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The forest had been quiet all morning.
Merlin noticed that first.
Not the peaceful quiet of wind in leaves or distant birdsong, but the kind that felt… held. As though something had pressed a hand over the mouth of the world and told it to wait.
He slowed slightly along the narrow path, boots scuffing damp earth. A basket hung from his arm, half-filled with herbs. Nothing rare. Nothing dangerous.
Still.
Merlin frowned faintly.
“Subtle,” he muttered to the empty trees.
Magic prickled at the back of his neck.
Not wild magic. Not the living hum of the forest he had learned to recognize over the years. This felt wrong. Thin. Coiled.
Watching.
Merlin shifted the basket to his other arm, letting his free hand hang loosely at his side. The posture looked careless to anyone watching.
It wasn’t.
“Whoever you are,” he called mildly, “you should probably reconsider whatever terribly clever plan you’ve come up with.”
No answer.
Just the slow creak of branches above him.
Merlin sighed.
“Well, I did warn you.”
The first spell struck from behind.
A sharp crack of binding magic snapped around his wrists before he could fully turn. Gold flared in his eyes on instinct, magic rising like breath in his lungs, but the second spell slammed into his chest a heartbeat later.
Merlin staggered back a step.
Cold iron chains wrapped around his arms and dragged tight with unnatural force. The magic woven through them was old and vicious, biting into his skin with every movement.
“Ah,” Merlin breathed.
He straightened slowly, testing the pull of the restraints.
“Right,” he added under his breath. “One of those days.”
The warlock stepped from the shadows of the trees.
He was older than Merlin had expected, his robes worn thin at the hems but his gaze sharp with a kind of fevered triumph.
“Emrys,” the man said reverently.
Merlin stared at him.
“Oh, wonderful,” he said flatly. “You’re one of the talkative ones.”
The warlock smiled.
“You hide yourself well,” he said, circling slowly. “But the old prophecies are not so easily deceived.”
Merlin shifted his weight, watching him carefully.
“And yet,” Merlin said, “you still felt the need to ambush me in the woods.”
The man’s smile widened.
“Even legends deserve… assistance.”
Something moved in the warlock’s hand.
Merlin’s stomach dropped.
Not a spell.
A small glass vessel.
Inside it, something coiled.
Black.
Thin.
Alive.
“Oh,” Merlin said quietly.
The warlock crouched in front of him, eyes glittering.
“You will serve a far greater purpose than Camelot ever imagined,” he said softly. “When the great Emrys turns against the kingdom he protects…”
Merlin barely heard the rest.
His gaze had fixed on the thing writhing inside the glass.
A fomorroh.
Old magic.
Dark magic.
Control.
For the first time since the ambush, real tension slid down Merlin’s spine.
“That,” Merlin said slowly, “is deeply unpleasant.”
The warlock laughed.
“You will not remember it,” he said kindly. “Only the commands.”
Merlin’s hands tightened reflexively against the chains.
The iron bit deeper into his wrists.
He considered his options.
There were several.
Most of them involved leveling half the forest.
Unfortunately, the warlock was already moving.
The glass shattered against Merlin’s neck before he could twist away.
Cold.
Sharp.
Something small and slick slid beneath his skin.
Merlin gasped.
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt sideways.
The fomorroh burrowed deep, settling at the base of his throat like a living shard of ice.
Magic recoiled violently inside him.
The warlock stood, breath quick with excitement.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, that’s it.”
Merlin’s vision swam.
He felt the creature move.
Felt the wrongness of it spreading through his veins, probing, searching for the place where command would root itself.
The warlock lifted his hands.
“Now,” he said softly, “when you wake—”
Gold exploded through the forest.
The chains snapped.
Merlin moved before the man could finish the sentence.
He surged forward, magic breaking loose like a storm finally given sky. The warlock barely had time to gasp before Merlin’s hand closed around his throat and slammed him back against the nearest tree.
