#1:

Princess Elena of Carleon did not achieve the status of her kingdom’s premier political asset by being unobservant. When her father sent her to Camelot to secure an alliance through marriage to King Arthur, she knew the stakes. She also knew the gossip.

The whispers in the border taverns were unanimous: Arthur Pendragon’s heart was already occupied. He had recently legalized magic and appointed a mysterious Court Sorcerer. Rumors said this sorcerer held the King in an absolute, potentially unnatural thrall. Elena had arrived at the palace prepared to fight a shadowy, robe-clad mystic for the king's heart. But he was nowhere to be found.

Instead, she found an idiot in a neckerchief.

On her second day at court, Elena stood in the gallery overlooking the practice field, watching King Arthur train. Beside the King stood a lanky, dark-haired servant holding a water pitcher.

"You missed," the servant mocked. His voice carried clearly across the quiet yard.

Arthur paused, lowering his broadsword. "I did not miss, Merlin. It was a feint."

"It looked like you tripped on a molehill," the servant—Merlin—replied cheerfully. "And your footwork is atrocious today. Did you not sleep well last night, or are you just getting old?"

Elena gripped the stone railing, waiting for the executioner to be summoned. Uther Pendragon would have flayed a man alive for less. But Arthur merely sighed, wiped his brow, and shoved the servant’s face away with a gauntleted hand. Merlin laughed, throwing a towel at the King’s head. And the King said nothing.

The next evening at the state banquet, Elena watched Merlin deliberately spill a drop of wine on Arthur’s tunic. When Arthur glared, Merlin rolled his eyes and took a piece of bread directly from the King’s plate, stuffing it into his own mouth. Arthur didn’t even look upset; he just reached out and smacked Merlin's arm.

And none of the knights even batted an eye. Elena’s mind raced, piecing the puzzle together until realisation clicked. The king was clearly hiding a scandal.

Look at the boy's jawline and high cheekbones. It was obvious. The servant’s clothing was a deliberate humiliation, a disguise to keep his true status beneath the heel of the crown.

He is Uther’s bastard, Elena realized, a thrill of triumph rushing through her veins.

It made perfect sense. Uther Pendragon’s secret, older, illegitimate son. Arthur clearly knew. He couldn't kill his own blood—the knights wouldn't allow it, and Arthur was too noble—so he kept him close, disguised as a bumbling servant, tolerating his familial insolence because guilt forbade him from punishing it.

Elena smiled into her wine. If King Arthur was unavailable, compromised by some unseen magical paramour, then the bastard prince was the next best thing. A bastard could be legitimized. A bastard with that much leverage over the King was a goldmine.

The next morning, she cornered her quarry in the armory. Merlin was sitting on a three-legged stool, aggressively failing to polish a breastplate.

"My Lord," Elena said, stepping into the room and offering a deep, courtly curtsy.

Merlin froze, looking around the empty room before pointing a thumb at his own chest. "Me? Oh, no. I'm just Merlin. The King's servant."

Oh, how bravely he plays his part, Elena thought, her heart aching for his tragic plight.

"Of course," Elena said, stepping closer and offering a brilliant, dazzling smile. "A crown cannot be hidden by a mere peasant's rag, sir."

Merlin blinked, his large ears twitching slightly. "Right. Well. The rag keeps the polish off my shirt, though honestly, it’s mostly just grease at this point."

"Your humility does you credit," she murmured, reaching out to gently touch his arm. "It must be difficult. To see him on the throne that could so easily have been yours, had the laws of birth been different."

Merlin stared at her hand on his sleeve as if it were a venomous viper. "The throne? God, no. Have you seen the amount of paperwork Arthur does? He has to read treaties. With words."

So, he was playing his cards incredibly close to his chest. He was denying his claim to protect his life.

"I understand," Elena whispered conspiratorially. "Your secrets are safe with me. But know this, Merlin... a woman of true vision looks past the titles. If you ever require an ally—a queen who recognizes your true lineage—you need only ask."

She patted his hand, gave him a sultry, lingering look, and swept out of the armory, her silks whispering against the stone.

Behind her, Merlin stood entirely still, holding a dirty rag in one hand and a half-polished codpiece in the other.

"What the absolute hell just happened?" he muttered to the empty room.

#2:

Sir Kenneth of the Ridge was still adjusting to the weight of his cloak. He was a commoner by birth, a blacksmith’s son who had swung a sword well enough during the Cenred skirmishes to earn a knighthood from King Arthur himself. He knew the grit of the lower towns, but the inner workings of the citadel were still a labyrinth of bizarre noble etiquette.

