Merlin had never seen towers so tall.
The sun caught on their spires, golden and blinding, as if Camelot itself were lit from within. The city walls gleamed, its pennants danced in the wind, and people moved like a living river through the streets.
For a moment, Merlin forgot to be afraid.
He grinned to himself as he walked through the gates, clutching a worn satchel and the letter from his mother. The journey from Ealdor had been long, but worth it. Camelot was everything he imagined: loud, bright, important. Full of destiny. He could feel it humming in his chest.
A new beginning.
He was still grinning when he turned the corner and saw the scaffold.
A crowd had gathered in the square. On the platform, a man knelt with hands bound behind his back. Beside him stood the king—Uther Pendragon—all iron and fury, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Edris of the lower fields," the king intoned, "you have been found guilty of the practice of sorcery. By royal decree, the punishment is death."
Merlin's feet froze to the stones. Sorcery?
The man—Edris—was sobbing now. "My son was sick. I only meant to heal him…"
But Uther turned away.
And behind him, in the shadow of the royal dais, stood the prince.
Merlin saw him clearly—Arthur Pendragon, tall and composed, armor gleaming. He didn't look angry. He didn't even look interested.
But Merlin noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled against the hilt of his sword, then eased. His gaze flicked toward Edris and then away, too fast. Too forced.
Like he didn't want to look.
Like he cared, but couldn't afford to show it.
Because Uther was watching.
A gust of wind tore through the square. The torches on the scaffold flared unnaturally high.
Merlin backed away, chest tight. The magic in him stirred, restless, wanting to act.
His mother's voice came to him then, clear and sharp:
"Don't draw attention. Don't speak. Don't use your gift."
So he said nothing.
He bowed his head and walked.
Edris's cry split the air as the axe fell.
The crowd didn't cheer. They didn't flinch, either.
Merlin did.
He stood frozen, heart pounding, until a whisper caught at his ear.
"Keep walking."
He turned.
A woman stood beside him.
Her eyes were swollen from grief, her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles bloodless. No one moved to lift the body from the platform, but she didn't look at it.
She looked at Uther.
Her gaze burned with hatred, old and raw and absolute.
Then it swept across the crowd—silent, watching, complicit. She looked at them all with the same hollow rage.
Something ancient flickered behind her eyes.
"An eye for an eye," she whispered. "A son for a son."
Then she turned and was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
The square emptied, but the woman's words clung to Merlin like smoke.
A son for a son.
Even as he turned away, even as his feet carried him through Camelot's winding corridors, the heaviness lingered. He hadn't cast a spell, hadn't spoken a word—but it still felt like he'd betrayed something by doing nothing at all.
He pushed the thought down.
Find Gaius. That's what your mother said. The royal physician. He can help.
The castle loomed over him as he climbed the steps. He found the door tucked behind a narrow column, marked with a faded crest.
He knocked once.
It opened immediately.
Gaius was not what Merlin expected.
He had thought a royal physician might be cold, strict, maybe even cruel. But Gaius opened the door with a startled blink and a slight hunch, took one look at Merlin, and muttered, "You're early."
Before Merlin could reply, Gaius had already turned away, disappearing into the dim, cluttered chambers beyond.
By the time Merlin stepped inside, blinking at the shelves of dusty tomes and mismatched jars, Gaius was already rummaging through a cabinet.
"Well, don't just stand there," Gaius called over his shoulder. "If you're going to live here, you'll have to learn how to navigate organized chaos."
"I'm Merlin," he offered, stepping around a stack of scrolls. "From Ealdor. I'm supposed to—"
There was a sharp crack above him.
A wooden shelf, crooked with age and burdened with too many bottles, gave a sudden groan. One of the jars tilted, wobbled—then fell, glass glinting as it dropped straight for Gaius's head.
Without thinking, Merlin raised a hand.
The jar stopped midair.
It hovered for a second, spinning lazily, then drifted harmlessly to the ground and landed with a soft thunk.
Silence.
Gaius turned slowly.
Merlin froze.
"…Right," Gaius said after a beat. "I see."
Merlin lowered his hand. "I didn't mean to—"
"You used magic." Gaius's voice wasn't angry—just tired. Careful. "Are you trying to get yourself executed before supper?"
"No! I—I just reacted. I wasn't thinking—"
"That's the problem," Gaius snapped. He strode toward the door and bolted it with a sharp click, then turned back to Merlin, expression unreadable. "You shouldn't be here. Not with… that."