Bark cracked under the force.
The warlock clawed at Merlin’s wrist, choking.
Merlin’s eyes burned bright gold.
“You,” Merlin said hoarsely, “have made a truly catastrophic error.”
The warlock tried to speak.
Merlin didn’t give him the chance.
Magic struck once.
Hard.
The man’s body went limp in Merlin’s grasp.
For a moment, the forest held its breath.
Merlin released him slowly.
The warlock crumpled to the ground.
Silence followed.
Merlin stood very still.
Then the fomorroh moved again.
Pain lanced through the base of his neck, sharp and invasive. Merlin staggered back a step, gripping the tree beside him as the creature shifted beneath his skin.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
The thing inside him pulsed.
Searching.
Waiting.
For orders.
Merlin’s breath came fast now.
He read about this magic.
Fomorroh did not care who cast the spell.
Once placed, they obeyed commands.
Any command.
Merlin was not always careful when he was hurt.
Or angry.
Or afraid.
The warlock’s body lay motionless at his feet.
Which meant there was no one left to remove it.
Merlin’s pulse hammered in his ears.
“No,” he said aloud.
The creature twitched again.
A faint whisper brushed against the edges of his mind.
Waiting.
Merlin shoved it back with raw will.
But he could already feel the edges of control slipping.
He forced himself upright.
There was only one solution.
One being strong enough to hold him if the creature took hold.
Merlin lifted his head toward the open sky above the trees.
His voice rang out in the Old Tongue, bright with command.
“Kilgharrah!”
The forest shuddered with the force of it.
Merlin’s knees nearly buckled as the fomorroh writhed violently beneath his skin in response to the surge of Dragonlord magic.
He swallowed hard and forced the next words out before the thing could settle.
“When you come,” Merlin said, breath shaking, “you will bind me.”
The command rippled outward.
“Keep me unconscious.”
His hands were already shaking.
“Do not let anyone free me.”
The creature inside him twisted sharply, angry now, aware of the trap being set around it.
Merlin exhaled once, slow and steady.
“Not until it is gone.”
High above the clouds, something ancient stirred.
The answering roar rolled across the mountains.
Kilgharrah had heard him.
Merlin sagged slightly with relief.
“Good,” he murmured.
The fomorroh surged again, clawing toward control.
Merlin didn’t hesitate.
He lifted one trembling hand.
Gold flared.
And struck himself squarely in the chest.
Darkness took him before he hit the ground.
✧
The forest did not remain quiet for long.
At first it was only the wind shifting through the trees, low and restless. Then the air changed, warming, stirring with a pressure that made the branches bow and the leaves shiver.
Far above the canopy, vast wings cut through the sky.
Kilgharrah descended in a slow, powerful spiral, the shadow of him sweeping across the clearing like a passing storm. When he landed, the ground trembled beneath his weight, earth and stone protesting the return of something ancient.
For a moment he did not move.
His great golden eyes fixed immediately on the still figure lying among the broken branches.
“Dragonlord.”
The word rumbled through the clearing, deep enough to shake loose dust from the bark of the trees.
Merlin did not stir.
Kilgharrah lowered his head slowly.
The scent of magic lay thick in the air, sharp, burned, and wrong. The body of the warlock was crumpled near the roots of a fallen oak, life already fled. Dark magic clung faintly to the ground around him like the aftertaste of poison.
But Kilgharrah’s attention remained on Merlin.
The young warlock lay where he had fallen, one arm thrown loosely across the forest floor, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His face was pale, but calm in the deep pull of enchanted sleep.
Kilgharrah studied him in silence.
Then his gaze shifted slightly.
To Merlin’s neck.
Something small and dark moved beneath the skin at the base of the Dragonlord’s throat.
The dragon’s pupils narrowed to slits.
“Darkness coils within you,” Kilgharrah murmured, the sound vibrating through the clearing like distant thunder.
Merlin did not answer.
