell me you haven’t.”

His lips pressed tight, denial trembling in his jaw but failing in his eyes. He looked away, out across the black fields where distant torches already moved like fireflies—the first stirrings of Cenred’s army. “And if it’s true?” His voice was low, almost lost to the wind. “If what you say is true, then what does it mean for us?”

Merilyn stepped closer until their shoulders brushed, the bond of their bracelets pulsing faintly between them, hot and alive. She lifted her hand and brushed a damp lock of hair back from his brow, her touch achingly tender for the storm of words she had unleashed. “It means we don’t face it apart,” she said. “You are not alone, Arthur. Not now. Not ever. I will walk as Emrys beside you. Whatever the prophecy says, we will break it together—or we will rewrite it.”

Arthur’s eyes closed at her touch, his breath shuddering out as though she had pulled the weight from his chest for a heartbeat. When he opened them again, the boy was gone. The prince, the commander, stood before her once more, but there was something new in his gaze—something that belonged only to her.

“You’re mad,” he murmured, though there was no bite in it. Only a flicker of awe. “Mad, and reckless, and utterly impossible. And God help me, I need you more than air.”

Merilyn’s lips curved into a faint, weary smile. “Then it’s good I’ve no plans to leave you.”

The night closed around them, quiet save for the hiss of the torches and the distant, restless murmur of the camp below. For the first time since the council, Arthur’s grip loosened on the parapet, his hand turning beneath hers until their fingers locked together, warm despite the cold stone beneath them.

When at last Merilyn slipped from Arthur’s side, leaving him to the solitude of the battlements, her steps carried her unerringly down the winding corridors toward the physician’s chambers. The air grew heavier with each turn, the torchlight dimmer, as though the castle itself held its breath. She pushed open the familiar door and found the three men already gathered.

Gaius bent over his workbench, the glow of a single lamp haloing his worn features as he ground dried herbs into a mortar with slow, deliberate strokes. Erynd leaned in the shadows near the door, one shoulder braced against the stone, his arms folded in that deceptively casual stance that belied the hawk’s watch in his eyes. Marius stood close to the hearth, broad shoulders tense, the firelight painting his dark hair in bronze as though the flames themselves had claimed him.

The words landed heavily, settling into the chamber like stones dropped into still water. Gaius’s pestle slowed, then stopped entirely, the rhythmic scrape of stone on stone silenced as he lifted his gaze. The lamplight etched deep shadows into his lined face, hollowing the worry already written there. Across the room, Erynd shifted, straightening just enough to show he was listening intently, though he kept his arms folded and his posture deceptively relaxed. His eyes, sharp and keen, fixed on Merilyn as though he were measuring the full reach of her intent. Of them all, only Marius spoke, his voice low and edged with the weight of kinship. “Emrys is a name that carries prophecy, Merilyn. To use it is to paint a target on your back the size of Camelot’s gates.”

“I know,” she said softly, her tone quiet but unflinching, violet eyes locked to his. “But the time for hiding is gone. Camelot cannot stand while I skulk in shadows. They need Emrys now, more than they need a servant in Arthur’s chambers.” Her fingers brushed the moonstone at her throat, the charm cool against her skin, the only shield she had worn for so long. “After the battle, I will vanish. Let them believe Merlin died on the field. And when I return, it will be as Maryana. Camelot will not question a noblewoman standing at Arthur’s side in a time of rebuilding.”

Erynd’s brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth drawn taut. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “That is no small deceit, my lady. Do you truly believe the people will forget Merlin so easily? He’s been at Arthur’s side since before the knights wore their armor clean. Servants gossip more than nobles — and gossip lingers.”

“They will forget,” Merilyn replied, her voice steadier now, conviction burning through her exhaustion. “War has a way of sweeping aside what came before. Merlin will fade into rumor, into memory. And Maryana—she can be what Arthur needs in the open, where Merlin never could.”

Gaius sighed heavily, setting the pestle aside with a muted clink. His shoulders slumped under the weight of truths he had carried for too many years. “You take too much upon yourself, child,” he said, his tone soft but grave. “This path you choose is full of risk, not only for you, but for those bound to you. Do you not think Arthur will tear himself apart believing Merlin gone?”

Her expression flickered, but she did not waver. “He will grieve,” she admitted quietly, “but grief fades. And when Maryana returns, he will have what he needs most — not a servant, but a partner he can stand beside in daylight. If I keep Merlin’s mask, I risk being nothing more than a ghost at his shoulder, always hiding, always lying.”

Marius shifted closer to the fire, his arms crossed, the light glinting in his dark eyes. “And what of us? You would vanish and leave your brother, your guard, and your mentor to explain your absence?” His words were sharp, but beneath them lay the tremor of something more vulnerable — fear, and the ache of almost losing her once already.

“I would not leave you,” she said firmly, her gaze finding his, softer now. “After the battle, I mean to go to Ealdor. To see Mother. She deserves the truth of me, and I… I need her before I can take on this new name. I cannot wear it until she looks me in the eye and knows who I truly am. I want you to come with me, Marius.”

His stoic mask cracked for the first time. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and though words failed him for a moment, his eyes spoke the truth plainly. At last, he nodded slowly, a grave promise. “Then I will go,” he said, the simple vow carrying the weight of all his unspoken fears.

Erynd uncrossed his arms, pushing away from the wall at last. “If you mean to vanish,” he said, his tone pragmatic, “you will need more than courage. You will need a plan. If Camelot believes Merlin dead, there must be a body. A story. Something for the knights to tell and the people to mourn. Without that, your absence will fester into questions.”

Merilyn inclined her head, weary but resolute. “Then we will give them one. There are enough fires and shadows on a battlefield that it would not be hard to hide Merlin’s death in the chaos.”

“That is a dangerous thing to weave,” Erynd muttered, though a faint smile touched his mouth, wry and unwilling. “But I suppose I should not be surprised. Trouble clings to you like ivy to stone.”

Gaius looked between them all, his eyes heavy with sorrow, but he did not argue further. Perhaps he knew her decision was beyond turning, or perhaps he saw, as they all did, that prophecy had given her little room for another path. His voice, when it came, was low, resigned. “If you are determined to walk this road, then all I can do is pray it does not swallow you whole.”

The brazier crackled, sending up sparks that danced briefly in the rafters before fading into smoke. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and ash, the chamber itself pressing close as though it bore witness to the vows made within it.

Merilyn drew herself upright, pale hair gleaming like spun silver in the lamplight, violet eyes burning with the quiet fire that had carried her this far. “Then it is decided,” she said, her words clear and steady. “I will fight as Emrys. I will fall as Merlin. And I will rise as Maryana.”

This time the silence that followed was not empty. It was filled with the knowledge of the dangers ahead, with love bound into blood and loyalty, and with the fragile thread of hope that clung to her unshakable resolve. Each of them felt it, even as fear lingered — the moment when a choice ceases to be just one person’s burden and becomes the weight of them all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42

When the news of Cenred’s army reached the castle, it traveled like a stone dropped into still water: a single sound, then a spreading ring of motion. Within the hour Merilyn found herself back in Arthur’s chambers, the room dim but alive with the restless sounds of preparation—mail clinking as men fitted harnesses, the muffled shouts of squires as they ran through corridors, and the distant, steady clamor of soldiers assembling in the square. Outside the high windows the enemy’s torches burned on the horizon like a long necklace of fire strung across the night, but inside the half-lit quiet of the private room there were only the two of them and the small, urgent tasks that war left in its wake.

She worked with the practiced care of someone who had tightened a thousand buckles, fingers habitually sure as they threaded leather through iron and cinched straps until the armor sat right. Her hands trembled once—an involuntary quake that she swallowed down with a breath held like a secret—and she hid the shiver beneath a steadiness that nearly fooled even her. Arthur stood very still while she fussed over him, jaw set and shoulders stiff with all the things he would not say aloud, and when a vambrace strap bit a little too tight and he hissed she heard the worry behind the word though it carried no usual edge.

“Careful,” he murmured, and she let a small ghost of a smile pass over her lips despite the pallor at her skin’s edges. “Better too tight than slipping loose when a blade’s aimed for your arm,” she answered, the practical deflection serving to steady them both for a moment. He watched her then, not the swift business of her hands but the exhaustion that lined her violet eyes—the weariness no bravado could hide—and the moment stretched taut between them until his hand closed around hers where it worked the leather.

“Merilyn,” he said, her name rough with everything that had gone unspoken between them, and the bracelet at her wrist pulsed faint and warm as though answering the reach of his fingers. He drew a long, slow breath, his thumb brushing the back of her hand with a gentleness that contradicted the hard set of his mouth. “I need you to know… whatever happens tonight, you are the most infuriating, impossible, extraordinary thing in my life.” His attempt at a smile softened into something rawer. “I love you. I don’t care about prophecy or crowns or the bloody Old Religion. It’s you. Always you.”

The confession landed in her like a blow and a balm all at once; her chest clenched and something like a sob pressed at her throat, but she forced the sound down until it became only air. She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his breastplate, whispering back with a voice that trembled because it was fierce. “And I love you, Arthur Pendragon—fool prince, stubborn, noble, impossible man. I’ve loved you longer than I had the right to, longer than I dared even admit to myself. If this night is our last, then I’ll meet death with you, gladly.”

He tilted her chin up with a steadiness that stopped the world for a heartbeat, the firelight catching the edges of his face—something like steel softened by unshed tears. “Then let’s not wait for death to decide for us,” he said, and when he tightened his hold on her hand it was with deliberate certainty. “Merilyn, if we survive this—if we drive Cenred from our gates and Camelot still stands—marry me. Be my queen.”

The promise hung between them, heavy and wild, and for a moment everything in the chamber slowed: the brazier’s crackle dimmed, the distant drum of the camp melted into the background, and even her own pulse seemed to shelter against the sound of his voice. The answer swam up in her, whole and true—Yes, yes, a thousand times yes—yet it snagged against the finer threads of reality. She felt the old weight of Uther’s shadow, the fragile cage of disguise that had kept her safe as Merlin; the moonstone at her throat, the bracelet at her wrist, the secrecy that allowed her to be at Arthur’s side in the first place. To say yes now would unravel a thousand delicate things that might spell disaster for the man she loved and for the kingdom they fought to keep.

