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The throne room of Camelot had never felt so cold.
Merlin stood before King Uther Pendragon, his hands bound in iron shackles that bit into his wrists, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom. The great stone pillars rose around him like silent sentinels, and the afternoon light streaming through the high windows seemed to mock the darkness of his situation. Guards flanked him on either side, their hands resting on their sword hilts, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
But the guards didn't scare him. It was the look on Uther's face.
The king sat forward on his throne, his eyes alight with something Merlin had never seen before—not anger, not hatred, but something far more unsettling. Delight. Pure, nostalgic satisfaction, like a man who'd just discovered a treasure he'd thought lost forever.
"A Dragonlord," Uther breathed, his voice carrying through the cavernous hall with an almost reverent quality. He rose from his throne slowly, savoring the moment. "After all these years, I thought them extinct. Hunted to nothing. And yet here stands one in my very court, hidden in plain sight like a jewel wrapped in rags." He descended the steps with measured, deliberate movements, his smile widening. "Tell me, Merlin. How long have you concealed this from me?"
Merlin's throat felt like sandpaper. He'd been discovered crying over Balinor—and in the chaos of the dragon attack, he'd spoken to Kilgharrah in the dragon tongue, commanded him with the power that only a Dragonlord possessed. Uther's men had witnessed everything.
"Sire, I—" Merlin began, but Uther raised a hand, silencing him.
"No lies, boy. I've had quite enough of those." Uther circled him slowly, like a collector appraising a rare specimen. His fingers reached out, almost tenderly, to touch Merlin's shoulder—a gesture that made Merlin flinch. "You are Balinor's son, aren't you? That's why you went with Arthur. That's why you could speak to the Great Dragon." His voice was warm, almost affectionate, which made it all the more horrifying.
There was no point in denying it. Merlin lifted his chin, meeting Uther's gaze with as much courage as he could muster. "Yes."
"Extraordinary." Uther's smile was radiant now, genuinely pleased. "Do you know what this means, Merlin? Do you understand how valuable you are? How rare?" He laughed—a delighted, almost giddy sound that echoed off the stone walls. "I thought I'd never have this chance again. I thought fate had denied me. But here you are."
The way Uther said it—with such possessive joy—sent ice through Merlin's veins.
"You're going to execute me," Merlin said flatly, trying to keep his voice steady. "For having magic. For being what I am."
"Execute you?" Uther's laugh was louder this time, genuinely amused. "My dear boy, why would I destroy something so valuable? So rare? So utterly irreplaceable?" He stopped directly in front of Merlin, his eyes roaming over him with the assessment of a merchant who'd just acquired the deal of a lifetime. "The Dragonlords were the most valuable assets the Pendragon line ever possessed. My father understood this. My grandfather understood this. They knew how to treasure such creatures, how to keep them, how to make them flourish under proper care." His voice dropped to something almost intimate. "And now, finally, after all these years, I have one to pass on to my son. The last one. The most precious one."
The emphasis on those last words made Merlin's blood run cold.
"I don't understand," Merlin whispered, though a terrible suspicion was beginning to form in his mind.
"Of course you don't. You're young, untrained, ignorant of your own glorious history." Uther turned to address the court, his voice ringing with satisfaction. "The Dragonlords were not our enemies—not originally. They were our most prized possessions, kept by the Pendragon line through ancient pacts and careful control. They gave us power over the greatest weapons in the known world. Dragons." His eyes glittered with triumph. "My ancestors understood their value. They kept them close, trained them from birth to know their place, to serve without question. The Dragonlords wore their collars with pride, knowing they were protected, cherished, kept safe in the royal household. They were given the finest quarters, the best food, every comfort—as long as they remembered their place and obeyed their masters."
Arthur, standing at the back of the hall, felt something cold settle in his stomach. Kept. Collared. Trained from birth. Masters. The words echoed in his mind, each one adding weight to a realization he didn't want to acknowledge.
"And now," Uther continued, turning back to Merlin, "after the Great Purge nearly wiped them out, fate has delivered one directly into my hands. Balinor's son, no less. It's almost poetic. Almost divine." He reached out to cup Merlin's chin—a gesture that made Merlin jerk back instinctively. Uther's smile only widened. "Such spirit. Such fire. Oh, you're going to be magnificent once you're properly trained. Arthur is so fortunate. So very, very fortunate."
"I won't do it," Merlin said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed fear and rage. "I'm not yours—"
"Not mine, no," Uther agreed, his smile never faltering. "Arthur's. It must be fate that you were already his servant, and now more?" He turned toward the back of the hall, his voice rising with paternal enthusiasm. "Arthur! Come here, my son. Come receive your gift."
Arthur's voice was uncertain as he stepped forward reluctantly. "Father?"
"Arthur." Uther beckoned him forward with the enthusiasm of a man presenting a child with a long-awaited present. His eyes were bright, his smile warm and genuine. "It's time I gave you what every great Pendragon king has received—a Dragonlord of your very own. The last one in existence. Can you imagine? After all these years, I finally have one to give you."
Arthur's eyes widened. 'Of your very own.' The phrase settled over him like ice water. He looked between his father and Merlin, and suddenly everything took on a horrifying new meaning.
"Father, what are you—"
"This is what I've always wanted for you, Arthur." Uther's voice was warm, almost tender, filled with paternal affection. "Every great king needs a Dragonlord. My grandfather had five. My father had two. Beautiful creatures, both of them. Loyal, obedient, devoted to the Pendragon line." His expression darkened slightly. "I had Balinor, but I was too lenient with him. Too trusting. I gave him too much freedom. He grew proud, and he escaped before I could properly collar him."
Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. Collar. His father was talking about people—about Merlin's father—the way one would talk about... about...
No. No, that couldn't be what he meant.