The command had been clear.
Kilgharrah understood commands.
With careful precision, the dragon lowered himself beside the unconscious warlock. One vast foreleg settled across Merlin’s waist, not crushing, but unyielding, a living barrier stronger than any iron chain.
His wing followed a moment later.
It draped partially over Merlin’s body, shielding him from sight, from weather, from interference. The membrane glowed faintly amber where sunlight filtered through it, casting the Dragonlord in warm shadow.
“None shall release you,” Kilgharrah said quietly.
His great head lowered until his snout hovered just above Merlin’s still form.
“You have spoken, and I obey.”
The forest slowly resumed its breath around them.
Leaves rustled. Somewhere deeper among the trees, a cautious bird tested the air with a tentative call.
But Kilgharrah remained utterly still.
Watching.
Waiting.
The dark thing beneath Merlin’s skin shifted once more.
Kilgharrah’s gaze sharpened.
“A clever prison,” the dragon rumbled softly.
An observation.
But the Dragonlord had not ordered the darkness removed.
Only contained.
And so Kilgharrah waited.
✧
Far above the forest canopy, another pair of wings cut through the sky.
They were smaller wings. Newer wings. Still learning the shape of the wind.
Aithusa flew with determined urgency, pale scales flashing in the sunlight as she beat steadily toward the distant towers of Camelot.
She had felt it.
The moment Merlin’s magic surged and vanished.
The pull between dragon and Dragonlord was not a thing easily ignored.
Below her, the land rolled past in a blur of winter fields and winding roads. The castle rose on the horizon soon enough, tall and steady against the pale sky.
Aithusa chirred sharply.
Then she dove.
The guards on the outer wall barely had time to shout before the young dragon swept over the battlements in a pale streak of wings.
“A dragon!”
“It’s the small one!”
“She’s back—”
Aithusa ignored them entirely.
She knew exactly where she was going.
The courtyard rushed up to meet her. Knights scattered instinctively as she landed with a clumsy scrape of claws against stone, wings flaring wide for balance.
Her head snapped left.
Then right.
Searching.
The scent she wanted was not here.
Aithusa chirred impatiently and launched herself again, beating her wings hard as she climbed toward the inner towers.
She passed open windows, startled servants, a knight who nearly dropped an entire basket of laundry.
Still wrong.
Still not the right place.
Then—
There.
A familiar scent drifted from the open training yard below.
Freya.
Arthur.
Aithusa banked sharply and dropped from the sky like a falling star.
She landed directly in the middle of the training yard.
Knights froze mid-spar.
Arthur turned instantly at the commotion, sword still in his hand.
Freya was already moving.
“Aithusa?” she said, surprised.
The dragon chirred loudly.
Not pleased.
Urgent.
She bounded toward them with quick, uneven steps, wings half-spread in agitation.
Arthur lowered his sword slowly.
Something in the dragon’s posture made his stomach tighten.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Aithusa reached Freya first.
She circled once, quick and restless, then darted toward Arthur and nudged hard against his side before leaping back again.
“Easy,” Arthur said automatically, though his voice had already sharpened.
Aithusa chirred again, louder.
Then she spread her wings fully.
And launched herself back into the sky.
Freya did not hesitate.
She turned to Arthur, eyes already dark with understanding.
“That’s not a visit.”
Arthur was already reaching for his cloak.
“No,” he said grimly.
High above them, Aithusa circled once.
Waiting.
“Lead the way,” Arthur said.
The dragon turned toward the distant forest.
And flew.
✧
The forest thickened as they rode.
Aithusa did not slow.
She flew ahead in restless loops, never straying far from their path but never settling either, as though the air itself made her uneasy. Every few moments she let out a sharp, impatient chirr, glancing back to ensure they were still following.
Freya urged her horse faster.
Arthur rode beside her, silent, focused, his posture balanced and controlled even at the hard pace. Neither of them wasted breath on speculation. The urgency in Aithusa’s flight had said enough.