"I didn't come here to cause trouble."
"And yet here you are, floating jars and waving your hands like a conjurer in the market square."
"I was told you could help me," Merlin said. He fumbled with his satchel, pulling out the letter. "This is from my mother. She said you'd understand."
Gaius took the letter, grumbling under his breath. But as his eyes scanned the page, his expression changed. The grumbling stopped.
He looked up at Merlin. Really looked at him.
"You were born with it," he said softly. "Magic in the blood."
Merlin nodded.
"I've seen many things in this city," Gaius said, folding the letter with slow care. "But not that. Not in many years." He studied Merlin for another long moment. "You're lucky Uther didn't sense it on you at the gate."
Merlin swallowed. "I'm not going back to Ealdor. My mother… she couldn't keep me safe anymore."
Gaius sighed through his nose. "Then you stay. But you'll keep your head down. You'll not use magic. Not unless you want to end up like the man they executed today."
Merlin nodded, quietly relieved.
"Good," Gaius said. "Then start with these."
He handed Merlin a bundle of bandages and a long list of herbs written in nearly illegible scrawl.
"You're not a healer," Gaius added, "but you'll carry things like one."
Gaius handed Merlin a bundle of bandages and a long list of herbs written in nearly illegible scrawl.
"You're not a healer," Gaius added, "but you'll carry things like one."
And with that, Merlin was officially apprenticed.
The next few hours passed in a blur of shouted directions, strange-smelling salves, and sprinting up and down stairs with his arms full of things he didn't know the names of. Camelot was larger than he'd ever imagined, and Gaius seemed to know every corner of it. Merlin was sent to the kitchens for vinegar, to the armory for splints, and to the barracks for someone named Geoffrey who turned out not to be injured at all, just unusually dramatic.
Running errands for Gaius meant crossing Camelot end to end by foot. On his third trip to the training yard, arms full of poultices, Merlin saw him again.
Arthur.
This time the prince was sparring with a younger man—clearly a peasant by his clothes, probably a servant. The fight wasn't fair. Arthur was too fast, too polished, too amused by it all.
"You call that a parry?" Arthur scoffed, dancing backward with effortless grace. "My horse defends better than you."
Merlin stopped.
"Maybe your horse has more charm, too," he called out.
Arthur turned.
So did the crowd.
The servant gave Merlin a desperate shake of the head, but Arthur grinned. "Do I know you?"
"No," Merlin said. "But I know a bully when I see one."
The prince raised an eyebrow. "Care to say that again?"
Merlin stepped forward. "You heard me."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Arthur tossed his sword to a guard and strode toward him.
"Very well," he said. "You think you can do better?" He nodded toward the ring. "Prove it."
Merlin swallowed. "Without a weapon?"
Arthur smirked. "I'll even let you have the first swing."
It wasn't a fair fight. Not really.
But Merlin had something Arthur didn't expect—nerve. And a little magic under the skin, barely kept in check.
Merlin dropped his satchel on a bench and stepped into the ring. The crowd shifted around them, eager for a distraction.
Arthur rolled his shoulders, loose and confident. "Try not to embarrass yourself too badly."
"I'll do my best," Merlin muttered—and threw a punch.
Arthur dodged easily, but Merlin didn't expect to land it. He followed with a feint, then ducked low, sweeping his foot out.
Arthur stumbled.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Merlin caught the prince off balance and shoved. A flicker of power whispered from his fingertips, guiding the push—not enough to be seen, not even enough to feel like a spell. Just a nudge. A bit more weight than his frame should have had.
Arthur hit the dirt.
The courtyard gasped.
Arthur blinked up at him, surprised—and maybe a little impressed. Then he was on his feet in an instant, lunging forward. They locked again, grappling. Arthur moved like a seasoned brawler; Merlin moved like someone who had been in a lot of scrappy village fights and knew how to survive them.
A pulse of magic buzzed under Merlin's skin, begging to be used. He almost gave in—but held back. Instead, he twisted away from a blow and ducked under Arthur's swing, grabbing a training staff off the rack behind him and swinging it low.
Arthur grunted as it struck the back of his knees. He went down again—harder this time.
Merlin stepped back, panting. He didn't raise the staff for another strike. He just waited.
Arthur looked up at him for a long moment, breathing through his nose.
Then he laughed.
"Not bad," he said, pushing himself upright and brushing dust from his tunic.
He offered Merlin a hand.
Merlin hesitated, then took it.
