Chapter 1: The Choice of Dawn
The house was too quiet.
Jim sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The familiar clutter of his room—posters, scattered clothes, a half-finished homework packet—felt like pieces of a life that already didn't fit him anymore.
Outside his window, Arcadia slept under a sky caught between night and morning. The moon still hung, pale and watchful, but a thin line of gray-blue had begun to push up over the horizon, diluting the darkness, without really defeating it.
He exhaled slowly, trying to loosen the knot in his chest. His muscles still ached from the battle, from the running and the fear and the constant, gnawing question: how much longer can I keep this up like I am?
Footsteps creaked faintly down the hall. Slow, deliberate. Not his mom—she would have knocked with that hurried little rhythm that always gave her away. Not Toby—he'd have barged in already. Jim straightened before the door even opened.
The air changed first—he felt it, that subtle prickling on his skin, like static and old dust and a storm that hadn't broken yet. Then the knob turned, and the door swung inward. Merlin stepped through, slightly slouched but still imposing, armor creaked against the wooden floorboards that had never been meant for centuries-old sorcerers to walk upon them.
The dim lamplight caught in his white hair and in the sharp, assessing lines of his face. His staff, for once, was not in his hand.
"James," Merlin said quietly. His voice seemed softer in the small room, stripped of the theatrics he showed in caverns and catacombs. "May I come in?"
Jim swallowed. "Kinda late to ask now, isn't it?" He tried for a half-smile and almost managed it. "But… yeah. Sure."
Merlin nodded once and closed the door behind him. The click sounded strangely final.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Merlin's gaze swept the room, taking in the posters, the window, the bed, the mess of papers on his desk— A place entirely void of the world that lay beneath their feet.
"This is your sanctuary," Merlin said at last. "The place where you are not the Trollhunter. Where you are only… Jim."
"Used to be," Jim muttered. "Not sure there's an 'only Jim' left anymore."
Merlin looked at him then, really looked, and Jim felt it like a weight. Not judgment exactly, but a kind of measuring. The look of a man used to decide what people could bear.
"You carry more than most grown men would bear without breaking," Merlin said. "Do not underestimate that."
"Pretty sure all I've done is nothing but underestimate things, ever since I picked up the amulet." Jim said. He collapsed his hand together. "You said you wanted to talk. Down in the caverns you were—" He hesitated, the memory of Merlin's earlier intensity flashing across his mind. "You were going to… change me."
Merlin's jaw tightened, just barely. "Yes."
Jim waited for him to go on. Merlin didn't. The silence stretched.
"Merlin," Jim said, the name tasting like iron. "If you're here to tell me I have to turn into a troll, you can just say it."
A flicker of something—disapproval, maybe, or frustration—crossed Merlin's face. "I am not here to repeat a choice you have already rejected, in your heart" he said. "I do not lack for stubbornness, but neither am I deaf."
Jim blinked. "So… that's off the table?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." Merlin took a step farther into the room. The light from the window edged his profile in silver. "But the world's need has not lessened because you said no. If anything, it grows."
Jim stood up then, because sitting made him feel smaller, and he was so tired of feeling small. He faced Merlin with the bed between them like a drawn line.
"You said Eternal Night would end everything," Jim said. "You said Morgana would drown the world in darkness. Is that not enough?"
Merlin's gaze flickered, not away, but inward, as if looking at something only he could see. "Eternal Night is a storm," he said. "Vast. Terrible. But storms fade out. They spend themselves and pass. What I fear is not a storm, James. It's a… tearing."
The word hung in the air, wrong and heavy.
Jim frowned. "You're gonna have to be a little less cryptic."
Merlin's lips twitched. "You sound like your… friend. The one with the hammer."
"Toby," Jim said automatically. The mention of him made his chest tighten. Toby, Claire, his mom—faces flashed in his mind, one after another, like cards in a deck he couldn't afford to lose.
"Yes." Merlin's eyes softened briefly. "You fight for them. For all of them. And that is why I am here."
He moved closer, each step deliberate, until they were less than an arm's length apart. Jim could see the fine lines of age around his eyes, the weariness beneath the sharpness.
"Long before trolls," Merlin said quietly, "before Camelot, before your stories of knights and dragons, the world was… simpler. One sun, one moon, one sky. Then, there was an… intrusion. A moment when worlds that should never have touched collided." He lifted a hand, fingers curling and then spreading, as if mimicking an explosion. "Monsters poured in. Magic twisted. Men remade themselves into weapons to survive what had come."
Jim's skin prickled. He didn't understand everything, but he understood enough to feel a chill slide down his spine. "You're talking about… the past."
"I am talking about a warning." Merlin's eyes met his, unflinching. "The world survived that first wound. Barely. But such wounds leave scars. Weaknesses. I have felt… tremors, James. Echoes of forces shifting again. Something is… leaning against the walls of your reality, testing them. It will find a way through. I do not know where. I do not know when. Only that it will."
Jim's mouth went dry. He thought of Gunmar, of Morgana, of every horror he'd already faced. There was more? Worse?
"And Eternal Night?" he asked, voice hoarse. "That's not… that?"