Something was wrong.
They left the main road behind not long after, following the narrow forest trails Freya knew better than most. Branches scraped their cloaks as they pushed deeper into the trees.
Then the air changed.
Freya felt it first.
She pulled sharply on the reins, her horse snorting as it slowed beneath her.
Arthur halted a step later.
“What is it?” he asked.
Freya tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the woods.
“Magic,” she said quietly.
Not the bright, familiar hum of Merlin’s power.
Something heavier.
Older.
And threaded with something dark.
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
Aithusa circled once above them and then dropped sharply toward the trees ahead.
Freya didn’t wait.
She kicked her horse forward again, weaving between the trunks until the forest suddenly opened.
The clearing appeared all at once.
And with it, the dragon.
Kilgharrah filled the space like a mountain of living gold, his vast body coiled low against the forest floor. His wings were half-folded, one stretched outward in a protective arc that cast long shadows across the ground.
Freya’s horse shied violently.
Arthur swung down from the saddle before the animal had fully stopped moving.
“Easy,” he murmured to the frightened horses, though his eyes had already found the center of the clearing.
Merlin.
Freya’s breath caught.
He lay on the ground beneath the shelter of Kilgharrah’s wing, wrists bound above his head with thick rope that had been secured to the low branch of a nearby tree. His body hung just enough that the position would have been uncomfortable if he were awake.
But he wasn’t.
He was utterly still.
Freya was moving before Arthur could say a word.
“Merlin—”
Kilgharrah’s wing shifted.
Not violently.
Not aggressively.
But it moved just enough to cover Merlin more completely.
Freya stopped.
The dragon’s great head lowered slightly, golden eyes unblinking as they fixed on her.
“Lady Freya,” Kilgharrah rumbled.
His voice rolled through the clearing like distant thunder.
“I cannot let you unbind him.”
Freya stilled.
Understanding arrived slowly, heavily, like water filling her lungs.
“He commanded you,” she said quietly.
Kilgharrah’s gaze did not waver.
“Yes.”
Freya’s eyes closed for the briefest moment.
When she opened them again, she looked past the dragon’s wing, toward the still form beneath it.
“He is to be bound,” Kilgharrah continued, calm and absolute. “And unconscious.”
Freya did not move.
Arthur stepped up beside her, his gaze sharp and measuring as he took in the scene. Merlin suspended from the tree, the dragon guarding him, the dead man lying several yards away among the roots.
“He believes himself dangerous,” Arthur said.
Freya exhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
She turned away from Kilgharrah then and began scanning the clearing, her movements quick but controlled. The ground was torn where magic had struck. Broken branches littered the forest floor.
Arthur crouched beside the body of the warlock.
The man’s neck lay twisted at an unnatural angle. His robes were scorched in places, the lingering residue of powerful magic clinging faintly to the fabric.
Arthur studied the corpse for a moment before glancing toward Freya.
“Did he enchant him?”
Freya was already searching the ground near where Merlin lay, fragments of glass, dark stains in the earth, disturbed soil where something had struggled.
“No,” she said.
Arthur rose slowly.
“Enchantments die with the warlock,” Freya continued. “Merlin knows that.”
Her gaze lifted then.
Toward Merlin.
Something small moved beneath the skin at the base of his neck.
Freya froze.
Arthur followed her line of sight.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Freya’s voice dropped.
“This must be something older.”
Kilgharrah shifted slightly beside them, vast head lowering closer to the ground.
His gaze remained fixed on Merlin’s neck.
“It is,” the dragon said quietly.
“A dark magic.”
For a moment, no one moved.
The forest held its breath around them, the clearing thick with the residue of magic and the low, steady rumble of Kilgharrah’s breathing.
Freya stepped closer to Merlin.
Kilgharrah’s wing did not move this time, but his gaze followed her with careful attention.