Her lips parted, indecision and longing warring on her tongue, and at last she let her answer shape itself into something other than a simple vow. “Yes,” she breathed, each syllable a quiet surrender and a cautious bargain all at once, “but not yet. When the world is not balanced on a blade’s edge. Not when one misstep can topple everything.” She drew a breath, steadier now with the resolve that made her hands stop trembling. “If Camelot stands and you ask again when the smoke has cleared, I will say yes properly—without masks, without fear.”

Arthur’s blue eyes searched her face, raw hope trembling in their depths, and the conflict there mirrored everything she felt. He wanted to tear down the walls that kept them half-hidden; she wanted to protect him from the consequences of her truth. For a long minute he said nothing, simply resting his forehead to hers in a private, holy silence, and in that small sanctuary both of them found something like peace.

When at last they stepped apart, the business of war resumed—armor tightened, last words exchanged, a quick, clumsy attempt at levity that made them laugh even as their stomachs clenched. They moved through the ritual of departure with hands lingering a second longer on gauntlets and laces, promises folded into fingers and kept between breaths. Outside, the torches on the horizon burned steady; inside, the quiet between them no longer held a thing unsaid.

She lifted her hand and pressed it against the side of his face, her thumb brushing tenderly across the sharp line of his cheekbone. His skin was warm beneath her touch, solid and grounding in a way that made her ache all the more for what she could not have. Her violet eyes, bright and wet, fixed unflinchingly on his, and when she spoke, her voice trembled but carried the weight of truth. “Arthur,” she whispered, the syllables fragile as glass, “you don’t know how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted that.” She drew in a shuddering breath, her gaze falling briefly to the pale hand she held against the gleam of his armor. “But your father still lives, and he would sooner see me burn than sit beside you on a throne. And even if he didn’t—” her fingers curled slightly against his jaw, as if reluctant to let go—“the truth of me would undo everything before it began. My magic, my lies, the mask I wear every day. We cannot just… declare this and think it enough.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, stubbornness flashing like steel in his eyes as his fingers closed firmly around hers, as though sheer force of will might keep her tethered to him. “So what?” he demanded, his voice low but edged with rawness. “We hide until the world’s ready? Let them keep us apart because of Uther’s blindness? Because of fear?”

Her lips curved faintly, soft and sad, the smile of someone who longed to say yes but knew better. “You’ve always been good at charging headlong into battle, Arthur, but this fight isn’t one we can win with steel alone. Not yet.” She leaned forward, resting her brow gently against his, her breath mingling with his own, the moment fragile and intimate in the firelight. “So here’s what I ask of you: let us live through tonight. Let Camelot stand tomorrow. And then, when the smoke clears and the sun rises, we’ll talk about forever.”

Arthur closed his eyes, his breath stalling against her skin. The words were not the simple assent he had yearned for, but neither were they a rejection. Her promise steadied him in a way no easy answer could have, anchoring him in the present instead of in dreams that might yet shatter. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, frustration tempered by love. “You’re asking me to wait.”

“I’m asking you to survive,” she corrected gently, her tone a soft rebuke and a plea all at once. Her hand slipped down to his wrist, finding the familiar weight of the bracelet that pulsed warmly against his skin, the twin of her own humming faintly at her pulse. “And when you do—when we both do—I’ll be there. We’ll find a way. I swear it.”

His eyes opened again, the storm of emotion within them tempered now into something fiercer, steadier. He framed her face in his hand, his touch reverent, and pressed his lips to her brow in a kiss that was both vow and surrender. “Very well,” he murmured against her skin, the words quiet but certain. “We survive. And then we talk.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, though her chest still ached with the weight of everything unspoken. “That’s the deal, Pendragon.”

Outside, the horns blared again, low and mournful, the sound of an army at their gates. Arthur pulled back, his expression hardening into the mask of command, but the tenderness she had etched into him lingered, softening the corners of his eyes.

He reached for his sword, the steel catching the firelight in a cold gleam as he strapped it to his side with practiced precision. Merilyn rose onto her toes, her fingers curling into the edge of his gorget as though she could anchor him to her for one last heartbeat, and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was fierce and unsteady, heavy with everything they could not say and everything they still longed to hope for. When she drew back, her breath came ragged, her violet eyes luminous in the dim light. “I love you,” she whispered, the words breaking free at last, raw and unguarded. “More than I should, more than I ever meant to.”

Arthur’s hand tightened at her waist, his mouth parting with words he could no longer hold back. “Then stay. Stay here with me, by my side, where I can—” His plea broke off as she slipped from his grasp, retreating a step toward the door. Her smile, sly and too quick, did not reach her eyes; it was the thin veil she wore to hide the ache in her chest. “No one can see me with you, not like this,” she said, her voice low but steady, the braid over her shoulder swaying as she shook her head. “If I use my magic, if I fight as myself, they cannot recognize me, Arthur. Not yet.”

Fear flickered behind the steel of his face, softening his command into something closer to desperation. “Merilyn, don’t—”

She cut him off with a grin, the cheeky spark that had always tangled his temper with his heart. “What’s the matter, Pendragon? Don’t trust me to save your royal backside again?”

“Merilyn—”

“Survive,” she reminded him, fierce and certain, her voice echoing the vow she had demanded of him minutes before. She lingered just long enough to brush her hand against his, their bracelets sparking with warmth at the brief contact, then turned on her heel and ran.

Arthur half-stepped after her, torn between fury and longing, but the horns outside called him back to duty. He stood alone in the chamber, her laughter fading into echo against the stone, his hand clenching tightly around the space where hers had just been.

The cracked glass of Gwen’s cottage mirror reflected none of the servant Camelot thought it knew. Gone was the girl who had spent nearly four years bowing her head, carrying buckets, and hiding her power under roughspun wool. No trace lingered of Arthur’s secret lover, nor of the venom-stricken girl who had nearly died in his arms only a day before. The woman staring back was something older, sharper, her edges forged of fire and prophecy. She was not Merlin. She was not Maryana. She was Emrys.

Her hands trembled only once as she dragged the comb through her hair. By birth it had been chestnut brown, warm as autumn earth, sun-touched with gold. But magic had long since bleached it white, a permanent mark of the destiny she could not escape. Tonight she summoned a glamour, her lips shaping words older than Camelot’s stones. Power rippled through the room as each strand shimmered and darkened, the color shifting until her hair blazed with the fierce red of embers. Auburn, fierce, it burned like coals when the firelight touched it. She knew the spell would unravel with dawn, but it did not matter. Dawn was a luxury yet to be earned.

She braided it tightly against her scalp, fingers swift and sure despite the tremor in her chest. Then she dipped both hands into the shallow ash bowl she had carried from Gwen’s hearth. Black soot clung thick to her skin as she smeared it across her face in harsh, deliberate strokes, blackening her brow and hollowing her eyes until only the gleam of violet shone through. She dragged more across her cheekbones, leaving sharp streaks like war paint. Her mouth set in a grim line as she watched her reflection blur into something unrecognizable. What stared back from the glass was not a servant, nor a lover, but a stranger. A weapon.

At her feet lay her armor, arranged with care and reverence. These were not discarded pieces scavenged from Camelot’s stores, but the steel she had commissioned in secret, forged bit by bit from whispered bargains and quiet exchanges with smiths who never knew the truth of who they armed. The breastplate gleamed faintly even in the dim light, curved to her form, cut to move with her rather than against her. Vambraces molded perfectly to her arms, greaves that hugged her shins, every piece made not to hide her but to free her. She fastened each buckle, each strap, with quiet precision, the steel tightening around her body until it became a second skin. When she cinched the leather belt that bore her sword, the familiar weight settled at her hip, and with it came a wash of calm, as though the blade itself reminded her she had never truly been powerless.

Last, she reached for the chain on the table. The moonstone pendant caught the light as if remembering her heartbeat, shimmering faintly with the warmth of shared promises. She pressed it briefly to her lips before fastening it at her throat. The cool stone rested heavy at her collarbone, a reminder of who she was and who she must be—the tether of two lives balanced on one truth.

The horns blared again, louder now, the long and mournful call shaking the cottage walls. Outside, the sound of boots thundered against cobblestones, the barked commands of captains rising above the clatter of shields and the clang of iron. Beyond the gates, Cenred’s army lit the horizon with fire. Thousands of torches blazed in the darkness, strung together like a burning crown encircling the kingdom. The siege had begun.

Merilyn pulled her cloak tight over her armor, the hood drawn low. Her stride was no longer the hesitant shuffle of a servant but the firm, purposeful step of a soldier. Her head lifted, her shoulders squared, and the ash-mask across her face turned her into a shadow among shadows. She moved through the lower streets unseen, slipping past villagers clutching their children, squires rushing with bundles of arrows, and men-at-arms buckling each other’s shields. No one spared her more than a glance. To their eyes, she was only another warrior among the tide.

By the time she reached the courtyard, Camelot was a storm of motion. Knights strapped on armor in hurried lines, carts rumbled out through the gates with families pressed close, frightened children clutching dolls or scraps of bread as mothers pulled them along. The clash of iron filled the air, a music of chaos and resolve. Yet none stopped her as she crossed the square, her face blackened, her hair blazing red under the torchlight. No one saw Merlin. No one saw Maryana. They saw only the warrior who walked toward the battlements, ready to meet the fire at Camelot’s gates.

On the walls, the night wind tore at cloaks and banners, carrying the acrid sting of pitch from the siege engines being readied. Merilyn gripped the parapet, her ash-smeared reflection faint in the polished steel of a nearby shield.

No one here would know her. Not Arthur. Not Morgana. Not even the knights who had fought and bled at her side in secret.

But when the battle began and Camelot’s walls ran red with blood, they would know her name.

Not Merlyn.
Not Maryana.

Emrys.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43

The night roared with fire. Trebuchets on the horizon hurled their blazing payloads against Camelot’s outer walls, each impact thundering through stone and marrow alike. The sky lit in great arcs of flame before the missiles crashed into the lower town, scattering sparks across rooftops and sending screams spiraling into the dark. The cries were quickly drowned by the clang of steel and the relentless bark of captains rallying their men.