Yesterday had been a bloodbath. A raiding party from the eastern borders had breached the lower gates and captured the Court Sorcerer. Three good knights had fallen before the tide turned. Kenneth had been in the thick of it, bracing for a fatal blow, when the enemy lines suddenly collapsed and were swallowed whole by the earth itself.

He learnt later that Arthur had personally led a handful of nights into the thick of the battle to free his sorcerer, who had attacked from the shadows. No one had seen the man, but the raw power left everyone trembling.

The next morning, Kenneth was assigned the dawn guard outside the King’s royal chambers. The castle was quiet, heavy with grief for the dead. Arthur’s mood, according to the other knights, was notoriously foul after a battle. Kenneth braced himself for a long, tense shift.

At exactly sunrise, the heavy oak doors clicked open.

Kenneth snapped to attention, expecting the King. Instead, a servant stumbled out.

It was Merlin. The lanky boy was a disaster. His hair looked like a bird had nested in it, his neckerchief was completely missing, and his tunic was askew, exposing a collarbone covered in dark, angry bruises. He was limping heavily, wincing with every step he took away from the royal bedchamber.

Merlin paused, noticing Kenneth. "Morning," he wheezed, his voice incredibly hoarse. He rubbed his lower back with a groan. "If Arthur asks, tell him I’m dead. My entire body feels like it’s been run over by a cart."

"Right. Sire," Kenneth stammered, unsure of how to address the King’s personal staff.

Merlin muttered something that sounded like 'arrogant royal prat' under his breath and dragged himself down the corridor, leaning against the stone wall for support.

Kenneth’s mind, sharp from years of listening to forge gossip, immediately began to connect the dots. The pressure on Arthur was immense. He had just lost three men. He was carrying the weight of a kingdom that had just legalized magic. A King couldn't just cry or show weakness to his lords. He needed a release. An outlet.

And who better than the fiercely loyal, completely invisible servant who shared his chambers? The disheveled hair, the hoarse voice, the limping gait, the bruises… it wasn't painting Arthur in a very positive light. Kenneth bit down his anger and watched Merlin's slowly retreating figure till the man had disappeared down the corridor.

At noon, Kenneth was relieved from his post and headed down to the armory to put his weapons away. He found Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival polishing their gauntlets.

"The King is in a terrible mood today," Kenneth noted casually, testing the waters.

"Always is after a raid," Gwaine sighed, tossing a whetstone in the air. "Best stay out of his way.”

"I saw Merlin leaving his quarters this morning," Kenneth continued softly, leaning in. "He could barely walk. Looked completely exhausted, too."

Percival exchanged a meaningful look with Gwaine before replying. "Aye. Merlin is the only one who can ground Arthur down after a fight like this."

Gwaine just nodded grimly.

Kenneth felt yet another wave of anger wash over him. The knights knew what Merlin was going through, and yet they did nothing to help him. So much for being brave and righteous.

An hour later, Kenneth was in the courtyard, where he spotted Merlin sitting on a bench, squinting miserably at his half-eaten bowl of cold porridge. Arthur walked past and spotted him.

"Get up, lazy bones," Arthur barked, and Kenneth noted the slight twitch of the King's lips. The bastard was enjoying this. "I need the stables mucked out by tonight."

"I hate you," Merlin mumbled into his porridge. "I hope you choke on a turnip."

Arthur just laughed and kept walking.

Kenneth felt his blood boil, but was weighed down by a sense of helplessness as he watched Merlin sigh and gingerly shift his bruised weight on the wooden bench.

Knight’s oath or no, Merlin was a brave and gentle soul, and if he should ever express a wish to get out from under Arthur’s cruel thumb, Kenneth would help him do it.

#3:

Marta clutched the small basket of coins to her chest, her knuckles white. She had walked two days from the outer villages, driven by desperation. Her mother’s fever wouldn't break, and the village apothecary had entirely run out of solutions.

The city of Camelot was magnificent, but the citadel terrified her. Ever since King Arthur had lifted the ban on magic, the air felt thick with unseen danger. The rumors in the lower town were spine-chilling: a Court Sorcerer now resided within these very walls, a being of immense power who could summon lightning and make the earth open beneath one’s feet with a mere thought. The townspeople whispered that he lived in the western tower, sharing quarters with the court physician, Gaius.

Marta stood nervously in the corridor outside the physician’s chambers, shifting from foot to foot. She needed Gaius's medicine, but she was paralyzed by the fear that the dread sorcerer might walk out the door instead.

Before she could gather the courage to knock, footsteps echoed on the stone stairs. Marta gasped and shrank against the wall.