Freya crouched just beyond the reach of the dragon’s foreclaw. From here she could see Merlin clearly beneath the amber shade of Kilgharrah’s wing. His head had fallen slightly forward with the pull of the ropes above his wrists, dark hair shadowing his face.
He looked… peaceful.
Which Freya knew, with a cold certainty, meant something was very wrong.
Her eyes drifted again to the base of his neck.
The thing beneath his skin moved.
A thin, dark ripple.
Freya’s stomach dropped.
“Arthur,” she said quietly.
He was already beside her.
He followed her gaze and saw it too. The subtle movement beneath Merlin’s skin, small but unmistakable.
Arthur’s expression hardened.
“What is it?” he asked.
Freya’s fingers curled slowly against her knee.
“Fomorroh.”
Arthur’s head snapped toward her.
“The creatures that enslave the will,” she continued grimly. “They burrow beneath the skin and obey spoken command.”
Arthur looked back at Merlin.
The ropes.
The unconsciousness.
The dragon guarding him.
“He knew,” Arthur said.
Freya nodded once.
“Yes.”
A strange mix of pride and dread tightened her chest.
“Merlin realized what had been done to him,” she said quietly. “And chose the only way to keep anyone safe.”
Arthur’s gaze flicked briefly to Kilgharrah.
The dragon had not moved.
“Bind him. Keep him unconscious. Do not let anyone free him.”
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That sounds exactly like something he would do.”
Freya rose.
The movement was quick now, purposeful.
She stepped closer to Merlin again, studying the small, dark movement beneath the skin at the base of his neck. The fomorroh shifted restlessly, as if aware of their attention.
Freya’s jaw tightened.
“We need to find the mother beast,” she said quietly.
Arthur frowned. “What do you mean?”
Freya gestured toward Merlin’s neck. “That is only the tether. The leash.” Her gaze swept the clearing, sharp and searching. “If we try to cut it out physically, it will regrow.”
Arthur absorbed that.
“We need to kill the mother beast,” he said slowly.
Kilgharrah’s great head shifted slightly.
“Yes,” the dragon rumbled.
“That is the only way.”
Arthur looked toward the dead warlock.
“He released it?”
“Most likely,” Freya said.
Arthur’s eyes returned to Merlin.
The ropes held him upright, his arms stretched above his head, dark hair falling over his brow. Beneath his skin, the small shape moved again.
Arthur’s jaw set.
“Then we find it.”
Freya turned to the dragon.
“Where?”
Kilgharrah’s eyes narrowed as he lifted his head, tasting the air.
“Dark magic leaves a trail,” he said slowly. “Even now it bleeds through the forest.”
His gaze moved eastward, toward the deeper woods where the trees grew older and the sunlight struggled to reach the ground.
Freya followed his line of sight. Her gaze sharpened.
Arthur did not hesitate.
“Stay with him,” Arthur said to Kilgharrah.
The dragon’s golden eyes flicked back toward Merlin.
“I was never leaving.”
Arthur nodded once.
Freya was already moving toward her horse.
“Aithusa!” she called sharply.
High above the clearing, pale wings shifted against the sky.
The young dragon dropped lower, circling once before landing lightly near the edge of the clearing.
Freya mounted in one smooth motion.
Arthur followed a heartbeat later.
Freya looked once more toward Merlin.
He had not moved.
Kilgharrah’s massive form shielded him almost entirely now, one vast wing curved protectively over his body.
For a moment, Freya’s composure faltered.
Arthur noticed.
“He knew what he was doing,” Arthur said quietly.
Freya nodded.
“Yes.”
Her voice was steady again when she looked back toward the forest.
“Let’s make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”
Arthur drew his sword as he turned his horse.
Steel flashed briefly in the thin sunlight.
“Lead the way.”
Aithusa launched into the air again.
Freya followed without hesitation, guiding her horse into the darker stretch of forest where Kilgharrah had pointed.