Arthur led the first line out, his sword raised high, the steel catching the glow of firelight as his voice rang steady as iron across the square. “Hold the walls! Hold for Camelot!” he commanded, and the words carried like a banner, dragging courage from the throats of weary soldiers.

Merilyn—Emrys—moved among the knights, her ash-darkened face turned into the wind, her hair a blaze of auburn fire beneath the torches. Her armor clung close to her body, steel and leather dulled beneath the sweep of her cloak, every strap buckled tight, every piece fitted to strike and survive. To those around her she was no servant, no woman at all, but simply another shadow in the line—silent, fierce-eyed, and ready.

The gates shuddered as the first battering ram struck, timbers groaning like a beast in its death throes. The wood splintered, rattling the very stones beneath their feet. At her side, Erynd shoved his shield into the path of a charging soldier, his breath hissing through his teeth as he cut the man down and pivoted to block another. Through the slit of his helm his glare found her, burning hotter than the fire raining from the sky. “You shouldn’t be here,” he barked between blows, voice like gravel scraped raw. He forced another man back, then angled his shield into her shoulder long enough to be heard above the din. “Looking like a druid, no less. You’ll draw every curse and blade in Cenred’s horde.”

Marius appeared then, dragging his sword free of a dying man’s chest. The steel gleamed slick with blood as he planted himself back-to-back with her, his presence a bulwark against the tide. His tone was low, scathing, every syllable edged like his blade. “You think this clever? Hiding behind paint and braids when the whole damn world is hunting the one called Emrys?”

Her lips curved into a grim smile beneath the black streaks of soot. She drove her sword deep into the belly of a soldier, twisting as he collapsed, then leaned close enough for her brothers to hear her hiss. “What is Emrys worth if no one gives it a name? Disguises are my trade. This one suits the moment.”

Erynd spat onto the blood-slick stones, his shield ringing as he caught another spear. “You’ll be the death of us all, girl.”

Marius’s eyes flicked toward hers, the violet hidden in shadow, his jaw clamped tight as though to hold back words he could not afford to loose. He said no more, not here, not with blood and prophecy pressing in from every side.

The gates broke with a splintering crack, and Cenred’s men poured into the lower town like a tide of fire and steel. Their torches flooded the streets with false daylight, painting the cobbles in flames as they surged forward. Arthur’s voice rang out again, cutting through the chaos with command. “To the barricades! Fall back to the barricades!”

Leon’s shield wall braced across the narrowest street, steel locked edge to edge, shoulders straining as the first wave smashed against them. The sound was thunder trapped in stone corridors—steel on steel, bodies shoving, grunts of effort and cries of pain.

Merilyn fell in beside them, her sword flashing silver in the firelight. Every strike vibrated through her bones, every parry burned along her arms, but she did not falter. Ash masked her face, fire gilded her hair, and to all eyes she was only another warrior. Yet within the clash she felt it in her marrow: Emrys lived here, not in whispers of prophecy but in the fire and steel of survival, in the fragile balance between ruin and hope.

The lower town burned behind them, smoke curling thick and black into the night sky, choking the lungs of all who fought beneath it. The barricade trembled as Cenred’s horde pressed harder, the knights of Camelot locking shields until the wood groaned with strain. Arrows whistled overhead, some clattering harmlessly against stone, others thudding sickeningly into wood, into flesh, into cries that went unanswered.

“Hold!” Arthur’s voice rose above it all, steady and unyielding. He stood at the center, golden hair lit by fire, his sword flashing like a beacon. Each command struck sparks in the hearts of his men, their answering cries echoing even as their arms weakened and the street beneath their boots turned slick with blood.

Merilyn fought shoulder to shoulder with them, her blade clashing against axes and spears, each strike punctuated by the rasp of her breath. Sweat stung her eyes beneath the streaks of soot, her lungs seared with smoke, but still she pressed forward. To fight unveiled was to court discovery, but to not fight was to risk Camelot itself. She chose the risk without hesitation.

Erynd slammed his shield into an enemy’s chest, the man sprawling back into his fellows with a cry. “Pull tighter!” he roared, voice hoarse with exertion. “Don’t let them flank us!” His gaze cut sideways toward Merilyn, frustration carved deep into his expression, but he snapped his attention forward again, resolute.

Marius fought like a storm unleashed, each strike of his blade measured, brutal, and precise. Blood streaked across his cheek in jagged lines, not his own but the mark of the foes who had fallen beneath his sword. His braid had long since come loose, copper strands whipping wildly in the firelight as though the battle itself sought to unravel him. Through the crush of bodies his gaze found hers, violet hidden beneath soot and shadow, and for an instant the chaos seemed to part. The crash of steel and roar of flame receded, leaving only the locked clash of their eyes—his burning with censure, hers alive with unyielding defiance. Neither relented. Then the tide of soldiers surged again, dragging them both back into the furnace of war.

A horn blast split the night, shrill and commanding, and the gates behind them rattled as though struck by the hand of fate itself. Out from the shadows of the citadel strode Uther Pendragon, impossibly clad in full armor, his sword drawn and gleaming. His steps were heavy but determined, his face ashen yet carved with grim resolve, and for a heartbeat the battlefield stilled under the sight of him. Sir Leon’s voice rose in horror, cutting across the din. “Back! You must go back, sire!” But Uther shoved past him with the weight of command still clinging to his bearing even in the depths of madness. “This is my kingdom!” he thundered, and with a roar that seemed torn from the marrow of his bones, he hurled himself into the press of enemy blades.

Steel sang as his sword swung, his voice rising above the fray, but it was the cry of a man burning the dregs of his strength, a spark flaring bright before it dies. Merilyn’s stomach turned cold as she saw Arthur’s head whip toward the figure, recognition and dread etching themselves into his face in a single, terrible moment. “Father!” The word tore from him like a wound.

Arthur shoved through the melee, his sword carving a path until at last he reached Uther’s side. “You’re not well!” he cried, his arm straining to drag the older man back. But Uther’s eyes were wild, his voice thunderous with the fever of pride and desperation. “This is my kingdom!” he roared again, spittle on his lips, fury blurring into terror. Then the sharp whistle of death sliced through the air. An arrow buried itself deep in his leg, the impact sending him staggering. His sword slipped from his hand and he crumpled into Arthur’s grasp, the prince’s cry raw, ripped from the depths of his chest.

“Pull back!” Arthur bellowed, his voice cracking but unshakable. “Retreat! Fall back to the citadel!” The command cut through the chaos, rallying men even as grief strangled him. Knights broke formation, dragging the wounded toward the gates, their retreat desperate, chaotic, while Cenred’s men pressed forward with renewed fury, their victory now within reach.

Merilyn’s pulse surged hot, magic already crackling at her fingertips before she could think. She raised her hand high and the Old Tongue burned across her tongue. “Forbærnen!” The word rang like thunder and fire erupted from her palm, a towering wall of flame that split the square in two. Heat scorched the very stones beneath her boots, the blaze devouring wood and flesh alike. Cenred’s men shrieked, stumbling back as the inferno clawed at the night sky, forcing them to halt.

The reprieve was brief, but it was enough—enough for the wounded to be dragged through the gates, enough for the knights to stumble back in fractured lines. Merilyn’s knees buckled under the strain, her body wracked by the drain of power, but Marius’s grip was iron as he seized her arm and hauled her upright. “Stand,” he growled, voice a command as fierce as any captain’s.

Uther’s weight sagged hard against Arthur, the prince half-carrying, half-dragging him toward safety. Yet the king’s eyes were not on his wound. They were fixed on her. Through the smoke and fire, through the shrieks and clash of steel, Uther Pendragon had seen. His gaze locked on the girl he had tolerated in his halls, the servant who bowed her head, the one he begrudgingly allowed near his son. He had seen her palm raised in flame, power tearing from her like a storm unleashed. Horror carved itself into his features, sharper than any pain in his leg, cutting through the battlefield itself.

“Witch.” The word rasped from his throat, guttural and broken but unmistakable. His hand fumbled weakly for the hilt of his fallen sword. “She… she used sorcery…”

Arthur froze, caught between his father’s weight and the venom of those words. For half a heartbeat his eyes snapped to her, shock blazing blue, laced with something darker, something heavier.

Merilyn’s breath hitched, her disguise unraveling into meaninglessness. The soot, the armor, the braid—none of it mattered. The fire still roared at her back, undeniable, her power laid bare beneath Uther’s damning cry. Knights hesitated mid-strike, their gazes darting between king, servant, and flame, confusion splintering the fragile order of the line.

Marius’s hand clamped tighter on her arm, his voice harsh and urgent. “Go.” Erynd shoved at her shoulder with his shield, steel ringing under the press of spears. “Now, Merilyn. Run!”

Arthur’s mouth opened—whether to call her name, to stop her, or to demand the truth, she could not tell. She didn’t wait to find out. Her feet pounded against the stones, carrying her away from the square, away from Arthur’s stricken face and Uther’s broken snarl. The roar of battle faded behind her as she plunged into Camelot’s corridors, the narrow stairwells and twisting halls she had mapped in shadow swallowing her whole.

A heat that was not only from smoke pressed against Merilyn’s ribs, making breath a labor and thought a white-hot edge. The air in the upper halls choked with burning oil; servants stumbled past her, faces streaked with soot and panic, soldiers cursed and ducked beneath the press of bodies rushing for the gates, and all the while a darker, more stubborn pulse drew her on. She felt it through the flagstones beneath her boots—a heavy, wrong throb, like a heartbeat in the marrow of the keep. Morgana. The name was a pull no wind, no clamor, no fatigue could still.

She plunged down the stairwell, staff searing with the friction of her grip, the thrum of power growing louder as she descended into the heart of the castle. Each step seemed to drive the note of the magic into her bones until it beat in time with her own blood. The vault doors yawned before her like some black maw, and even before she crossed the threshold a sense of dread settled over her: the Rowan staff’s influence had already reached these stones; whatever spell Morgana had cast was ancient and deep and building to something final.