"You're mad," Arthur said, not unkindly.
"You're arrogant," Merlin returned.
That earned a real laugh.
But behind Arthur, two of his guards stepped forward, frowning. One reached for Merlin's arm. "He just assaulted the prince—"
Arthur raised a hand. "Stand down."
The guards froze.
"He won. Fair and square."
"But sire—"
"I said stand down."
The guards exchanged a look, then backed off.
Arthur turned to Merlin. "What's your name?"
"Merlin."
"Well, Merlin," Arthur said, with a hint of a smirk, "next time you insult me, try not to do it in front of an audience. I might not be feeling so generous."
He turned and walked away, shoulders relaxed, still chuckling.
Merlin stood alone in the ring, a little breathless, a little dazed.
And grinning into the dust.
Not a total loss.
Merlin had been running errands since dawn, his arms sore from carrying poultices and scrolls all over Camelot. Most nobles barely noticed him—just another servant with bottles and bandages. But when Gaius handed him a small vial and said, "For Lady Catrina. She's staying in the east wing," Merlin had paused.
"The singer?" he asked. "The one from the feast?"
"She arrived early," Gaius replied, already turning away. "Claims her throat feels tight. She's a favorite of the king's court—don't spill it."
So Merlin went.
The corridor outside Lady Catrina's chambers was quiet, dimly lit by the midday sun filtering through stained glass. He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, then hesitantly pushed the door open. "Lady Catrina?"
The chamber was lavish but cold. She sat at the window, facing away, her figure draped in silks. "Leave it on the table," she said, voice soft.
Something prickled along Merlin's spine.
He stepped further inside and set the vial down, but he couldn't help glancing at her.
Her hands were trembling. Not with weakness—something else. Restraint. And for a moment, just a moment, the sunlight caught her reflection in the glass—and it wasn't right.
The face looking back wasn't young.
It wasn't Lady Catrina at all.
Merlin blinked.
When he looked again, the reflection was normal. Graceful. Pale. Elegant.
Still, he walked out fast.
He didn't tell Gaius. He thought it was just a moment of blurriness after such a long and exhausting day.
But that night at the feast, everything changed.
The celebration was the kind Merlin had only ever heard of in stories—gilded halls, music echoing beneath high arches, torches casting gold across marble. He stood just behind a pillar, watching. Gwen—kind and clever, one of Morgana's attendants—had snuck him in for a peek.
"That's Lady Catrina," she whispered. "The singer. Her voice is said to stop time itself."
Lady Catrina stood near the dais, pale and graceful, a cup in her hand and a small, elegant smile on her lips.
But Merlin wasn't looking at her smile.
He was watching her eyes.
Her eyes—her eyes were wrong. Too cold. Too old.
Merlin narrowed his gaze.
He'd seen her before. Today. In the square.
Not her face—but her grief.
They flicked toward the prince. Then down to the goblet in her hand. She muttered something under her breath, fingers tracing the rim in a slow, deliberate circle.
For a heartbeat, the air shimmered around her—like heat rising off stone.
And there she was again.
The woman from the square.
Older. Harsher. Grief carved into every line of her face.
Then, with a breath, the illusion snapped back into place. Lady Catrina, again.
Beautiful. Untouched.
Merlin's heart stuttered in his chest.
She felt it—felt the spell starting to falter—and quickly excused herself with a graceful curtsy, murmuring something about the heat and needing air.
Merlin didn't hesitate.
He slipped through the crowd and followed her, weaving between nobles and servants with practiced ease. She moved quickly, through the side corridors of the palace, where the torchlight grew dim and the walls no longer glittered.
She ducked into a small antechamber and shut the door behind her. Merlin waited—then crept closer, crouching beside the carved wooden frame.
Through a narrow crack, he saw her raise a small charm from beneath her gown. Her fingers shook as she whispered to it. Her face rippled like disturbed water—until it changed.
Gone was the delicate singer with soft features and courtly poise.
In her place stood the woman from the square.
The sorcerer's mother.
Eyes burning. Lips drawn tight with rage and sorrow.
Merlin backed away, slowly, careful not to make a sound. He didn't stop moving until he reached the hall again, his thoughts racing. He had to tell someone. He had to warn Arthur.
He burst back into the great hall, weaving through dancers and guests until he spotted the prince near the front, seated beside the king and surrounded by laughter and light.
"Sire—Arthur—I need to speak with you," Merlin gasped, breathless.