Arthur rode close beside her.
Behind them, the clearing fell quiet once more.
Kilgharrah remained beside his Dragonlord, vast and immovable.
Merlin hung motionless beneath the branch, the ropes holding him upright where he had bound himself.
The dragon’s wing shifted slightly as the wind moved through the trees.
High above Camelot, the sky remained clear.
But deep in the forest, something ancient and hungry stirred.
✧
Freya did not need long to find the trail.
The deeper forest swallowed the light quickly, branches knitting together overhead until the world dimmed to a cold green hush. The air felt different here, thicker, tainted with something sour and ancient.
Aithusa circled above them, restless.
Freya slowed her horse.
“There,” she said quietly.
Arthur followed her gaze.
At first he saw nothing.
Then the ground shifted.
The earth near the base of a twisted oak tree pulsed faintly, as if something beneath it breathed.
Freya slid from her saddle.
Arthur dismounted beside her, sword already in his hand.
Neither of them spoke.
Freya approached slowly, eyes fixed on the disturbed patch of soil.
The magic here was unmistakable.
Rotten.
Old.
“Mother beast,” she murmured.
Arthur stepped beside her.
“How big?”
Freya crouched, brushing loose dirt aside with careful fingers.
The soil broke apart easily.
Something inside the shallow pit moved.
Arthur saw it then.
The creature was small compared to what he had expected, no larger than a fox, perhaps, but it was wrong in ways that made the skin crawl. Its body was long and pale, its skin thin enough that something dark pulsed faintly beneath it. Its head lifted slowly, sightless mouth opening in a silent hiss.
Freya’s arrow flew, pinning the creature to the ground.
Arthur’s sword lowered slightly.
“That’s it?” Arthur asked.
Freya did not relax.
“It doesn’t need to be large,” she said quietly. “Only alive.”
The mother beast writhed weakly, its body coiling and uncoiling like a sickening reflection of the thing inside Merlin’s neck.
Arthur sheathed his sword. He grabbed an empty leather satchel from his saddle.
“Can you hold it?”
“Yes.”
Freya shrugged off her cloak and cast it over the creature, pinning it beneath the heavy fabric.
It thrashed harder.
Freya held it up slowly. She lowered it into the satchel carefully, grip firm and unwavering.
The satchel twitched the moment the beast touched the leather.
Arthur tied it shut immediately.
Inside, something slammed violently against the sides.
Arthur grimaced.
“That is profoundly unpleasant.”
Freya exhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
She rose, brushing dirt from her hands.
Aithusa landed nearby with a heavy flap of wings, head tilting curiously at the struggling satchel.
Freya mounted again.
Arthur swung back into his saddle.
Behind them, the forest seemed to breathe a small sigh of relief.
They did not waste time.
The ride to the clearing was faster.
Arthur kept one hand on the satchel tied to his saddle the entire way.
The thing inside never stopped moving.
✧
By the time they burst back into the clearing, Kilgharrah had not shifted an inch.
The dragon’s golden eyes lifted as they approached.
Kilgharrah shifted slightly, folding his wing back enough to reveal Merlin fully.
Freya slid from her horse.
Arthur followed. He held the satchel at arm’s length as the creature inside thrashed harder.
Kilgharrah’s gaze fixed on the bag instantly.
“What happens now?” Arthur asked.
Kilgharrah’s great head lowered toward Merlin.
The dragon studied the dark movement beneath Merlin’s skin.
“Now you cut out the creature.”
His ancient gaze shifted to the satchel.
“And I destroy it.”
Freya moved first.
She stepped quickly to Merlin’s side and reached for the knife at her belt, her eyes fixed on the small, dark movement beneath the skin at the base of his neck.
The thing inside him twitched again.
Freya’s jaw tightened.
Arthur crouched beside her.
Freya pressed her fingers lightly against Merlin’s neck, feeling for the exact place where the creature had settled beneath the skin.