A young man climbed into view. He was tall, thin, and wore a blue tunic that had probably seen better decades. He was carrying a massive crate of vegetables. He stumbled one a step and nearly fell before catching his balance. A lone turnip escaped the crate to roll down the stairs.

The man gazed forlornly after the vegetable before spotting Marta. "Oh, hello. Sorry about that. Can I help you? Are you looking for Gaius?"

Marta took a breath, relieved. This was clearly just an overworked servant boy. "Yes, please. My mother is very ill. But... I was afraid to knock." She leaned in, dropping her voice to a terrified whisper. "Is he in there?"

Merlin tilted his head, his large ears twitching. "Gaius? Yeah, he's just putting some herbs away."

"No, not the physician," Marta hissed, looking around frantically. "The Sorcerer. They say he commands the elements and tears down armies with just a thought!"

The servant boy stared at her for a long, silent moment. A strange, twitching expression crossed his face, as if he were trying very hard not to swallow his own tongue.

"Ah," Merlin said, clearing his throat. "Right. The Court Sorcerer. Big, terrifying bloke. Dark cloaks, glowing eyes, pointy hat?"

"Yes!" Marta nodded vigorously. "Is he inside?"

"Oh, you're in luck," Merlin said cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe with an easy smile. "The wyvernis out. King Arthur commanded him to go to one of the border towns and capture a dragon. He won't be back for days, if not weeks."

Marta let out a massive, shuddering sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness. You are so brave, working for a man like that."

"It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it," Merlin replied smoothly, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement.

A few feet away, the two guards stationed at the end of the corridor suddenly went rigid. One of them let out a muffled, choking sound that he tried to disguise as a cough. The other guard turned his face directly toward the stone wall, his shoulders shaking in a violent, silent fit of laughter.

Marta didn't notice. She was too busy smiling at the kind servant boy who had eased her fears.

Come on, I’ll introduce Gaius to you," Merlin said, pushing the heavy oak door open with his hip while balancing the crate of vegetables. "And don't worry about the sorcerer. Between you and me? I hear he's a bit of a clumsy idiot anyway."

"Oh, I doubt that," Marta said earnestly as the door swung shut. "A man with that much power must be terrifying to behold."

#4:

Lord Borin of Essetir prided himself on his ability to read a court. As a seasoned diplomat, he knew that a kingdom's true power never sat on the throne; it lurked in the shadows.

He had arrived in Camelot planning to suss out the identity and agenda of the mysterious Court Sorcerer. Instead, he stumbled upon something far more dangerous.

On his third night, Borin was enjoying a quiet goblet of wine in the courtyard when he overheard two citadel guards chuckling near the stables.

"I'm telling you, she looked him right in the eye and called the sorcerer a monster," the guard exclaimed. "And Merlin just nods and agrees with her."

"Classic," the other guard wheezed, shaking his head. "The boy plays the fool so well, he has the whole castle wrapped around his fingers."

Borin pulled back into the shadows, his eyes narrowing. Merlin.

The name belonged to the King’s lanky, perpetually disheveled manservant. But as Borin began to watch the boy, he realised that the "fool" facade was just that—a facade.

Two days later, Borin saw Merlin slipping down a servant's stairwell carrying a bundle of sealed royal documents—coded messages, no doubt. Later that afternoon, Borin watched from a balcony as Merlin held a whispered, intense conversation with Sir Leon in a secluded corner of the lower courtyard, handing the knight a small parchment before vanishing into the crowds.

The boy was everywhere. He knew the kitchen staff's schedules, the guard rotations, and precisely which lords were sleeping with which maidservants. He moved through the citadel like a ghost, disappearing for hours at a time, only to reappear at the King’s side exactly when a crisis arose.

Clearly, a man who commands that much information while wearing a threadbare neckerchief is not a servant. He is a Spymaster.

The climax of Borin’s investigation came on a Thursday evening. Returning early to his guest chambers, Borin slipped inside and stopped dead.

Merlin was in his rooms. He was currently on his knees, his upper torso entirely shoved inside Borin’s wardrobe, rifling through the contents.

A lesser diplomat would have confronted the boy. Instead, Borin stepped heavily on the floorboards before entering the room's line of sight, giving the agent a chance to pivot.

Merlin shrieked, cracking his head violently against the top shelf. He tumbled backward out of the wardrobe, clutching his skull, his face pale.

"My Lord!" Merlin gasped, breathing heavily. "I—you're back early! I mean, hello!"

Borin simply offered a smooth, placating smile and adjusted his cuffs. "Good evening, Merlin. Am I to assume my wardrobe required a thorough dusting?"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, I'm sorry!" Merlin scrambled to his feet, waving his hands frantically. He looked desperately panicked. "Arthur thinks he left his favored hunting boots here when he visited you to discuss the new peace treaty yesterday. He told me if I didn't find them, he'd make me clean out the stables with a spoon!"