Arthur glanced at him with a furrowed brow, half-turning from the dais. "Merlin, not now. This is a royal feast."
"It's about Lady Catrina—she's not who she says—"
Arthur raised a hand, cutting him off. His voice was firm, impatient. "Whatever it is, it can wait. I don't have time for your ramblings in the middle of a toast."
"But it's important—"
"I said later," Arthur said sharply. "Not here. Not now."
He turned back to the festivities, attention already shifting back to the laughter and music around him.
Merlin stood there for a moment, frozen.
He looked again at the prince's cup—already refilled, sitting too close to Catrina's empty seat. No one noticed him anymore.
So Merlin turned and slipped away, the truth burning in his chest like fire.
But no one else was looking. No one saw.
So Merlin turned and slipped away, the truth burning in his chest like fire.
She wasn't Catrina.
She was the sorcerer's mother.
And she had just enchanted the prince's wine.
Merlin lurked just outside the banquet hall, his pulse pounding in his throat. He had followed her—he had seen her change. But now she was back.
Lady Catrina strolled into the feast as though nothing had happened. Her posture was poised, her voice honeyed as she greeted guests and murmured pleasantries. The illusion held firm.
But Merlin watched as her hand, elegant and deliberate, hovered over Arthur's goblet.
With a flick of her wrist—subtle, practiced—she exchanged it for another. The wine swirled slightly, darker now, touched by something invisible.
She lifted her own cup, the corners of her mouth twitching upward into a wicked, satisfied smile.
"To peace," she said silkily, raising her glass to Arthur and Uther.
They toasted in return, unaware.
Merlin couldn't take it anymore.
Even if Arthur was an arrogant, smug, spoiled prat—he didn't deserve to die. Not for his father's cruelty. Not for something he hadn't done.
"Stop!" Merlin shouted, stumbling forward into the light of the hall.
The music screeched to a halt. All heads turned.
Merlin was breathing hard, eyes wide. "Don't drink it. The wine—it's been poisoned!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Arthur lowered his cup slowly, frowning. Uther stood, anger flaring in his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?" the king snapped.
"I saw her!" Merlin cried, pointing straight at Lady Catrina. "She's not who she says she is—she's a sorcerer, she's here for revenge!"
Lady Catrina turned slowly, all composure. "Is this the court jester?"
"I'm not joking!" Merlin insisted. "She put something in the cup—ask anyone, she switched it!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You accuse a guest of the crown of sorcery and attempted murder—on what evidence? Because you had a feeling?"
"No!" Merlin stepped closer. "Because I saw her change—she's the mother of the man Uther executed. She's here to kill you."
The silence was thick. Suspicion buzzed through the air—but it wasn't aimed at Catrina. Not yet.
Uther waved at the guards. "Remove him."
"No—wait!" Merlin's eyes locked on Arthur's goblet. "Then I'll prove it."
And before anyone could stop him, he lunged forward.
Snatched the goblet.
And drank.
A horrified murmur tore through the crowd.
Merlin gasped as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. His knees buckled almost instantly. Pain bloomed sharp and cold in his stomach. He fell to the floor, clutching his side, mouth foaming faintly.
Panic erupted.
Gaius rushed forward from the crowd, shoving people aside. "Merlin!"
Lady Catrina stood frozen for a split second too long. Then she backed away, eyes wide.
But it was too late.
The spell on her face flickered—then failed entirely.
Her disguise shattered like smoke in wind. The soft beauty of Lady Catrina peeled away, revealing the older woman beneath: sharp features worn by grief, hatred burning in her eyes.
The court reeled. Uther's jaw clenched.
Arthur slowly stood, staring at her. "You…"
She raised a hand, fingers twisting in a desperate, snarled incantation. A blast of crackling energy flared—but fizzled midair.
Her hand shook violently. The spell fizzled again, useless.
Everyone stared as nothing happened.
Gaius looked up from Merlin's side. "She's exhausted. Her magic's drained. Illusions take strength—and she used too much holding the mask."
Guards surged forward. She didn't resist. Her shoulders sagged with defeat as they dragged her away, cursing Uther under her breath.
She looked up and with hatred said "You took my son," she spat. "I wanted you to watch yours die."
Arthur didn't speak and ran towards Merlin, kneeling beside Merlin, whose breath came in shallow gasps.
"Told you… it was poisoned."
Then his eyes rolled back, and everything went black.