It moved beneath her touch.
Freya inhaled slowly.
Then she lifted the knife.
Her hand trembled.
Just slightly.
Arthur noticed.
He didn’t comment.
He simply reached out and gently took the knife from her fingers.
Freya looked at him.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Arthur met her gaze steadily.
“You hold him,” he said quietly.
Freya hesitated only a second.
Then she nodded.
She shifted closer, one hand bracing Merlin’s shoulder while the other steadied his head, tilting it carefully to expose the side of his neck.
Arthur leaned in.
He had seen battlefield wounds worse than this. Men split open by blades, arrows buried in bone, worse things done by careless magic.
But this was Merlin.
And the small, unnatural ripple beneath the skin made his stomach turn.
Arthur released a slow breath.
“Tell me where.”
Freya pressed two fingers gently against Merlin’s neck.
“Here,” she said.
Arthur positioned the knife.
He felt Freya’s other hand shift, she held on to his knee tightly.
Steadying them both.
Arthur’s grip tightened around the dagger.
“Now,” Freya said.
Arthur cut.
The blade was sharp and precise. A thin line of blood welled immediately as the skin parted.
For half a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the fomorroh burst from the wound.
The creature writhed violently, a slick black coil no thicker than a finger, thrashing as it tried to burrow deeper again.
Freya moved instantly.
Her hand snapped forward.
The creature froze mid-motion, caught in her grip.
She simply grabbed the writhing thing and flung it to the ground.
It struck the dirt and twisted furiously.
Freya pressed her hand firmly against the wound at Merlin’s neck.
“He’s all right,” she said quickly.
Arthur rose.
The creature on the forest floor shrieked soundlessly, coiling and snapping at the air.
Kilgharrah’s eyes had narrowed to burning slits.
“The source,” the dragon rumbled.
Arthur stepped back.
Freya moved to the satchel and kicked it open.
The mother beast spilled onto the forest floor in a pale, writhing mass.
The smaller creature immediately twisted toward it, drawn like iron to a magnet.
Kilgharrah inhaled.
“Stand back.”
Arthur pulled Freya with him.
Dragonfire erupted a heartbeat later.
White-gold flame roared across the clearing, consuming both creatures instantly.
The shriek that followed was brief.
The fire faded.
Silence settled over the clearing once more.
Freya’s hand remained pressed against Merlin’s neck.
Her shoulders dropped in relief.
“It’s gone.”
Arthur looked down at Merlin.
Still unconscious.
Still breathing.
Still Merlin.
Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Behind them, Kilgharrah folded his wings.
“The darkness has been destroyed.”
Freya moved quickly now, cutting the ropes from the branch above.
Merlin’s body sagged the moment the tension vanished.
Arthur stepped forward automatically. He caught Merlin before he could hit the ground.
Freya watched the movement with quiet relief.
Arthur hoisted Merlin fully over his shoulder with practiced ease.
He was lighter than Arthur expected.
“Still unconscious?” Arthur asked.
Kilgharrah inclined his head.
“He sleeps beneath my command.”
Arthur nodded once.
Freya looked toward Kilgharrah.
“Can you release him?”
The dragon lowered his great head slightly.
“I can.”
The magic in the air shifted.
Merlin stirred faintly.
Arthur frowned immediately.
“Perhaps,” he said quickly, “not yet.”
Freya glanced at him.
“Let's let him rest,” Arthur adjusted his grip. “He can wake at home.”
Freya nodded, but her gaze lingered on Merlin's neck for a moment.
The scar was almost invisible now.
She glanced briefly toward Kilgharrah.
Dragon magic, she thought.
Freya retrieved the horses while Arthur adjusted Merlin’s weight again.
When she returned, Arthur carefully shifted Merlin down long enough to settle him across the saddle before mounting behind him to keep him upright.
Freya swung easily onto her own horse.
Kilgharrah watched them silently for a moment.
“He will wake soon,” the great dragon said.
