Arthur stood at the edge of the clearing, where the late sun spilled gold across the uneven ground. Shadows stretched long and thin, draping the training field in a quiet tension.
Makeshift targets, logs, and bundles of straw were scattered about, marking areas for practice.
His eyes swept across the goblins, measuring their readiness—the tension in their limbs, the way they held crude javelins and sharpened wooden spears.
"Grip it like you mean it," Arthur said, crouching beside a young goblin. His hands moved with precision, adjusting the creature's fingers around the shaft. "Elbows in. Balance your weight. You're not flailing at flies."
"Elbows in, balance your weight. Not like a child swinging sticks."
The goblin blinked, muttering a garbled affirmation: "Grrk… yuh-ka!"
Arthur nodded. The sound was rough, but the intent was clear. He repeated the instruction, moving on to the next.
Nearby, others practiced throwing small javelins at straw dummies. Some missed entirely; the projectile sank into the earth a foot away.
Arthur's gaze was sharp, corrective.
"Again! Focus on the target! Straight, not wild!"
A few goblins tried a crude slingshot, their rocks veering wildly. Arthur's hand steadied the aim of one of them, and the stone hit the center of the straw with a satisfying thud.
"Better. Control comes from discipline, not strength alone."
Beca hovered near the edge of the clearing, tail flicking nervously. She carried bundles of spare spears and javelins, moving quietly but deliberately to support the training. Each time a goblin glanced at her, she instinctively bowed her head, careful not to draw undue attention.
Arthur's gaze softened briefly as he noticed her posture, but he quickly returned to the goblins.
"Remember, each of you represents your own worth—and mine. Mistakes are costly. You fail me, you fail yourselves."
Then it happened.
One of the taller goblins, eager and bold, misjudged his throw and stumbled toward Beca. His footing slipped, and in a clumsy attempt to steady himself, his hands grabbed at her—first her arm, then her waist, then lower.
His fingers fumbled, pressing against her hips, sliding toward her chest with crude intent. He leaned in, breath hot and erratic, eyes wide with something far beyond confusion.
Beca froze.
Her tail snapped tight against her leg, ears flattening. She twisted away, hands pushing against his chest, her voice caught in her throat—a soft, panicked gasp escaping.
"No—mmh—no…Muuuh!"
She didn't scream. She didn't fight violently. She recoiled, her body folding inward, trying to shrink away, trying not to be seen.
The goblin fumbled, hands reaching again, his intentions obvious, though clumsy. Beca twisted and pressed herself back, avoiding every advance with quick, nervous movements, her soft "Muuuh… no… stop…" barely audible, yet firm in its refusal.
Arthur exhaled slowly, steadying the uneasy twinge in his chest. His hand rose, brushing the goblin's shoulder with controlled force, a subtle pressure that froze the creature in place without causing injury. The goblin's eyes widened, confusion flashing across his crude features, and he hesitated, rigid.
Arthur's voice cut through the clearing, calm but sharp:"Do not touch her. Ever."
The goblin froze entirely, the lesson sinking in through instinct and fear. Around them, the other goblins paused, tension rippling through the ranks as if they had all felt the warning pulse in the air.
Beca let out a trembling sigh, pressing herself slightly behind Arthur, her tail flicking in nervous relief.
"Thank you, Master," she says timidly.
Beca exhaled, a fragile sound barely louder than the wind. She drifted behind Arthur's shoulder, not hiding — anchoring herself to the one place that felt safe.
She glanced up at him, eyes wide and grateful, the blush on her cheeks deepening as she pressed her hands to her chest, trembling.
Arthur's heart froze—not just from the immediate danger, but from something deeper.
The goblin's aggression wasn't random. It was familiar.
Too familiar.
There was a moment—brief, sharp—where Arthur saw himself in the creature's posture. The hunger. The reach. The impulse.
A synchronicity with his impulses.
He had for a second considered taking Beca there.
For a second his urges impelled that thought.
And now, watching the goblin act on that same buried instinct, the thought twisted in his mind.
Was it just coincidence?
Or was this his reflection?
His influence?
He didn't move immediately. He didn't shout.
He simply watched—for a heartbeat too long.
There were times his orders didn't need to be spoken; the goblins simply synchronized with his will.
Then his hand closed into a fist.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the goblin, then swept over the others. A quiet awareness stirred within him, a subtle, cautious question:
Could the goblins' desires reflect mine, even in ways I do not intend? It was unsettling, a faint, dangerous echo of power he had only begun to understand.
