Merlin didn't return to the group right away.
He took the long route back—through side corridors rarely used between classes, past sealed doors etched with warnings no one bothered reading anymore, down a stairwell that smelled faintly of old stone and mana residue. He needed the movement, the space, the illusion of distance from Morgana's words.
A path.
Not a fate. Not a prophecy.
A path meant choice.
That thought steadied him more than it should have.
By the time he reached the outer walkways, the academy was sliding into late afternoon. Students clustered in small groups, voices rising and falling, unaware of the quiet recalibrations happening under their feet. Merlin watched them for a moment—second-years arguing about technique refinements, first-years sprinting to avoid being late, upperclassmen moving with the careless confidence of people who hadn't been truly tested yet.
Normalcy persisted. For now.