"No." Merlin's answer was immediate. "Eternal Night is Morgana's doing. A great calamity, yes. But still born of this world's own magic, its own madness. What approaches are… other. Older in some ways, younger in others. The law of reality themselves would be rewritten." His gaze sharpened. "And this world is not ready for that."
Jim let out a short, humorless laugh. "We're barely ready for the first thing."
"Precisely." Merlin clasped his hands behind his back. "You see my dilemma."
Jim stared at him. The room felt smaller now, like the walls had crept in closer. "So what does that have to do with me?" he asked, though a part of him already knew. Merlin only ever showed up to hand him new weights for his shoulders.
"Because," Merlin said, "once, when monsters poured into the world, men refused to surrender. They took children—orphans, unwanted, desperate—and they remade them. Through alchemy, through magic, through trials that defied nature. They created hunters who could walk between worlds of man and beast. People have called them many names over the ages. Hexers, Mutants, Vatt'ghern… Witchers." The last one landed like a stone in Jim's chest.
"Witchers," he repeated. It felt strange in his mouth, heavy and sharp all at once. "What… what were they like?"
Merlin's eyes darkened. "They were… efficient. They smelled monsters before they saw them. They moved faster than any human and were stronger than any ordinary knight. Poisons that would kill a man in moments barely slowed them. They were tools forged for a single purpose: to stand between humanity and the things that wanted to devour it."
It almost sounded inspiring. But the look on Merlin's face told him all he needed to know. "You don't seem to like them. Why?"
Merlin paused. Then took a breath. "It's not Witchers themselves I dislike. It's how they were made that troubles me."
"How?" Jim asked quietly.
Merlin inclined his head, as if he'd been waiting for the question. "First, young boys were taken from their homes, families, stripped from the life they could have had… then forced into one they never asked for. Then once sufficiently trained they were put through trials. It began with concoctions—mutagens, alchemical formulas designed to twist flesh and bone. Most of the children who drank them… died. In agony."
Jim flinched. He hadn't wanted that much honesty, but he'd asked for it.
Jim exhaled slowly. "What… What about the ones who did make it?"
"Those who survived," Merlin continued, voice steady, "endured further changes. Their bodies altered, senses sharpened, reflexes enhanced. But magic always comes at a price. Many were left sterile. Their emotions dulled, as if the world had been wrapped in glass. They were feared by those they protected, used by kings and mages alike. Rarely thanked."
Jim stared down at his hands. They didn't look like the hands of a hero. Just a teenager's hands. Calloused in odd places from a sword he'd never meant to wield but did all the same.
"How old were they?" he asked. "The kids I mean."
"Pre-Adolescents," Merlin said. "Young enough that their bodies could adapt. Old enough to be shaped by discipline. Even so, many did not… take. It was not a kindness."
Jim swallowed hard. "And you want to do that to me."
Merlin's eyes flashed. "No." The word cracked through the air. "I do not want to do anything to you. Want has nothing to do with this. If the world were safe, if there was no coming threat, no Eternal Night, I would leave you to your school and your… microwaveable pastries."
A faint, almost fond annoyance crossed his face at the last phrase. Jim might have laughed at another time.
"But the world is not safe," Merlin went on, quieter. "It has chosen you already. The amulet did not fall on a lawyer or a farmer or a seasoned knight. It chose you, James. A boy with more heart than sense. A boy who charges into darkness because someone has to. I am merely… offering you a chance to survive what is coming. To stand a chance against things no Trollhunter has ever faced."
Jim looked up. Merlin was closer than he'd realized now, close enough that Jim could see the fine tremor in the mage's fingers. He's scared, Jim thought, with a shock that felt almost like betrayal. The great Merlin, terrified.
"Why tell me all this?" Jim asked. "You could have just… done it. Like they did. The first guys. No choice."
Merlin's gaze didn't waver. "Because I remember," he said. "I was young—young by my standards—when the last of the Witchers walked the earth. I watched boys scream and burn from the inside because old men decided the world needed weapons more than it needed sons. I am many things, James. A manipulator. A liar, when I thought the truth would break someone before they were ready. But I will not be that kind of coward again."
The words sat between them, raw and quiet.
Jim's throat tightened. He thought of his own father, of the space where a man should have been. Of how much that hurt, even years later. He thought of Toby's laugh, of Claire's hand squeezing his in the dark. Of his mom's tired smile when she tried to pretend she wasn't worried.
"If I say no," Jim said, forcing the words out, "what happens?"
"Then you remain as you are," Merlin said. "The Trollhunter. Brave. Underpowered. You will still fight. You may even win, for a time. And you will almost certainly die. But that will be your choice, and I will respect it."
"And if I say yes?"
Merlin drew in a slow breath. "If you say yes, I will attempt to recreate, in a single day, a process that was once done over weeks, with preparation and controlled conditions. We do not have that luxury. The Eternal Night draws near. The… second threat stirs. I cannot guarantee your survival. In truth, the odds are… poor."
"Define poor," Jim said, though he already felt his stomach twist.