He took a deliberate breath, stepping back, letting his calm authority settle over the clearing. The goblin shrank, obedient now, and Beca, reassured, returned to her careful work with her bundles.
The lesson had been clear—boundaries, hierarchy, and control were absolute, yet a shadow of uncertainty lingered in Arthur's mind, a subtle awareness of how the reach of his power might touch even impulses he had long restrained.
Arthur's gaze caught the movement, and a cold pulse of horror struck him—at first, he thought only of protecting her. Then a shiver of awareness crept into him, something darker: he realized, with visceral dread, that the thought of seeing Beca taken by the goblin had sparked a stirring in him.
No. No. Not this. I would never…
The thought slithered through him, uninvited. He recoiled from it — not with denial, but with dread. That was not him. It could not be.
His heart thumped unevenly, a sick twist of shame and fear clawing at him.
Merlin… she broke me more than I thought. This—this impulse is not mine to act on.
Arthur's hands clenched, forcing the surge of unwanted desire down, his teeth grinding against it.
He felt the echo of the goblin's aggression, and with it, the reflection of the power he held—a power that could compel creatures to obey, to act out impulses he would never allow. The horror of the thought made his stomach twist.
He would never, ever, surrender to this, not with Beca, not with anyone.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the goblin, then swept over the others. His chest tightened, the horror and shame still clawing at his mind. Merlin… you never gave me a choice, did you? He shivered, yet he could not allow it—he would never allow it.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the goblin — not with fury, but with something colder. Shame coiled in his chest like smoke, slow and suffocating, refusing to dissipate.
He forced a deep, steadying breath, letting his authority settle like a shield over the clearing. The goblin shrank obediently, and Beca, reassured, returned to her careful work with her bundles.
Arthur's mind, however, remained alert, vigilant. The lesson had been clear: boundaries, hierarchy, and control were absolute. And while the shadow of what might have stirred lingered faintly in the back of his mind, he would never yield. Not now, not ever.
The camp carried on, alive with the rhythm of labor and obedience, but within Arthur, a quiet horror simmered—a reminder of the fragility of his self-control, and of the depth of Merlin's betrayal.
Beca drew closer, her small hand reaching out tentatively to touch his arm. "Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice concerned. "It wasn't anything... He just... got clumsy."
Arthur shook his head, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine. Just... thinking. Why are you here? Why aren't you resting?"
"I don't want to rest," she replied, her voice soft. "I want to help. But, Master... why do they need to train? They're so small."
"Small or not, they are our protection," Arthur said, his voice returning to the calm, practical tone he used to command. He hadn't intended to have this conversation, but her question grounded him, pulling him out of the whirlpool of his thoughts. "Militias, soldiers, guards... they are necessary for my plans. Going unprotected was asking for trouble. The others will come here."
"Oh," she murmured, absorbing the information. Her eyes moved to the goblins, now struggling to hit a new target. They looked smaller and more vulnerable in the light of her new understanding. "They'll be good soldiers. They are strong and... loyal." She said the last word with a gentle emphasis, as if it were a secret just between them.
"Loyal," Arthur repeated, the word sounding hollow in his own mouth. He didn't have loyalty. He had control. But Beca didn't need to know that. Her presence, the calm and gentleness she brought, was a stark contrast to the darkness that stirred within him. He didn't deserve her innocence.
"Go rest, Beca," he said, his voice a little harsher than intended. "The training will take a while. You've helped enough for today."
She nodded, her face falling into an expression of gentle disappointment. "Okay, Master." She turned to leave, but stopped and looked back, her gaze filled with a silent concern.
Arthur's heart twisted with a sick mixture of shame and gratitude. He watched her go, a small, fragile figure walking away.
The camp carried on, alive with the rhythm of labor and obedience, but within Arthur, a quiet horror simmered—a reminder of the fragility of his self-control, and of the depth of Merlin's betrayal.
Arthur returned to the training field, his attention focused again on the task at hand. He watched the goblins, their clumsy movements and grunts of effort, like a pack of puppies trying to learn to hunt.
One goblin threw a dart with an exaggerated enthusiasm, missing the target and hitting a tree with a dull thud. It looked at Arthur, grunting and shaking its head, a look of apology in its yellow eyes.
"No," Arthur said calmly, walking over to it. "You're not trying to hit the tree. That one there is your enemy." He pointed to the straw dummy. "You want him to know you're stronger than him. Faster than him."
The goblin grunted, its eyes fixed on Arthur, absorbing every word, even if it didn't understand them. Arthur picked up the dart from the ground and handed it to the goblin, straightening its arm once more.