The burial chamber smelled of stale air and old incense, but beneath that was a metallic tang of iron and the bitter reek of disturbed earth. Morgana stood at the room’s center like a dark statue come to life, cloak whipping in a draft that the magic itself made, the Rowan staff driven into the flagstones so that pale veins of light crawled outward from the wood. The staff’s glow lanced across sarcophagi, hairline cracks spidering down stone lids. Dust sifted from the arched ceiling and settled on Merilyn’s shoulders as the scene unfolded in a slow, terrible rhythm.

Merilyn’s voice came out small at first—hurt and furious and not enough—and yet the stone seemed to carry it into every corner. “What have you done?” she demanded, the words leaving her throat sharp as flint. The vault answered with the groan of rock and the rattle of lids scraping grooves used only by time. She could feel the running of roots in the Rowan wood, feel the staff drinking the room’s cold and spitting it back as a living brightness that crawled over coffins and seeped into the seams.

Morgana turned, the green of her eyes bright and terrible in the dim, and for a suspended instant surprise flickered across that carefully composed face. The flicker vanished as though she had smoothed it away on purpose, replaced by the cool, contemptuous smile Merilyn had come to know too well. “Who are you?” Morgana asked, a curl of smoke in her voice, as if the question were nothing more than a courtesy before the killing. “Another fool knight come to die?” The words were a provocation, meant to taunt and peel back any bravado.

Merilyn stood straighter, ash still streaking her skin, the soot tickling the corners of her eyes. She raised her staff not as a supplicant but as a declaration. “I am Emrys,” she said, the name slicing through the vaulted cold like a bell. “I am here to stop you.” The syllables were an invocation and a claim; the Old Religion in them thrummed with remembered power. 

Morgana’s expression tightened as if some old story moved just beyond memory, then she laughed—a hard, brittle sound that tasted of triumph. “Emrys?” she repeated, and the word in her mouth was equal parts curiosity and scorn. She jabbed the Rowan staff deeper into the floor as if to puncture Merilyn’s defiance, and the vaults answered with the cracking of stone.

Stone lids split and toppled under the force of Morgana’s will, each crash like a thunderclap that rolled down the long, vaulted chamber. Dust and grit rained from the ceiling as the ancient slabs ground against their grooves and fell away, exposing dark hollows that had not seen air in centuries. Skeletal hands clawed through the fractures, knuckles scraping stone, and then whole bodies hauled themselves free—greaves clattering, cuirasses jangling, the sound of old armor reassembling itself as if the spell stitched decay back into a semblance of life.

Merilyn stood rooted to the flagged floor, ash streaking her face and armor dull in the lantern glow, watching with a cold, rising horror as the first of the dead dragged themselves upright. Their empty sockets flared with the uncanny green light of Morgana’s power, and the Rowan staff at Morgana’s feet pulsed like a heart driving the motion of bone and rust. The priest-king’s vaults, once a place of rest, had become a throat breathing the dead back into the world, and every beat of that staff tightened the noose around the city outside.

She planted both boots wide and braced the staff between her hands, feeling its familiar weight vibrate through her palms as something like defiance gathered in her chest. Fear crawled along her spine, but beneath it there was an ember of anger—worse than fear: the knowledge of betrayal. “Stop this before it damns you beyond return,” she called, forcing a fierceness into her voice because any hint of wavering would be taken for weakness. The words cut the charged air, but Morgana answered not with hesitation but with exultation, driving the Rowan deeper into the flagstones and making the chamber shudder as another row of coffins split open.

Morgana’s laugh echoed off the stone, sharp and terrible, the sound of gloating ecstasy. “Damns me?” she mocked, her voice ringing with victory as skeletal warriors pushed from their tombs, armor clinking like dry leaves. “This is freedom. This is power.” Each thrust of her staff seemed to unmake the world’s proper order, and the dead spilled into the room in a rusted, clattering tide that filled every shadowed corner with motion.

Merilyn felt the heat of her own magic answering like a living thing, heat that rose under her skin until her veins thrummed. She tightened her grip until the wood creaked, summoned the Old Tongue to her lips, and let the word climb into the vaulted cold like a flare. “Then I will burn your army to ash if I must,” she vowed, and fire answered her, a hot, savage line forming between her and the rising dead. The first skeleton lunged with a rusted blade and the burial chamber erupted: the clash of metal on metal, the raw report of spells colliding, the shock of flame licking at ancient bone.

Even as the fight swallowed them, Merilyn knew the terrible arithmetic of the moment: more coffins still cracked, more hands tore upward, and every corpse that rose under Morgana’s will tipped the balance a degree further toward annihilation. The Rowan drank from the stone itself, its roots uncoiling into the mortar and seams and drawing on some deep, malignant reservoir. For every skeleton she felled with fire or steel, another took its place, and the wall of the dead shifted like a tide, inexorable and cold.

When at last the surge of bones ebbed into a grinding crawl, not yet fully halted but slowed by her desperate countermeasures, the burial chamber lay thick with shattered stone and the echo of clashing metal. Merilyn’s chest heaved, sweat and ash streaking her cheeks, and for a heartbeat all she could hear was the ragged music of her own breath. She had held the line, for now, but the truth seared through her with icy clarity: these undead were not bound to one chamber. The spell’s reach would not be contained here. If Morgana’s Rowan found purchase in the vaults, its influence would crawl through the citadel like rot, spreading into streets and homes until Camelot itself answered in bones.

That realization tightened her gut until she could not stand still. The dead would spill beyond the stone unless she stopped the source, and the Rowan’s roots were already drinking deep. She turned, boots ringing on the slabs, and ran—down corridors she had memorized in shadow and haste, toward the heart of the keep where Morgana had planted herself like a dark sprout and invited the harvest to begin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44

Arthur had just passed the last of the wounded into waiting hands when the thunder of boots striking stone rose from the stairwell, echoing up through the haze of smoke and the cries of the dying. He spun at once, the first flicker of relief breaking across his battle-worn face, but it soured almost immediately into anger when his gaze caught the familiar silhouette emerging from the gloom. His voice cracked out like steel drawn from a scabbard, sharp and unyielding, “Emrys! Where the hell have you been?”

She staggered forward into the light, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, ash clinging to her hair, soot streaking the lines of her armor until she looked carved from smoke and shadow. “Nowhere!” The word burst out too quickly, thin and brittle, a flimsy shield for the exhaustion that dragged at her limbs and the far heavier dread that pressed like stone against her ribs.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his fury sharpening each syllable into a blade. “You’re making a habit of this,” he snapped, his voice rising above the clash of steel and the moans of the wounded. Battle still burned in his veins, and that fire now turned on her. “Well? What’s your excuse this time?”

But Emrys did not answer. She had gone utterly still, her violet eyes wide, glassy, fixed not on him but on something beyond—something that froze her tongue to the roof of her mouth and carved the air between them into ice.

Arthur growled, impatience cutting through his exhaustion, his tone biting with exasperation. “Come on, Emrys. You can do better than—”

Her arm shot up, trembling, her finger stabbing past him into the darkness.

Arthur turned.

The blood drained from his face. Out of the shadows spilled the dead, not in handfuls but in legions—dozens, no, scores of skeletal warriors dragging themselves into the light. Rust-bitten blades and axes clattered in their bony grips, shields warped and cracked from centuries of rot hanging on arms held together by nothing but Morgana’s spell. Empty sockets burned with a sickly green fire, jaws gnashing in grotesque mimicry of breath and voice. Bones rattled with each step, grinding and clattering, the scrape of iron on stone filling the corridor with a sound like a nightmare dragging itself into the waking world.

The nearest skeleton lunged, and Arthur struck without thought, his sword flashing silver as it carved clean through its ribcage. For a heartbeat he expected it to collapse, but the thing straightened again as though the wound were meaningless.

Another reeled toward Emrys. She swung her staff in a wide arc, wood cracking hard against bone. The force split the creature’s arm from its shoulder, the severed limb tumbling to the floor—and still it twitched, animated by Morgana’s foul command. With a snarl she stamped it beneath her heel, grinding bone to splinters before hacking once more until the corpse stilled.

“Gods,” Arthur muttered, his voice thick with horror as he backed toward the stairwell. “There’s too many.”

Together they tore up the Griffin Staircase, boots hammering against the stone as the rattle of pursuit grew louder behind them, the dead snapping at their heels with every lurching stride. Midway up, Arthur wheeled around, his sword flashing in the gloom as it carved through another skeletal figure that lunged too close. The blade rang against brittle bone, scattering fragments across the steps, but still the creatures climbed. His gaze snapped to her, fierce and unyielding even in the chaos.

“You need to warn Gaius!” he barked, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. “Tell him to seal off the hospital before they spread further!”

“Arthur—” Her protest came out ragged, half-breath, half-despair, but he cut her off before she could say more.

“Emrys!” His command cracked through the stairwell like a whip, absolute and brooking no argument. “Do as I say!”

Her chest clenched at the sound of her true name on his lips, the weight of it binding her as surely as the order itself. Pain carved into her ribs, but she obeyed. Forcing her legs forward, she climbed the final steps, lungs burning with smoke and exertion, every gasp dragging fire into her chest as the sounds of steel and bone echoed behind her.

The infirmary reeked of smoke, sweat, and crushed herbs. The stench was thick and bitter, seeping into every corner. Torchlight guttered low in the sconces, shadows writhing across the walls where healers bent over the wounded, their hands stained red, their whispers frantic. Amid the chaos, Uther Pendragon sat half-upright in his bed, pale as marble yet bristling with the stubborn fire that refused to leave his frame. His jaw was tight, his hand clutching at the sheets as if to tear them away, his every movement driven by the fury of a king unwilling to be caged.

“I have to get out there,” Uther growled, his voice thick with pain but still heavy with iron command. His hand groped toward the sword propped at his bedside, his knuckles whitening as if sheer will alone might close his fingers around the hilt. His face was pale, sheen of sweat glistening at his temples, but his eyes still burned with that fierce, unrelenting fire that had ruled Camelot for two decades.