"In the old days," Merlin said softly, "fewer than four in ten children survived the first Trial. You are older than they were. Your body is less… malleable. The risk of death is higher. The risk of surviving with… impairments—crippled limbs, damaged senses—is also great. And even in success, you will not be unchanged. Your strength will grow. So will your distance from the life you have known."
Jim closed his eyes for a moment.
He saw himself lying on a table, helpless, his mother's voice calling his name and never getting an answer. He saw Toby's devastated face, Claire's tears. He saw himself half-alive, broken, unable to hold a sword, let alone save anyone.
He opened his eyes again.
"I don't get any good options, do I?" he whispered.
Merlin's mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. "Heroes rarely do."
Silence settled again. The pre-dawn light had crept higher, painting the edges of the window in faint purple. The moon still lingered, pale and stubborn.
Jim walked to the window and rested his hand on the cool glass. The street outside was empty, the kind of stillness that only existed in those fragile hours before morning. Somewhere out there, Arcadia's people slept, unaware of trolls beneath their feet and sorcerers in their shadows.
"I wanted…" Jim began, then stopped. He hadn't said this out loud to anyone, not even Claire. "I wanted to grow up. Go to college, maybe. Be… normal. Stupid, right?"
"It is not stupid to want to live," Merlin said behind him.
Jim let out a shaky breath. "But if I walk away, if I don't do this, and something happens to them—" He broke off. The image of Toby crushed under some new monster's claw, of his mom screaming, of Claire swallowed by shadow—each one stabbed him in the gut.
"I've already lost too many people," he said, voice rough. "I can't… I couldn't stand losing them because I was too scared to try."
He turned around.
Merlin watched him with that same unblinking intensity, but there was something gentler there now. Whatever answer Jim gave, Merlin was listening.
"You said Witchers stood between people and monsters," Jim said. "That they were made to do it."
"Yes."
"And you're… pretty sure another storm is coming. Worse than Eternal Night."
"Yes," Merlin repeated. "I would not burden you with this if I were not."
Jim thought of the amulet choosing him, of the first time he'd picked up the sword with shaking hands. Every time he'd wanted to quit and hadn't. Maybe this was just… the next step. The next impossible thing.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He was scared—more scared than he'd ever been. But underneath the fear, something else had taken root. A kind of quiet, stubborn resolve.
"If I say yes," he said slowly, "it's not because you want it. Or because some old order of monster hunters used to do it. It's because… this is my world. My people. My friends. My… family." His voice steadied. "If there's a chance I can protect them from what's coming, even a small one… I have to take it."
Merlin's eyes closed for a brief moment, as if in relief or mourning; Jim couldn't tell which.
"James Lake Junior," he said quietly, "I swear to you on every power I still command: I will not abandon you in this. If you die, it will not be because I was careless. If you live, it will be because you are as stubborn as this cursed world itself."
Jim swallowed around the tightness in his throat. "You really know how to make a guy feel better."
"A talent," Merlin said dryly. Then his expression softened. "You do not have to decide this instant. Dawn is still some minutes away. I can—"
"No." Jim surprised himself with how firm the word sounded. "If I wait, I'll just talk myself in circles and freak out more. I know myself. I'll… start thinking of all the ways this could go wrong until I can't move at all."
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. His hands were shaking, but he didn't hide it.
"I'm scared," Jim said plainly. "I don't want to die. I don't want to end up… broken. But I'd be more scared living with myself if I walked away."
He lifted his head.
"So… do it. Whatever you have to do. I'll become a Witcher."
The words left his mouth and hung there, solid and irrevocable. There was a strange relief in hearing them aloud—as if the worst part was no longer the decision, but what came after.
Merlin studied him for a long heartbeat. Then, slowly, he bowed his head—not in mockery, but in something that felt dangerously close to respect.
"So be it," he murmured. "At the edge of night, the boy chooses the path of the hunter. The world may yet have a chance."
He straightened, and for an instant Jim saw not just the ancient sorcerer and manipulator, but a tired man who had watched too many cycles of fear and courage, of children walking willingly into the fire because no one else would.
"Rest for a moment," Merlin said. "There is still time to breathe before we begin. Once we start… There will be no pauses."
Jim nodded, though he knew there would be no real rest for him now. His fate had shifted again, the ground beneath his feet rearranging. He was no longer just Jim, or even just the Trollhunter. He was about to become something older, stranger, and far more alone.
And yet, as he looked past Merlin's shoulder at the paling sky, he felt that small, stubborn thread of hope wind tighter in his chest. The moon still hung there, but the light was coming. Maybe he could be something like that—caught between dark and dawn, a bridge no one remembered the world could have.
"Okay," he whispered, more to himself than to Merlin. "For them. For the good of all."
Merlin's hand settled briefly, unexpectedly, on his shoulder. The touch was light, almost hesitant, and gone too quickly.
"For them," Merlin echoed. "And for you, James. Do not forget that."
Jim wasn't sure he believed that part. But as the first true hint of sunrise crept into the room, he let himself stand there, shoulder tingling where Merlin's hand had been, and accepted—not happily, not bravely, but fully—that this was his choice.
His dawn.
His burden.
And he would carry it.