As Merlin prepared to leave, he couldn't help but sigh. When did this kid become so decisive? It had only been a few years, yet Aslan had changed in ways that unsettled even him.
"Wait a minute. As the price for not interfering in your little prophecy," Aslan said, casually brushing the forging hammer at his hip, "how about giving me some information—and a ride while you're at it?"
Merlin halted mid-spell, an exaggeratedly pained look spreading across his face. "So that's it. White wolf, no cost," he muttered. "Even if I told you nothing, you'd never lift a hand to help the White Dragon…"
But as he looked into Aslan's pale blue eyes—so calm, so calculating—he realized he couldn't gamble on even the smallest chance. The moment he'd met the boy, the die had already been cast. From the beginning, everything had been within Aslan's grasp.
Until the very end.
"…What do you want to know, Son of the White Dragon?"
The title was no longer a warning—it was a reminder. Merlin's tone was light, but serious underneath, as if to say: Some truths you can't escape, no matter how clever you are.
Aslan touched the place over his chest where the contract ring lay hidden. His path had never wavered: complete the contract, deepen his mastery of magic and blacksmithing, and—above all—transform Melusine's body, as he had promised. No ordinary craftsmanship could achieve that. If mecha technology were an option, he'd chase it in a heartbeat.
But that was a dream too distant for now. He'd only just started deciphering elvish script. Magic was next. Understanding it—truly—was the only way forward.
"Since you've been spying on Britain," Aslan said, "you've surely noticed that magicians from the mainland have begun arriving."
He spoke plainly. After the clash of Red Dragon and White Dragon, the island's true ether would begin to dissipate. Then, mainland magi would descend and construct the Clock Tower's first prototype. He was preparing now—seeking them out ahead of time.
As for Morgan…
According to Merlin, his cousin would soon draw the Sword of Selection. But jealousy would rot her heart, twisting her into someone unrecognizable. Approaching her now could backfire. She might use him.
Still, Morgan loved Britain. Her eventual tragedy wasn't what she would have wanted—not truly. The one tormenting the island now wasn't her, after all.
It was his father.
If Morgan ever learned of his bloodline… who knew what she'd do?
Merlin had said it himself: some things could change, others should never be tampered with. Perhaps it was possible to make a flower bloom on a branch where none had ever grown—but trying to preserve a bloom already fated to wilt? That was a fool's errand.
Even Aslan didn't know what he'd do if the truth unfolded in front of him. Merlin had hidden in Avalon partly because of the fae, yes—but more so because he couldn't face the ending he'd foreseen. He'd let it unfold, even if it broke him.
Aslan had his own thoughts on destiny.
The fall of the Age of Gods was inevitable. But within that collapse, there was space—small pockets where he might intervene. Look at Arthur and Artoria. Their stories mirrored each other… and yet diverged. Arthur's conquest of Rome ended with Gawain marching despite his wounds. Artoria's ended with Gawain remaining behind.
Even the Holy Grail's destiny differed. Different legends gave it to different knights.
So Aslan dared to imagine: King Arthur would defeat the White Dragon. That was set. The Knights of the Round Table would be gathered. The Grail would be found, then lost. Arthur would win the Roman campaign. But after that, he would vanish.
That was the closing chapter of Britain's age of glory.
The broad strokes were unchangeable. But the finer details? They could shift.
If so, maybe he could carve out happy endings within the grand tragedy. Maybe Artoria didn't have to die. Maybe she could retreat forever to Avalon instead.
Of course, that was a long way off. It would require deeper magic, greater knowledge, and the discipline to suppress his own will. And as for sharing that theory with Merlin?
No, not yet. Let the old fool come to regret it first.
Merlin let out a genuine sigh of relief. For a moment, he'd feared Aslan would ask something unreasonable—like demanding personal magic lessons.
Please. The greatest swordsman in Britain teaching spells? Magic was for brains, not brawn.
"The magicians you're looking for are mostly wandering near the east coast," Merlin said, brushing invisible dust from his robe. "But with the island so tense right now, they're likely in hiding."
Aslan nodded. He'd expected that. The ones he sought were genuine antiques—magi of a time before rules were codified. Who knew what philosophies or obsessions they clung to?
Still, it was the only path forward.
Just then, Melusine emerged from the cottage, her arms full of travel packs. She froze as soon as she saw Merlin.
Her wings twitched. Her eyes narrowed. The sword at her waist was drawn in a flash.
"Forget the fae!" she hissed. "Why is that succubus standing next to Aslan!?"