“No, sire,” Gaius countered, pressing him back with surprising strength, his wiry frame braced against the king’s weight. The lines in his face had hardened into stone, and his voice carried the sharp edge of a blade. “You are still weak from the draught I gave you. You cannot—”

“I cannot sit idle while my kingdom falls!” Uther’s roar rattled the infirmary, reverberating off the vaulted stone until the very lamps trembled in their sconces. His fury filled the chamber like a storm, his body faltering but his defiance keeping him upright where his strength failed.

“Arthur will defend it,” Gaius said firmly, every word a dam braced against the flood of the king’s rage. His tone was steady, unyielding, though his hands trembled faintly as he tried to hold Uther down.

Before Uther could snarl his retort, the chamber door slammed open, cracking against the wall like thunder.

Emrys filled the threshold. The torchlight caught her armor streaked with soot and blood, her face smeared with ash until her violet eyes seemed to blaze brighter than the flames themselves. Her staff burned faintly in her grip, alive with restless heat that pulsed like a second heartbeat, and for a moment the entire room stilled. The healers froze in their work, their eyes drawn to her as though something more than human had stepped into the chamber—fierce, otherworldly, and unshakable.

“Seal the hospital,” Emrys rasped. Her voice was raw from smoke, but steady with command. “The castle is under attack from within.”

Uther’s head snapped toward her, fury surging sharper than the pain in his body. He thrashed harder against Gaius’s restraining hands, a lion refusing its cage. “I have to get out there—”

“No, sire,” Gaius snapped, his voice cutting as cleanly as tempered steel. His hands did not falter, though strain bent his shoulders. “You are too weak. You cannot.”

“I cannot sit idle while my kingdom burns!” Uther bellowed again, his roar half-command, half-despair. His breath came ragged, his face flushed with effort, but his fire would not go out.

“Arthur will defend it,” Gaius pressed, gaze steady, voice firm as oak.

But the doorframe seemed to blaze brighter still, filled with Emrys. The ash that streaked her face and the soot that smeared her armor only sharpened the presence that radiated from her. Her staff pulsed with light so fierce it seemed the very stones leaned toward her call. She stood not as a servant, not as a shadow, but as the figure prophecy had named—Emrys, born to defy both king and doom.

“Seal the hospital,” she gasped again, urgency flaring in every word, her voice rasping from smoke but unbroken. “The castle is under attack from within.”

Gaius’s eyes narrowed, taut and questioning. “What are you talking about?”

“Morgana.” The name burst from her lips like venom. “She has summoned an army of the dead. They are everywhere.”

The color drained from Gaius’s face, his hands faltering for a heartbeat as the full weight of her words struck him. “Where are you going?!” he demanded, fear breaking through his composure.

Her grip on her staff tightened until the wood creaked under her hand. The violet fire of her eyes blazed through the ash that blackened her skin, unflinching, resolute. She turned toward the stair spiraling down into the bowels of the keep, her voice low but final. “To stop her.”

Her boots rang hard against the stone as she vanished, swallowed by the shadows of the Wrought Iron Stairway.

Below, the burial vaults waited. The air reeked of damp stone and old earth, thick with the dust of shattered tombs and the stink of something long dead disturbed from its rest. Bones clattered in the dark, stirred by the last echoes of Morgana’s spell reverberating through the chamber like thunder rolling through the marrow of the citadel. At the chamber’s heart stood Morgana, cloaked in shadow, the Rowan staff pulsing with sickly light in her grip. Its length glowed like a vein of fire ripped from the world’s core, roots searing into the flagstones where she had driven it deep, and her green eyes gleamed fever-bright with cruel triumph.

Emrys stepped across the threshold, her armor catching the staff’s eerie glow. Ash streaked her face like war paint, and her own staff thrummed alive in her hands. Her violet eyes locked unyielding on her sister.

“You should leave now,” Morgana said, her voice cold as a blade scraping across stone. “While you still can.”

Emrys advanced, her boots grinding through the loose dust, her voice breaking with urgency though her stance remained unshaken. “Morgana, please. I beg you. Women and children are dying. The city will fall.”

A cruel smile curved Morgana’s lips, her beauty twisted into something sharp and venomous. “Good.”

Emrys’s chest tightened, grief and fury colliding, but she shook her head fiercely, her eyes sparking violet fire. “No. You don’t mean that.”

“I have magic,” Morgana snapped, her voice rising like a storm, years of bitterness spilling into every word. “Uther hates me—hates all of us. Why should I feel any differently about him?”

“You of all people could change his mind,” Emrys countered, her voice rising with desperate conviction as she edged closer. The violet in her eyes caught the sickly glow of the Rowan, glimmering like stormlight caught in amethyst. Her words trembled between plea and rebuke, each syllable weighted with sorrow. “But doing this—raising the dead, wielding magic as a weapon against your own—will only harden his heart further. You’re not defeating Uther, Morgana. You’re proving him right.”

Morgana’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening against the carved staff. Fury burned hot in her eyes, but beneath it flickered something rawer, something close to pain. “You don’t have magic, Emrys. How could you possibly understand?”

The name cut through the chamber like a spark, a recognition neither woman had voiced before. Emrys’s breath caught. For one terrible moment the truth scorched her tongue, begging to be freed—the secret she had carried through years of silence and disguises. But the weight of prophecy pressed down on her, choking the words before they could escape. She steadied her grip on her staff, her voice quiet but resolute. “I do understand. More than you know. If I had your gifts, I would use them to heal, to protect, to build. That is what magic was meant for. That is why you were born with it.”

Morgana’s face twisted, her features torn between grief and fury. Her voice cracked, bitterness laced with anguish. “You don’t know what it is to be an outsider. To live every day ashamed of what you are. To wear a mask until you cannot remember your own face. Do you think I deserve to be executed simply for being born with this?”

“No,” Emrys whispered, her voice breaking as she took a trembling step closer. “Gods, no. You deserve more than this. We both do. But there is another way. We could find it together. Sisters in more than name—”

“There is no other way!” Morgana’s roar split the chamber, her voice reverberating through the stone like a storm breaking loose underground. The vault quaked, dust raining from the ceiling, the Rowan’s roots flaring brighter as though feeding on her fury.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Emrys eased a step backward, nodding faintly, her hand brushing the cold stone pillar at her side. Her breath slowed, measured, as if yielding. Morgana’s gaze narrowed, suspicion tightening her mouth, but Emrys slipped sideways into the shadows, circling, her eyes fixed on the staff that throbbed like a heartbeat in the dim. If she could just reach it—

She lunged.

But Morgana was ready. With a sharp twist of her wrist, she slashed the air, and Emrys’s sword flew from her grasp, clattering across the flagstones. The sound echoed like a death knell. Morgana’s own blade hissed free of its sheath, gleaming cruelly in the vault’s unnatural light as she advanced.

Emrys stumbled back, her chest heaving, her palms empty save for the staff. “What are you going to do?” she demanded, her voice tight but steady. “Kill me?”

Morgana’s smile curved thin and bitter, the kind that cut deeper than a blade. “You don’t think I can?”

Emrys squared her shoulders, the violet fire in her eyes unyielding. “If you mean to, then make it quick.”

With a hiss of breath, Morgana struck. Her sword sang through the air, the steel flashing toward Emrys’s throat—but Emrys dropped low, rolling across the stone. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her fallen sword, slick with dust, and she came up swinging, the clash of steel resounding like thunder.

The vault erupted into violence. The clang of their blades rang off the stone walls until it seemed a hundred battles echoed through the burial chamber. Morgana pressed the assault, her strikes fierce and unrelenting, driven by rage more than discipline, every blow meant to cut, to break, to destroy. Emrys gave ground step by step, her boots scraping against the ancient flagstones, each block jolting her arms to the bone.

“You can’t stop this!” Morgana hissed as their blades locked, sparks spitting between them. Her breath came ragged, wild. “Camelot deserves to fall!”

Emrys gritted her teeth, the fire in her violet gaze blazing hotter. “And what rises from its ashes? Your tyranny?” She shoved hard, breaking their bind, and ducked just as Morgana’s blade screamed past her ear close enough to shear loose a strand of her braid.

They fought between the tombs, shadows stretching long and grotesque in the Rowan’s fevered glow. The chamber echoed with the clash of steel and the rasp of breath, every strike reverberating as if the vault itself bore witness. Twice Morgana’s sword scraped across Emrys’s armor, biting close to her ribs with sparks that seared her nerves. Sweat blurred her vision, strands of hair tearing loose from her braid and sticking damp against her ash-smeared face. Still she fought on, her blade a silver arc that caught the light of the staff, every thrust a vow, every parry a defiance of prophecy’s weight pressing down on them both.

But then the balance shifted. With a vicious twist and a surge of strength born of rage, Morgana caught Emrys’s blade and flung it wide. The sword clattered across the stone, skidding out of reach. Morgana advanced like a predator scenting blood, her cloak snapping around her, her sword raised high to deliver the final blow. Her eyes blazed with venomous triumph, sharp and merciless. “It ends here,” she hissed, her voice echoing against the tombs.

Emrys staggered back, her chest heaving, her body aching with the weight of battle and smoke. The ash streaked across her skin looked like war paint now, the violet fire in her eyes burning hotter against the grime. She let Morgana believe she had the upper hand—let her fury draw her too far, too fast, blinded by her own hunger for victory.

At the last heartbeat, Emrys dropped low, rolling behind the cold marble bulk of one of the great tombs. The stone bit into her palms as she pressed her hand flat against it, her lips shaping words that scorched her tongue. “Feoll bu brand!”

The Old Tongue burst from her in a raw cry, and the chamber itself convulsed. The ceiling shuddered as if the very bones of Camelot groaned in protest. Cracks split the stone overhead, dust cascading in suffocating clouds. With a deafening roar, part of the vault roof gave way, rubble crashing down in a thunderous torrent. Morgana screamed as the stones struck, her sword tumbling from her grasp, her body pinned beneath the weight. The Rowan staff rolled free, its length glowing faintly in the dim, pulsing like a vein of fire cut loose from the world.

Emrys coughed through the dust, stumbling from behind the tomb. Her sword glinted only a few paces away, and she snatched it up, her knuckles whitening around the hilt. Her gaze locked on the staff. Its power throbbed through the chamber like a heartbeat, a sick, unrelenting hum that made the marrow in her bones ache. Every instinct screamed that it should not exist—that nothing good had ever been born of Morgause’s gifts.