But the pieces were falling into place.
"But you, Arthur—you won't make my mistakes." Uther placed both hands on his son's shoulders, his smile radiant with pride and excitement. "While he is a bit older than most when they began training, he is already loyal to you. You can shape him into exactly what you need. He'll be yours completely—your companion, your weapon, your treasured possession."
Arthur's stomach turned violently. His father wasn't talking about advisors. He wasn't talking about allies or even servants.
"He's not—" Arthur's voice came out strangled. "Father, he's a person. He's my friend."
"He's a Dragonlord," Uther corrected gently, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "A magical creature of immense value. And he will be yours, Arthur. Your prized possession. Once properly trained, you will have a being of immense power completely devoted to you, answering only to your commands. You deserve this. You've earned it through your years of service to Camelot, through your loyalty and strength."
Uther turned back to Merlin, his eyes roaming over him with obvious satisfaction. "Look at him, Arthur. Young, strong, powerful. With proper handling, he'll be the most valuable asset in your household." His voice rose with fervor. "And Merlin will learn to be grateful for the honor of belonging to you."
Arthur felt bile rise in his throat.
Merlin jerked against his chains, his face flushed with rage and humiliation. "I'll never—I'd rather die than—"
"Oh, precious boy, you say that now," Uther said, his tone indulgent and almost affectionate. "But you're young, impulsive. You don't understand what we're offering you. What an honor this is."
He turned fully to face Arthur, his hands still on his son's shoulders, his expression radiating paternal pride. "This is not a request, Arthur. It is a command from your king. Merlin is your inheritance. Your weapon. Your treasured possession. And you will learn to keep what is rightfully yours." His voice softened, taking on a coaxing tone. "Now you must trust me. Everything I do, I do for Camelot. For you."
His smile widened, warm and genuine. The kind Arthur always wanted to see from his father. "One day, you'll understand. One day, you'll thank me for this gift."
"This is wrong. This is—Father, you're talking about him like he's—"
"He is a magical creature," Uther said firmly, though his tone remained warm. "And magical creatures must be destroyed or controlled. My ancestors understood that Dragonlords were too valuable, too powerful to be given freedom. The bond between a Pendragon and their Dragonlord is sacred, Arthur. Absolute. You will command him, and he will obey. You will own him, and he will be grateful for it. Just imagine it—this beautiful, powerful creature, kept in your household, devoted entirely to you, wearing your collar with pride."
Arthur felt physically ill.
"Father, please. This is Merlin. He's saved my life more times than I can count. He's my friend, not some—some creature—"
"Friendship is a luxury neither of you can afford anymore. You are a prince, Arthur. He is a magical creature that must be controlled—by you. The sooner you both accept these truths, the easier this will be." He gestured to the guards, his movements almost cheerful. "Take our precious Merlin to the southern tower. The one with the reinforced door and the iron-lined walls. See that he's given food and water—we must keep him healthy. But nothing more. No visitors except by my express permission. We must keep him safe until Arthur is ready to begin his training."
As the guards moved to drag Merlin away, Arthur stepped forward. "I won't do this. I won't keep him like property— "
"You will," Uther said, his voice hardening slightly but his smile remaining. "You will attend me tomorrow morning. I have much to teach you about the keeping and handling of Dragonlords. There are texts in the royal archives, records from my father's time. Charts, training techniques, methods for breaking their will and making them grateful for their collars." His eyes gleamed with nostalgia. "You will study them. As I did. You will learn how to break him, how to train him, how to make him yours."
Merlin caught Arthur's eye as the guards hauled him toward the door. The prince looked stricken, furious, and utterly helpless. Merlin tried to convey with his gaze that it wasn't Arthur's fault, that he didn't blame him, but he wasn't sure the message got through before the guards dragged him from the throne room and into the cold stone corridors beyond.
Arthur stood frozen in the throne room long after Merlin had been taken away, his father's words still echoing off the stone walls. The courtiers had dispersed, sensing the danger in Uther's mood, leaving only guards and the oppressive silence of the great hall.
The next morning he went to breakfast with his father, praying he could make his father see the madness in all this. But then the King made a comment that froze his very being.
"We are quite lucky that the newest Dragonlord is a male."
Arthur asked what he meant, and Uther smiled—that same warm, paternal smile he'd worn in the throne room—and explained about bloodlines. About how, for Dragonlords, as long as the mother had never borne a previous child, a man could have many "firstborns."
Breeding.
His father had said it so politely, wrapped it in such careful language, but Arthur knew exactly what he meant. His father wanted to breed Merlin—who had never shown the slightest interest in women—like a prized stallion. For no other reason than to produce more Dragonlords for future Pendragons to own.
For the second time in as many days Arthur felt bile rise. There was no way to pretend differently now. His family's relationship with the Dragonlords had never been one of advisors and trusted allies. It had been systematic clipping of wings across generations.
Arthur thought of Balinor—Merlin's father—and suddenly understood why the man had chosen to spend the rest of his life in a cave rather than risk his father ever finding him again. What had Uther done to him? How far had he pushed before Balinor finally broke and ran?
The answer was written in the bitterness Arthur had heard in his father's voice when he spoke of the man. In the way Uther had called him a failure, a disappointment, a creature who'd forgotten his place.
Balinor hadn't forgotten his place. He'd rejected it entirely.
And now Uther wanted Arthur to do to Merlin what he'd failed to do to Balinor. To break him. To keep him. To make him grateful for his chains.
Arthur turned and walked out of the throne room, his mind already racing. He couldn't let this happen. He wouldn't.
But as he moved through the corridors of Camelot, one terrible thought kept circling back: his family had been doing this for generations. Uther believed this was right. Believed it was his birthright. Believed it was love.
And Arthur had no idea how to stop him.