Merlin's body lay still on the cold stone floor, his breath barely clinging to life. Gaius worked frantically beside him, muttering incantations and pressing trembling hands to his chest, but nothing was helping.
Arthur stood frozen, blood roaring in his ears.
He had just watched someone drink poison—for him.
That night, Arthur burst into the king's chambers, still dressed from the feast, voice tight with fury.
"There's a cure," he said. "Gaius knows of a root—Starpetal. It grows in the northern ridges. I can ride out before dawn—"
"No," Uther interrupted, standing. "Absolutely not."
Arthur's fists clenched at his sides. "He's dying. Because he protected me."
"He's a servant," Uther said, as if it explained everything. "You are the future of this kingdom. I will not have you throwing your life away over a boy who overstepped his place."
Arthur's jaw flexed, eyes blazing. "Then you didn't see what I did. You didn't see the look on his face when he drank that wine."
Uther's voice rose, final and sharp. "You are not to leave these walls."
Arthur didn't answer.
Not then.
He simply bowed stiffly, turned, and left.
But that night, when the castle fell silent and the guards changed shifts, Arthur was already gone—riding into the wild north alone, cold wind biting his face, Gaius's instructions tucked inside his saddle.
He didn't look back.
Every step of the way, he thought only of Merlin—of the boy who never knew when to shut up, who tripped over himself constantly, who rolled his eyes at royalty and smiled anyway.
Who chose to die rather than let Arthur fall.
Arthur didn't say it aloud. Not even to himself.
But for the first time in his life, he rode not as a prince.
But as a friend.
He woke days later.
The chamber was quiet. Clean. Pale morning light filtered through the high windows, painting golden streaks across the stone floor.
Arthur sat beside the bed, arms folded, tired and stiff like he hadn't moved in hours—maybe days.
"You're an idiot," the prince said flatly.
Merlin coughed, voice raw. "You're welcome."
Arthur didn't smile, not quite. His jaw flexed. "You shouldn't have done it."
"You'd have died."
Arthur didn't answer that. He stood, slowly, the stiffness in his movements betraying exhaustion and something heavier.
"Rest," he said, without meeting Merlin's gaze. "You'll need your strength. I'm not carrying your chores too."
And then he was gone, the chamber door clicking softly behind him.
Merlin stared after him in silence, heart pounding, confusion pressing tight against his ribs.
Why was he alive?
He'd drunk the poisoned wine. He'd felt it—cold and sharp, curling like smoke through his veins. He should be dead.
The door creaked again.
This time, it was Gwen—kind-eyed and steady-handed, carrying a basin and a cloth.
She smiled gently when she saw him awake. "Good," she said. "You're back."
"What… happened?" Merlin rasped.
Gwen set the basin down beside the bed and dipped the cloth into the water. "You don't remember?"
"Only pieces. I drank the wine. Then… nothing."
Gwen's smile dimmed slightly. She wrung out the cloth and placed it gently on his forehead. "You were dying, Merlin. Slower than they expected, but it was only a matter of time."
"Then how—?"
"Arthur saved you."
Merlin blinked at her. "Arthur?"
Gwen nodded. "After Gaius realized what kind of poison it was—some kind of twisted, ancient magic—he said the only hope was a rare herb. Starpetal root. Grows only in the northern ridges of the Endless Forest. Wild magic clings to it. Very few know how to find it."
"And Arthur…"
"Argued with the king," Gwen said. "Uther forbade it, said it was beneath the future king to risk his life for a servant. Said the realm needed him more than you did."
Merlin swallowed. "What did Arthur say?"
Gwen glanced at him. "He didn't say anything. He left in the middle of the night. No guards. No fanfare. Took a sword, a waterskin, and Gaius's instructions."
Merlin was silent.
"He was gone two days," Gwen continued. "The forest nearly killed him. Gaius said wyverns nest in the cliffs this time of year. And Arthur still came back—cut, bruised, and covered in frost—with the root in his hand."
"He didn't tell me any of that," Merlin murmured.
"Of course not," Gwen said, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "He's Arthur."
Merlin sank back into the pillow. Weak. Aching. Grateful.
Arthur Pendragon had disobeyed his king. Risked his life. Braved monsters and wild magic. Not because it was expected.
Because it was right.
Maybe Camelot wasn't ready for someone like Merlin.
But he was ready for Camelot.
And Arthur?
Arthur would never look at him the same way again.
Something had started.
Something he could not name.
And somewhere deep in his bones, the magic stirred, whispering a word he dared not speak.
Destiny.