Her boots crunched across the fallen stone as she strode toward it, each step firmer than the last. She raised her blade high, steadying her breath, violet eyes fierce with purpose. “Snæde!” she cried, the word a command that split the air.

Her sword descended in a brutal, clean arc.

The Rowan shrieked as the steel bit into it, not the sound of wood breaking but the agony of raw magic being torn asunder. White light erupted from the crack, blinding and violent, throwing Emrys back a step with its force. The staff split in two, its glow guttering, then flaring once in a desperate gasp before dying altogether. Smoke curled from the fragments that lay scattered across the floor, lifeless, hollow.

Silence fell. Only the rasp of Emrys’s breathing and the distant groan of settling rubble filled the chamber now. The oppressive hum of magic was gone.

Morgana stirred faintly beneath the debris, her eyes fluttering open, dazed, but the power she had wielded so arrogantly was extinguished. Above them, the army of the dead faltered. Their movements slowed, weapons falling limp as their bodies unraveled into dust and bone, the spell that bound them undone with the Rowan’s destruction.

Emrys stood over the shattered relic, her chest rising and falling in ragged gulps, her sword still gripped in her trembling hand. Dust streaked her face, sweat clung to her skin, but her eyes blazed violet in the darkness. For the first time that night, she drew a full breath, steady and unbroken. She had faced shadow with fire and survived.

Chapter Text

Chapter 45

The forest reeked of blood and smoke. Night still pressed heavy between the trees, the canopy glowing faint orange with the distant burn of Camelot’s fires. The clash of steel had ebbed to silence, replaced only by the groans of the dying and the restless calls of carrion crows circling above.

Merilyn moved like a phantom through the undergrowth, her ash-darkened face streaked with sweat, the violet of her eyes burning faintly in the gloom. Her cloak was torn, her armor battered, but her grip on the staff never faltered. With one last surge she thrust it forward, a ripple of light spilling from the tip and striking the final of Cenred’s stragglers square in the chest. He dropped without a cry, his weapon clattering useless to the ground.

She stood over him for a long breath, chest heaving beneath soot-streaked steel. The forest had gone still again—unnaturally still, the kind that came not with peace but with the suffocating weight of death clinging to the air.

Closing her eyes, Merilyn let her power seep outward. It pulsed low and steady through the roots and soil, like a heartbeat beneath the earth. A signal. A call only Marius would recognize. Here. I am here.

Her hand dropped, her body sagging briefly against the staff. Exhaustion dragged at her bones, the fire in her veins nearly spent. She had poured herself into everything—the inferno in the vaults, the blaze that had held Cenred’s men at bay, the long hours fighting through smoke and ruin while Camelot bled. She was still standing, but just.

Dawn bled into the sky by the time the forest lay quiet. Cenred’s men were scattered in pieces among the trees, their torches guttered into ash, their banners reduced to charred scraps. Merilyn stood at the edge of a clearing, her sword planted into the earth, her weight braced against it. Her braid had half-unraveled, strands of white tangled with soot across her face, and her violet eyes looked hollowed by the night’s endless struggle. Still, she stood.

The drumming of hooves broke the stillness. She straightened sharply, staff lifting, every muscle taut as shapes emerged from the thinning shadows. Crimson cloaks. Camelot’s patrol, riding hard from the border.

The knights reined in when they saw her, horses snorting and stamping, wary of the figure who looked more specter than woman. Ash streaked her face like war paint, her armor smeared with blood not all her own, the staff in her grip still faintly glowing with residual heat. She looked nothing like the servant they had known, nor even like the noblewoman whispered of in courts. To them she was a druid warrior stepped from nightmare.

Steel hissed free of scabbards. The patrol swung down from their saddles in a rush, shields raised, swords glinting in the pale dawn. Sir Leon led the charge, his helm tucked beneath one arm, his eyes narrowed to hard slits as he advanced on her.

“Stand where you are!” he barked, voice cutting across the clearing. “Drop the staff!”

Merilyn’s knuckles tightened on the wood, her chest aching with the weight of words she could not speak. She held her ground, violet eyes flashing through the ash as Leon and the others closed in.

The forest trembled then with the beat of fresh hooves. Another rider burst into the clearing, breaking through the dawn haze. Arthur. His horse threw sparks from the stones as he reined hard, leaping from the saddle before it had fully stopped. His voice carried across the clearing, sharp with authority and something more desperate underneath.

“Hold!” Arthur’s command cracked through the air like thunder. “Stand down!”

Every sword stilled, but every gaze remained locked on her—the druid-like figure who had fought through fire and ruin, and who in the light of dawn looked more legend than ally.

Erynd and Marius flanked Arthur as he thundered into the clearing, their horses lathered with sweat, their armor streaked from the night’s battle. The two dismounted in unison, blades already half-drawn, their stances protective but wary as their eyes fell on her. Even knowing who she was, they felt the jolt of unease that came with seeing her like this—ash-smeared, eyes alight with violet fire, more specter than sister.

Arthur’s order still hung in the air, sharp enough to still Leon and the knights mid-stride. The patrol lingered, caught between obedience and suspicion, their knuckles white around hilts, their eyes darting between their prince and the druid-like figure standing in the ruined dawn. The silence stretched, thick and brittle, broken only by the snort of horses and the restless creak of leather and chain.

Merilyn drew a slow breath. Her staff lowered, her knees bent, and she sank down onto one knee in the churned mud of the clearing. Her head bowed, ash-streaked hair falling forward to veil her face. To the knights, it was a gesture of submission, but to Arthur she offered something more—a pledge in the only way she could without shattering the fragile veil between them.

Arthur’s expression flickered, anger and relief warring across his face before he set his jaw hard. He turned, sweeping his gaze over the circle of knights, his voice carrying with the weight of command. “She fought beside us. She held the line while Cenred’s men poured into our lands. Without her, this forest would still be crawling with enemies. Lower your blades.”

Leon hesitated, his brow furrowing. He looked from Arthur to Merilyn, suspicion etched in every line of his face, but loyalty held him silent. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his sword. The others followed, the scrape of steel sheathing filling the tense clearing.

Arthur stepped forward, the weight of command etched into every line of his face. His shadow fell across her bowed form, and when he spoke his voice carried the clarity of a prince addressing both subject and enemy. It was quiet, but edged with steel. “You should leave these woods. You cannot remain within Camelot’s borders—not after what was seen tonight. The people will call you druid, and by our laws that makes you an enemy of the crown.” His throat worked, the words bitter as poison, but still he forced them out. “But Camelot owes you a debt. For this night, for the aid you gave, I grant you your freedom. Once. Take it, and go.”

Merilyn lifted her head, violet eyes blazing through the soot, the ash like war paint across her skin. For a heartbeat she let him see it all—the grief of exile, the love she could not name, and the silent promise that she would not remain gone forever. Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile, though it trembled with sorrow. Her voice rang low and steady across the hush of dawn. “We will meet again… my king.”

The words struck him like a blade and an oath all at once. Arthur’s hand twitched at his side, aching to reach for her, but he held it still. His jaw clenched, his expression set in iron, unreadable before his knights. He stood as she rose, her staff a stark silhouette in the dawn light, and turned back into the trees.

The clearing fell into silence, the hush heavy, as though even the forest had paused to watch her go. Only when the last trace of her presence was swallowed by shadow did Arthur let his breath falter, dragging in a ragged exhale. His eyes stayed fixed on the path she had vanished into, as if by will alone he could call her back.

The forest closed around her as she slipped from the clearing, leaving behind the weight of Arthur’s words and the sharp eyes of the knights. The dawn air was cool against her sweat-streaked skin, filled with the tang of smoke that lingered like a bitter reminder of what had been lost. Branches scraped her shoulders as she pushed deeper into the woods, the roar of Camelot’s battle fading into a hushed, almost reverent quiet. Each step carried her further from the citadel and deeper into the wild, until at last even the sound of hooves and armor were swallowed by the trees.

Merilyn’s breath came ragged, each inhale laced with the acrid bite of smoke still trapped in her lungs. Her arms trembled with the effort of keeping her staff steady, and her legs threatened to fold beneath her now that the urgency of battle had passed. Yet she pressed on, following the faint murmur of water threading its way through the undergrowth. The sound beckoned her like a promise.

When she broke through the trees, she found it—a narrow stream glinting silver in the first light of morning, its surface rippling with the slow, steady rhythm of life unbothered by war. She fell to her knees on the mossy bank, the staff slipping from her grip to lie across the stones. For a long moment she simply stared at the water, at her reflection blurred and broken by the current: a ghostly face streaked with ash, eyes burning violet, hair tangled with sweat and soot.

Her fingers dipped into the stream, the chill shocking against her skin. She cupped the water and dragged it across her face, scrubbing until the ash smeared into rivulets and drifted away downstream. Again and again she washed, until her skin stung with cold and the woman who stared back at her in the water was no longer the specter who had haunted Camelot’s knights at dawn, but Merilyn—tired, bruised, and battered, yet undeniably herself.

Her hand rose to the necklace at her throat. The opal charm pulsed faintly against her skin, its glamour woven so tightly into her life that she had almost forgotten how it felt to be without it. For years it had been her shield and her prison, the mask she could not lay aside. Her thumb brushed the stone once, lingering, then she whispered the words to unbind it.

The magic dissolved like mist in the sun. The charm’s glow guttered, the illusion unraveling with a soft sigh that seemed to lift from her very bones. Her hair spilled white as snow down her shoulders, no longer hidden beneath glamoured strands. Her eyes, stripped of disguise, gleamed unshadowed in their full violet light. For the first time in her life, she was free—no mask, no pretense, no borrowed name. Just Merilyn.

The weight that fell away left her dizzy. She sank back on her heels, one hand braced in the moss, her breath trembling between laughter and tears. The stream’s song filled the silence, and in its quiet music she felt something she had not known in years: peace. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, the cool breeze threading through her hair, the scent of pine and earth rising clean against the smoke that had clung to her since the night before.