"Go on," he said. "Show him."
The goblin nodded hard, muttering "Grrrk!" and took its stance again. This time, it focused all its energy into the throw, and the dart flew in a straight line, hitting the straw dummy right in the chest. A grunt of triumph escaped its throat, and it jumped up and down with joy.
The other goblins also cheered it on, slapping its back with clumsy pats.
Arthur looked at the scene, a thin smile forming on his lips. It was a simple satisfaction, and in contrast to the pain of his own memories, it was a pure and unblemished pleasure.
It was the satisfaction of mastery, of order imposed upon chaos. He didn't have loyalty. He had control. And for now, that was enough.
Ashwood Hollow. The thought came without warning, bitter as gall on his tongue. He couldn't avoid the memory. He had to go there to get the blacksmithing materials.
The goblins needed weapons and the money he had would run out quickly if he tried to buy everything in town. Ashwood Hollow would be faster and cheaper. And he needed the iron.
The village blacksmith, Breen, a burly man with thick arms and a silver beard, had been one of the first to betray his trust. Arthur remembered Breen's expression, a cruel and unremorseful smile, as he moved over Merlin. He had caught him in the act, in the middle of that orgy.
A cold hatred climbed his spine. Arthur wondered if the blacksmith knew he had seen. He didn't care. Breen was one of the elders, and they all laughed at him behind his back, humiliated him, and saw him as a loser, a fool.
The thought of Breen, Merlin and the others, all together, made his head spin. The scene of them with Merlin was something he would never forget. He remembered the smell of straw, sweat and flesh, a smell that made him nauseous. But now, he had a new plan, a new revenge.
Arthur sighed, the sound low and contained, as if he didn't want to disturb the newly established balance of the camp. Today he had Beca. He had currency. He had soldiers.
His eyes turned to the goblins, still buzzing with the small victory. Creatures that would once be a cause for derision — were now his strength. His wall. His extension.
Merlin still spread her legs. But now, there was purpose. No more fear of parasites, of opportunistic worms. They could have mocked him for years, spat on his naivety, laughed at his devotion.
Fuck them.
They didn't matter.
Arthur raised his chin, his gaze firm.
The past did not define him. The present obeyed him.
And the future… the future awaited him.
He had control. And he was not afraid to use it. Not anymore. They laughed. They humiliated him. And he would have his revenge. A goblin militia would be just the beginning. He wanted to see their faces when he returned to the village.
The scene of the elders calling him "poor boy" and humiliating him for being a "good boy" flashed through his mind. But now he had goblins who obeyed him without question, they were his loyalty, his strength.
But he would not go to confront them.
He didn't need to.
They called him a "poor boy." Laughed behind his back. Saw him as a fool.
Now, he commanded goblins who obeyed him without hesitation. Creatures who called him master. Who followed him with devotion.
And when he returned to the village, he wouldn't bring swords — he would bring presence.
They would see him. See what he had built. See that he was not broken.
Breen would be just the first to watch.
Arthur was no longer the boy they had humiliated.
He was the master.
And that, in itself, was the revenge.
Merlin approached with light steps, her dress dirty with mud at the edges and a determined look in her eyes.
"The house is ready enough," she said, without preamble. "I can start the move."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
"There are still days left. The roof is not sealed, and the main bedroom floor isn't even level."
Merlin shrugged, as if that were a detail.
"I can stay at your house for a while. You have extra rooms."
Arthur frowned, already anticipating the discomfort.
"That's not necessary. You can wait."
"You let Beca stay" Merlin retorted, without hesitation.
"Why can't I?"
Arthur was silent for a moment. The comparison hit him with precision. Beca was different. Beca didn't challenge him. But Merlin… Merlin always knew where to press.
He sighed, calculating. If he sped up the work, he could finish the basics in two days. And, deep down, he knew there would be no peace while she was around — but there would also be no escape.
"All right," he said, his voice low. "Two days. After that, you move in."
Merlin smiled, satisfied. But she didn't stop there.
"Leave some goblins with me. To help with the move. Carry things, clean the space. You have plenty."
Arthur hesitated. Goblins were a workforce, but also an extension of his will. Leaving them with Merlin was a gesture of trust — or shared control.
He looked at those who were still celebrating the successful throw, then at Merlin, who was staring at him with a neutral, almost serene expression.
"Three," he said. "And only the ones I choose."
Merlin nodded, as if she already knew she would win this part too.
Arthur turned, already thinking about which goblins would be useful and obedient enough not to cause problems. Her house needed to be ready. Fast. Before she started to take root too much.