Borin maintained his placid, diplomatic smile, but internally, his blood ran cold.

The sheer audacity, Borin thought, keeping his posture perfectly relaxed.

The boy wasn't even trying to make the excuse sound believable. A spoon? Hunting boots in a wardrobe? It was clearly a psychological tactic. By offering an excuse so transparently ridiculous, Merlin was sending a chilling message: I am in your room, I am looking through your things, and we both know there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. The mention of the peace treaty was the real knife—a casual reminder of exactly what Essetir stood to lose if Borin made a scene.

"Ah. The peace treaty," Borin replied softly, bowing his head in surrender. He stepped aside, leaving the doorway completely unobstructed. "A pressing matter. Please, do not let me keep you from your duties. I would hate for the King to be... inconvenienced."

Merlin blinked, his large ears twitching as he looked completely bewildered by the sudden compliance. “Right.” He pulled at his hair, looked at Borin as if the ambassador had lost his mind, and bolted down the hallway.

Borin closed the door, a cold shiver running down his spine. He immediately walked to his desk to rewrite his reports. Camelot was heavily protected. No one could ever overthrow a kingdom whose spymaster could be caught in the ambassador’s rooms, give a completely nonsensical excuse, and use pure confidence to walk out the door unpunished.

#5:

Lyra had traveled all the way from the crags of Essetir with a single, burning ambition: to become the pupil of Camelot’s legendary Court Sorcerer. Following the spectacular success of Lord Borin’s recent trade treaty, the borders were open, and magic was free.

Lyra, a prodigy who had mastered the elemental arts by her sixteenth year, knew she was destined for greatness. She just needed the Court Sorcerer to recognize it.

For three days straight, whenever Lyra slipped into the archives to study, a lanky boy in a frayed red neckerchief was already there. He was always hunched over a desk, poring over the most random, obscure, and utterly basic spellbooks. Yesterday, he was squinting at a primer on household charms. Today, he was muttering over a text regarding the localized growth rate of marsh-marigolds.

"You’re reading it upside down," Lyra remarked, crossing her arms as she looked down at him.

The boy—Merlin, according to his tunic’s lack of quality—jolted, nearly knocking over his inkwell. "Oh! Right. I was just... looking at the pictures."

Lyra sighed, shaking her head. The Court Sorcerer’s apprentice, she concluded immediately. It made perfect sense. The grandmaster was clearly a busy man, so he had taken on a dim-witted local boy out of charity to do his cataloging and fetch his ink.

"You shouldn't waste your time on low-level hearth magic," Lyra said loftily, leaning over the table. She flicked her wrist, murmuring a brief incantation. A flawless, floating orb of blue fire ignited over her palm, illuminating the dusty alcove. "Advanced manipulation of the ether. It requires strict discipline. I don't suppose your master has let you try anything beyond lighting a candle?"

Merlin stared at the blue fire, his jaw dropping slightly. "Wow. That’s... really bright. Does it do anything else, or is it just a very fancy lantern?"

Lyra snorted, extinguishing the flame with a sharp snap of her fingers. "It requires perfect focus, which clearly eludes you. If you ever want to impress the Court Sorcerer, you need to stop reading about weeds and start understanding the geometry of the arcane."

"Right. Geometry," Merlin muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll keep that in mind. Mostly, I just use magic to keep the dust out of my lungs when I clean the stables, but your thing is good too."

Lyra smiled pityingly. He was sweet, but utterly hopeless. She spent the next twenty minutes lecturing him on the complexities of high-tier spellcasting, feeling a deep sense of superiority as the poor boy nodded along, looking entirely baffled by her grand theories.

The illusion shattered two days later during a border skirmish.

Lyra had accompanied a scouting party near the Ridge when a rogue band of sorcerers, bitter over the Essetir treaty, ambushed them. The fighting was fierce. Lyra held her own, throwing bursts of kinetic energy, but the enemy numbers were overwhelming. The attackers summoned a massive earth-golem, which began lumbering toward the Camelot lines.

Lyra braced herself to cast a desperate, high-exhaustion shield spell.

Then, she saw Merlin. He had run onto the field, ostensibly to bring King Arthur a fresh shield, but he had gotten separated. As the golem lunged toward him, Merlin didn't panic. He didn't even drop the royal shield. He simply raised his free hand, his eyes flashing a sudden, blinding, molten gold.

He didn't flinch, didn’t chant a spell or incantation. He just glared at the golem and whispered a single, guttural word.