When she opened her eyes again, the horizon was paling into gold. Camelot lay behind her, hidden now by the thick woods and morning mist, but the pull of home tugged steady at her chest. Ealdor. Her mother. The thought was both balm and ache. Hunith deserved the truth, deserved to know the daughter she had raised in secret was still alive, still fighting, still carrying the bloodline of the man she had loved. And Merilyn—gods, she needed that touchstone before she could step into the role destiny demanded.

She rose slowly, her body stiff, her armor heavy. Gathering her staff and sword, she turned from the stream and began walking north, her steps unhurried now, each one deliberate. The forest stretched ahead in a labyrinth of shadow and light, but for the first time, she did not move like a fugitive. She walked like a woman who had claimed her own face, her own name, her own fate.

Arthur’s POV

Camelot stank of ash and iron. The once-proud courtyards were blackened, the banners scorched to tatters, and the great gates bore fresh scars where Cenred’s battering ram had slammed again and again through the night. Smoke still curled from the lower town, faint ribbons against the paling sky, and the groans of the wounded carried like low prayers through the air.

Arthur moved among his men, cloak streaked with soot, gauntlets dented, his sword never sheathed for long. He barked orders as rubble was cleared, as the dead were carried to the pyres, as families were guided from the keep to search for what homes remained. To every knight he offered a nod, to every soldier a word of thanks, but the motions felt heavy, distant—as though some vital part of himself had been left behind in the forest.

When his gaze swept the ruined streets, he expected to find her—at a corner of the square, slipping through the shadows with that maddening half-smile, a staff clutched in hands that never quite stilled. But there was no glimpse of white hair, no flash of violet eyes. Only soot, ruin, and the weight of absence pressing harder than any wound.

He mounted the steps of the citadel, pausing where blood had dried black against the stone. For a moment, his hand pressed to the wall, steadying himself. He could still hear her voice from the clearing, low and fierce, We will meet again, my king. The words had bound themselves into his marrow, a promise and a wound both. He had told her to leave—had forced the words through clenched teeth while his heart bled for them. Prince before man. Duty before love. And it had cut him deeper than any enemy blade.

Boots rang against the steps behind him. Marius fell into stride at his side, his armor scorched, his braid loose, his face streaked with grime. For a time he said nothing, his silence as heavy as Arthur’s, until at last his voice broke through the ruin.

“She will go to Ealdor.”

Arthur turned, eyes narrowing. “You’re certain?”

Marius’s gaze was steady, violet glinting faintly even in exhaustion. "I am. We spoke before the battle. She plans to spend a year with her mother to give Camelot enough time to forget about Merlin so she can return as Maryana."

Arthur’s chest tightened at the words, though he forced his expression to remain composed. A year. The thought of twelve months without her in his halls, without her laughter hidden behind her hand, without the spark in her eyes whenever she challenged him, struck like a blade to the ribs. He had asked her—begged her, almost—to be his queen if they survived. She had not refused. She had promised they would speak of forever when the smoke cleared. And yet now, in the cold light of morning, forever had slipped through his grasp like ash on the wind.

“She told you this,” Arthur said, his voice flat, almost disbelieving.

Marius inclined his head once, slow and solemn. “She told me what she could not tell you. That the people must believe Merlin fell in the battle. That Maryana can return in time, unshadowed by suspicion, free to stand beside you in the open.” His tone was steady, but there was something sharp in his gaze. “It is not abandonment, Arthur. It is survival. It is the only way she sees a future for you both.”

Arthur turned away, staring down into the ravaged courtyard where smoke still rose in thin, bitter columns. Knights moved below like ants, patching what could be patched, dragging away what could not. He clenched his gauntleted hand against the stone until the edge bit into his palm. “And what of me, Marius?” His voice cracked, quieter now, raw. “She left me with nothing but a promise that she will return, while the kingdom whispers that a sorcerer saved them and fled into the night. How am I to hold my people together when my own heart has been torn from me?”

Marius was silent for a long moment, his features grim. Then he placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, the weight of it grounding, brotherly though tempered by the shared ache between them. “By doing what you have always done. By being their prince. Their commander. Their future king. She believes in that—believes in you. Enough to suffer exile until the time is right. If you cannot trust her absence, then trust the vow she gave you.”

Arthur closed his eyes, the memory striking hard—the quiet fire in her voice as she had pressed her forehead to his and whispered that she loved him, more than she should, more than she ever meant to. The way her lips had trembled when she told him they would speak of forever when Camelot still stood. And the way she had looked at him in the clearing, ash across her face, voice low but steady: We will meet again, my king.

When he opened his eyes again, the steel was back, though it was lined with grief. “A year,” he murmured, the word like a sentence. Then louder, firmer, as though speaking it would make it truth: “A year, and then she returns. And when she does, I will hold her to that promise of forever.”

Marius’s lips curved in the faintest echo of a smile, though it was shadowed by sorrow. “Then I will see her safely to Ealdor. And when she is ready, she will come back. Until then, guard Camelot. She will expect to return to a kingdom worthy of her sacrifice.”

Arthur gave a short, sharp nod, jaw tight, his gaze sweeping once more across the battered city. Duty pressed down heavier than ever, but beneath it all a single ember glowed, fragile yet unyielding—the hope of her return, and the vow that when she came back, nothing and no one would part them again.

Chapter Text

ACT THREE

Phoenix (noun):

A legendary bird from ancient mythology, said to live for centuries before dying in flames and being reborn from its own ashes. It symbolizes immortality, renewal, resurrection, and the eternal cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

Chapter Text

Chapter 46

The great doors of the throne room groaned open on their iron hinges, the sound echoing like a summons through the vaulted chamber. At once the courtiers hushed, their whispers dying as the herald stepped forward, his voice rising to carry against the high stone arches.

“Lord Alaric of Caerleon, with his ward, Lady Maryana.”

Arthur’s head snapped up before he could master the instinct. For days he had lived with the knowledge that Alaric approached Camelot, the messenger’s words gnawing at him like a restless flame. He had told himself not to hope, not to believe, for hope had become too dangerous a thing. Yet now, at the herald’s declaration, his chest tightened painfully, his breath locking as the doors swung wider and the pair crossed the threshold.

Alaric came first, silver-haired and stooped by the years yet still carrying the gravity of a lord whose voice had once swayed councils. At his side walked a figure who commanded every gaze in the room. Her step was slow, measured, her gown dyed the deep violet of twilight, the fabric whispering across the flagstones with each deliberate pace. Her hair, long and dark as a raven’s wing, caught a faint auburn gleam in the shafts of light that fell from the clerestory windows above. She moved with an elegance no one could mistake for chance, her chin lifted, her shoulders squared, her eyes steady. They burned faintly blue-violet, a color too rare to dismiss, and when they swept the hall, they left a trail of whispers in their wake.

Arthur’s breath caught. In the span of a heartbeat, memory rose like smoke—ash streaked across her face, hair tangled with sweat, armor battered as she fought through blood and ruin in the forest. That was the image burned into him, the woman who had dropped to her knees in the churned mud and sworn with her eyes what her lips could not. And yet here she was transformed. The druid warrior was gone. In her place stood a noblewoman wrought of shadow and firelight, cloaked in poise and command. Merilyn—his Merilyn—was gone. Lady Maryana stood in her stead.

The court murmured like a stirred hive. Speculation rippled from lip to lip, speculation about her beauty, about Alaric’s wardship, about the wisdom of granting Caerleon’s fractured house ties to Camelot. Alaric ignored it all. He walked to the dais with solemn steps, bowed deeply before the prince, and lifted his voice, still strong despite his age.

“Your Highness,” he said gravely, “my house has suffered grievously in Cenred’s wars. Our borders lie broken, our people scattered. Yet hope remains, and I have found it in my ward. Lady Maryana has lived under my roof this past year, and in her I see a strength that will outlast my house when I am gone. It is my hope that Camelot will recognize her standing—that she may serve within your court. And perhaps, in time…” His eyes flickered briefly to the gathered councillors, then back to Arthur. “Perhaps more.”

The words dropped into the chamber like stones cast into still water. Ripples spread at once—raised brows, sharp intakes of breath, approving glances traded in the shadows of tapestries. A young lady of noble blood, unwed, tied now to Camelot by Alaric’s hand. It was an opportunity few lords in the room would overlook.

Arthur’s pulse thundered in his ears. He held himself still, though every instinct screamed to break, to shatter the distance between them. He forced his grip to remain tight on the carved arm of the throne, his knuckles pale against the gilded wood. He wore the mantle of prince, not the man who had once cradled her in his arms, who had once begged her to live when death pressed close. His voice, when it came, was even, measured, honed by discipline though it scraped raw against his chest.

“Camelot honors your loyalty, Lord Alaric,” he said. “Lady Maryana is welcome within these walls. She shall have a place at court.”

A rustle moved through the crowd, the sound of approval and intrigue both. Yet Arthur did not hear it. His eyes had locked to hers, and hers to his, and for a heartbeat the chamber ceased to exist.

Her gaze was steady, violet burning faintly through the veil of the woman she had become. For that moment, she let him see everything—the sorrow of exile, the love she had carried unspoken, the promise she had made in the clearing of dawn. Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile, almost a secret, and though she bent her head in deference to his title, her eyes told him what no words could: I promised you we would meet again, my king.

Uther’s voice cut across the hum of the court, steady despite the stiffness in his frame as he leaned heavily upon the arm of his chair.
“Arthur,” he commanded, “escort Lady Maryana to the guest chambers. She may choose whichever suits her best. Camelot must honor its allies properly.”

Arthur rose at once, bowing his head to his father before stepping down from the dais. Every eye in the chamber followed him as he extended his arm toward her. Maryana placed her hand upon his sleeve with a grace so natural it could have belonged to any highborn lady, but Arthur felt the tremor beneath her composure, the weight of a thousand things unsaid pressing into his skin.

Together they crossed the hall, whispers chasing their steps like restless shadows. The doors closed behind them with a boom that silenced it all, leaving only the echo of their footsteps on stone and the thunder of Arthur’s pulse in his ears. He said nothing as he led her through the corridors, past guards who bowed low, past servants who stilled and stared. His jaw was locked, his grip taut, every inch of him held rigid by duty and discipline until, at last, he halted before a chamber at the far wing of the guest quarters.

He pushed the door wide, letting her pass before him. She moved into the room with the same measured grace she had shown in the hall, her gown whispering over the rushes, her profile calm as moonlight. Arthur closed the door behind them and, with a sharp twist, turned the iron key in the lock.

The click of it seemed to snap something inside him. In two strides he crossed the space between them, his hands catching her around the waist. Before she could speak, before she could mask herself again with titles and poise, he lifted her clean off her feet and tossed her back onto the wide bed. Her gasp barely left her lips before his mouth claimed hers, his kisses fierce, desperate, unrelenting.

All the weeks of silence, the year of absence, the ache of watching her walk away in the forest—every wound poured itself into that moment. He braced himself over her, his hands cupping her face as though he could prove by touch alone that she was real. His lips traced a fevered path from her mouth to her cheek, her jaw, her throat, words breaking through between ragged breaths.

“You ran from me… left me to burn with nothing but your promise… Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”

Maryana’s hands found his shoulders, clinging, trembling, as her own composure shattered under the storm of him. Her voice broke against his kiss, fierce and aching.
“I came back… I told you I would return.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes blazing, his face caught between fury and raw relief. His thumb brushed over the ash-darkened line of her jaw, his chest heaving.

Arthur’s gaze burned into hers, his breath harsh against her lips, and for an instant the walls he had built as prince crumbled, leaving only the man who had loved her through every peril. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, torn from somewhere deeper than command. “And if you leave me again, I will not survive it.”

Maryana’s eyes softened, violet fire shimmering with both sorrow and certainty. Her fingers slid up to cradle his face, steadying him as much as she steadied herself. “Then I won’t,” she promised, the vow trembling between them like a live flame. “Not now. Not ever.”

He kissed her again, slower now, reverent, as though each brush of his lips was a plea and a prayer. The distance of a year, the weight of secrets, the agony of duty—all of it bled into the press of their mouths, the heat of their embrace. When she laughed, breathless and bright, it startled him, but her smile glowed through the ache of her tears. “You’re impossibly happy to see me,” she teased softly, her voice frayed at the edges yet full of life.

“Happy?” Arthur’s laugh broke against her throat, raw and disbelieving. “Maryana, I am undone.” His forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling in the dim quiet of the chamber. The world outside—the fires still smoldering in the city, the whispers of court, the ever-watchful eyes of his father—faded to ash. Here there was only her, and the miracle of her return.


His hands slid down her sides, his touch rough with urgency as he gathered the fine silk of her gown and bunched it up around her hips. Maryana gasped, arching into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he settled between her thighs. The heat of him, the hardness, made her shudder.

"Arthur," she breathed, and his name on her lips was a plea, a prayer.

He answered with a fierce, claiming kiss, his hips rocking against hers in a promise of what was to come. There was no patience in him, no gentleness - only a year's worth of pent-up longing, finally set free. He reached between them, fumbling with the laces of his breeches, his breath ragged against her throat.

"I need you," he rasped. "I've needed you every moment since you left."

Maryana's laugh was breathless, joyous, as her own hands joined his, helping him undo the ties until he could surge forward and bury himself deep inside her. They both cried out at the union, the sensation overwhelming after so long apart. Arthur stilled for a moment, his face pressed into the crook of her neck, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But Maryana would not let him hold back, not now. She rolled her hips, taking him even deeper, and the moan that spilled from his lips was almost anguished in its pleasure. His control shattered. He began to move, thrusting hard and fast, driving into her with a desperation that bordered on violence.

The bed creaked beneath them, the sound lost amid their gasps and cries. Maryana clung to him, her nails raking down his back, urging him on with each buck of her hips. The heat built swiftly between them, too intense to last. Within moments Arthur was shuddering, spilling himself inside her with a hoarse shout of her name.

Maryana followed a heartbeat later, her release crashing over her in waves that left her boneless and spent beneath him. Arthur collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, his face once more buried in her neck. For a long moment they simply lay there, twined together, letting their racing hearts slow and their breathing even out.

When Arthur finally lifted his head, his expression was raw, vulnerable in a way Maryana had never seen. He brushed a sweat-damp curl from her forehead, his touch achingly tender.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "I can't bear to watch you walk away again."

Maryana's smile was soft, her eyes shining with love and certainty. "I'm not going anywhere, Arthur. I'm here, and I'll remain by your side, come what may. No more farewells."

He kissed her then, slow and deep, sealing her promise with the press of his lips. The road ahead would be hard, fraught with challenges from both within Camelot's walls and without. But in that moment, none of it mattered. They had found their way back to each other, and together, they could face anything.

The great hall glowed with the amber light of countless torches and candelabras, the air rich with roasted meats, spiced wine, and the mingled perfumes of nobles in their finery. Banners of crimson and gold hung from the rafters, their silken folds fluttering faintly in the draft of the open windows. Despite the ruin Camelot had endured only nights ago, Uther Pendragon had insisted the feast go on. To him, it was a statement—a declaration that Camelot still stood, unbroken, unconquered.

At the high table, Uther sat at the center, his crown gleaming under torchlight, his expression weary but resolute. Morgana was at his right, draped in emerald silk, her dark hair falling like a curtain about her shoulders. Her smile was faint but sharp, her eyes glimmering with something unreadable as she watched the assembly. Arthur occupied the seat at Uther’s left, his golden hair catching the firelight, his jaw set with quiet discipline.

And then, beside Arthur, sat Lady Maryana.

She moved with the grace of someone who had learned in a single year what others took decades to master. Her gown of violet silk shimmered in the candlelight, embroidered subtly with silver thread that caught the eye without flaunting it. Her hair—darkened to a burnished auburn that masked the truth beneath—was braided intricately and threaded with a ribbon the same hue as her gown. Though her posture was poised, her violet-tinged eyes were alive, betraying the fire within.

Lord Alaric sat on her other side, his age-lined face dignified, his bearing still proud despite the stoop of his shoulders. He spoke with Uther often, recounting tales of Caerleon’s struggles against Cenred, his tone grave but hopeful as he pressed for Camelot’s support.

Maryana played her role flawlessly. She laughed when Morgana teased her about her northern accent, she listened intently when Uther asked after her upbringing, and she even allowed a faint blush to creep across her cheeks when Arthur raised his goblet and offered a toast in honor of Caerleon’s loyalty.

Yet beneath the table, where no one could see, her hand brushed Arthur’s, the faintest of touches, a whisper of contact that made his pulse thunder in his veins. His composure held, but the memory of their reunion in her chambers burned through him with every stolen glance, every secret smile she offered him when no one else was looking.

The feast stretched into the night, the air thick with music and laughter. Harpists plucked golden chords, a small pipe joined in, and soon the rhythm of drums began to fill the hall with the steady beat of celebration. Servants cleared away the last of the trenchers, goblets brimmed anew, and the chatter of courtiers gave way to eager expectation.

When the musicians struck up a quicker tune, couples spilled onto the floor, skirts sweeping in a whirl of silks, boots striking the rushes in practiced steps. Morgana was already laughing softly, her hand resting on the arm of a knight as he led her into the dance. Uther watched with thin approval, the corners of his mouth tugging into something that might have been satisfaction.

Arthur turned then, his expression schooled but his eyes bright with something that had simmered all evening. He rose, extending his hand toward her with a bow that was as much a command as an invitation.

“Lady Maryana,” he said, his voice carrying clearly over the music, “will you do me the honor of this dance?”

The courtiers’ whispers flared at once, curiosity sparking like kindling, but Maryana only dipped her head, laying her hand in his. The contact was electric, even through silk and glove.

Arthur drew her into the dance with practiced precision, their steps matching as though they had been paired all their lives. They circled and turned, violet eyes locking to blue, each movement choreographed by years of unspoken understanding. To the court, it was nothing more than a prince leading a new noblewoman in a formal measure. To them, it was reunion given form—each brush of his hand at her waist, each clasp of her fingers in his, a conversation in a language only they spoke.

When the song ended, applause rippled through the chamber. Arthur bowed, releasing her hand only after the briefest hesitation, his eyes lingering as though unwilling to let go.

Maryana curtsied, her smile composed, and then—like mist slipping away from the riverbank—she vanished into the crowd. Arthur was swept back to the high table by duty and watchful eyes, but she moved with the shadows, weaving between nobles and knights until the press of bodies thinned.

It was there, near the lower end of the hall where servants carried dishes and healers tended to wounded soldiers resting against the walls, that she finally allowed her composure to soften.

“Gwen.”

The name was a breath, a plea, and then the other woman turned. Gwen’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth before she all but threw herself into Maryana’s arms. “It’s you,” Gwen whispered, her voice trembling with both relief and wonder. “I thought—I feared—I’d never see you again.”

Maryana held her tight, her throat thick. “I promised I would come back,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to Gwen’s dark curls.

A shadow fell over them, and Maryana looked up to find Gaius watching, his lined face unreadable for a moment before it broke into a smile that trembled at the edges. “Child,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion, “you’ve given this old man more worry than all my years of practice combined.”

Maryana stepped forward and took his hands, bowing her head over them. “And yet you kept faith,” she said, her voice low. “I would not be here without what you taught me.”

Before Gaius could answer, a familiar laugh broke through the din, and she turned just in time to see Erynd pushing his way through the press of soldiers. His grin was sharp as ever, but his dark eyes were bright. “So it’s true,” he drawled, coming to a stop before her. “The runaway ghost decides to haunt us again.”

Maryana rolled her eyes, though her smile broke wide despite herself. “Erynd,” she said, shaking her head as he swept her into a quick, fierce embrace.

And then—Marius. He stood just beyond, his braid loose, his broad frame shadowing the wall behind him. His violet eyes met hers, the bond between them singing even without words. She crossed the distance in three swift steps, her arms wrapping around him before she could stop herself. He bent his head, pressing his brow briefly to hers, the gesture more eloquent than any greeting.

“You found your way home,” he said simply, his voice rough.

“I always meant to,” she whispered back.