A localized crack of thunder shattered the air. A bolt of lightning, dense as a castle pillar, dropped from a cloudless sky and struck the golem dead center. The massive stone beast shattered into a shower of harmless pebbles and dust.

Merlin blinked, shook the dust out of his hair, and walked back to Arthur with the shield, unfazed.

Lyra stood frozen on the battlefield, her jaw practically scraping the dirt.

That evening, she packed her bags in her guest quarters, her hands trembling with a mixture of terror and awe.

If the Court Sorcerer's bumbling, illiterate, bottom-tier apprentice can casually summon a thunderbolt without even putting the shield in his hand, then the Sorcerer himself must be a terrifying deity wrapped in human flesh.

She wasn't ready. If that was the standard for a mere servant boy who read books upside down, the actual master would likely vaporize her for mispronouncing a vowel. Lyra decided she would return to Essetir, study for another ten years, and perhaps then she would be worthy to wash the apprentice's inkwells.

+1:

Ten-year-old Kaelen squeezed himself into the narrow gap behind a velvet tapestry, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was a Druid, and though his elders had told him that Camelot was safe now, the towering stone walls and the sheer volume of iron-clad knights made him want to crawl out of his skin. He had lost his mother’s hand in the crowded lower courtyard, and in his panic, he had bolted deep into the belly of the citadel.

If they caught him, would they know? His magic was a restless, humming thing inside his chest. He could still feel the lingering tremors in the earth from two days ago, when some massive magical entity—a golem, the palace servants had whispered—had been shattered just outside the city walls. The residual ambient energy in the air was thick, making his senses hyper-alert.

Then, he felt it.

It wasn't a tremor, and it wasn't a threat. It was a golden, radiant warmth that tasted like summer rain and smelled of deep forest earth. It was the most comforting magical presence Kaelen had ever encountered.

Driven by an instinctive need for safety, Kaelen slipped out from behind the tapestry and followed the golden thread of light.

The pull led him to a set of large, ornate double doors left slightly ajar. He peeked through the crack.

The grand council chambers were filled with wealthy, stern-faced lords shouting at one another over boundary lines and livestock taxes. But at the center of the room, standing beside King Arthur’s empty throne, was the source of the light.

It was a lanky young man in a distinctly faded red neckerchief and a tunic that looked like it had survived a dog attack. He was leaning over a massive map, casually interrupting a furious nobleman.

"No, Lord Geoffrey," Merlin said, his voice calm but utterly unyielding. "The new decree stands. You cannot banish a tenant farmer just because his daughter can coax apple trees to bloom early. It’s not 'corrupting the soil,' it's an agricultural asset. You will tax her apples at the standard rate, or the crown will re-evaluate your land charter."

As Merlin spoke, adjusting the boundaries on the parchment with a practiced hand, Kaelen’s eyes widened. The ambient magic in the room suddenly flared, brushing against the boy’s mind.

A vision washed over Kaelen, vivid and blindingly bright. He saw a great, white city under a golden sun. He saw Druid healers working openly in palace infirmaries, sorcerers plowing fields alongside oxen, and knights standing guard over markets where magical charms were sold as freely as bread. He saw a land completely at peace, united under a single, brilliant destiny.

Albion, the magic whispered in his mind.

The sheer beauty of the vision drew Kaelen forward. His foot caught on the edge of a decorative armor stand, sending a metal gauntlet clattering loudly across the stone floor.

The shouting in the council room instantly died.

Kaelen gasped, scrambling backward, but the heavy oak door swung wide. Standing there was King Arthur himself, looking towering and formidable. The King looked down at the small, trembling boy dressed in simple Druid traveling clothes.

"Well, hello there," Arthur said. He knelt so he was at eye level with the child. "You're a bit small to be attending a council meeting. Are you lost?"

Kaelen swallowed hard, his eyes darting past the King to Merlin, who was watching him from the map table with a warm, incredibly gentle smile. The golden light around the servant flared with reassurance.

"I... I was looking for my mother," Kaelen whispered, his voice trembling.

The King stood up, extending a hand. "Let's go find her."

Kaelen took it, his fear entirely dissolving. As Arthur led him down the corridor, Kaelen looked back over his shoulder one last time.

Merlin was trying to roll up a massive parchment map, entirely tangling himself in the scroll and knocking a cup of water over a lord's ledger in the process. The nobleman erupted into a stream of curses. Merlin offered an apologetic shrug before winking conspiratorially at Kaelen the moment the lord’s back was turned.

Kaelen smiled shyly back, his heart racing in anticipation of the future he had just Seen, the peaceful kingdom that he would grow up in and have the privilege of calling home.