Arthur tightened his grip slightly on Merlin’s shoulder.
“Yes,” he said.
Then he glanced toward Freya.
“Let’s make sure he wakes up somewhere safe.”
Freya nodded.
Together, they turned the horses toward Camelot.
High above the clearing, Aithusa launched into the air again, circling once.
Behind them, the great dragon rose slowly from the forest floor.
His wings unfurled with a thunderous rush of air.
Camelot waited.
✧
Merlin woke slowly.
Not with the sharp jolt of danger or the disorienting pull of magic gone wrong, but with the dull, heavy awareness of a body that had been forced too far and was only now remembering how to exist again.
The first thing he noticed was the quiet.
Not the forest quiet he had fallen asleep to. No wind through branches, no distant animal calls, no dragon wings cutting through the sky.
This quiet smelled faintly of lavender and crushed herbs.
The infirmary.
Merlin’s lashes lifted with effort.
The ceiling above him was familiar, pale stone crossed with wooden beams he had stared at countless times from the opposite side of the bed while tending patients. Now the perspective felt strange.
His throat ached.
His neck burned faintly where the creature had burrowed beneath his skin.
Memory returned all at once.
The warlock.
The fomorroh.
The command that had barely made it from his lips before darkness had swallowed him.
Merlin inhaled sharply and pushed himself upright.
“Careful.”
Freya’s voice came quickly from beside him.
A hand settled gently against his shoulder, steadying him before he could move too fast. Merlin turned toward her, blinking as the room swam slightly.
Freya sat on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, though the tension in her posture betrayed how long she had likely been sitting there.
Relief softened her expression the moment their eyes met.
“You’re awake,” she said quietly.
Merlin’s gaze moved past her.
Arthur stood near the window, arms folded across his chest in a posture that was meant to look casual and failed entirely. The king’s expression was controlled, but Merlin could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Merlin's eyes flashed gold on instinct, hand hovering over to his chest.
Freya grabbed his wrist.
“The creature is gone,” she said softly.
Merlin stilled.
“Gone?”
Arthur pushed away from the window.
“Very gone,” he said. “Kilgharrah burned it to ash.”
Merlin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
His shoulders sagged slightly as the last of the tension drained from him.
“Good,” he murmured.
“You look terrible,” Arthur said.
Merlin huffed a faint laugh.
“That’s reassuring.”
For a moment the room was quiet again.
Then Merlin tilted his head slightly.
Something tugged gently at the edge of his awareness.
A presence.
Familiar.
Ancient.
His gaze drifted toward the window.
Beyond the stone walls of Camelot, high above the city where the clouds stretched pale across the afternoon sky, two shapes moved.
Kilgharrah’s vast golden form circled slowly above the distant towers, wings beating with steady, unhurried power.
Beside him, smaller but no less vigilant, Aithusa wheeled through the air like a pale star.
Guarding.
Watching.
Merlin felt the quiet pulse of their presence the way a heartbeat echoed through bone.
Aithusa’s mind brushed his briefly, bright with relief.
Kilgharrah’s awareness was deeper, steadier.
The Dragonlord lives.
Merlin’s lips curved faintly.
Arthur noticed the shift in his expression.
“What?” the king asked.
Merlin glanced back at them.
“They’re still here,” he said.
Freya followed his gaze toward the window.
“The dragons?”
Merlin nodded once.
“Circling Camelot.”
Arthur blinked.
“Of course they are,” he muttered. It sounded fonder than he intended.
Freya’s mouth twitched slightly.
Merlin leaned back against the pillows again, the last of the exhaustion settling heavily into his bones.
Freya watched him carefully.
“You scared us,” she said quietly.
Merlin met her eyes.
“I know.”
Arthur crossed his arms again.
“Well,” he said, voice deliberately gruff, “next time you decide to chain yourself to a tree in the middle of the forest, you might consider leaving slightly clearer instructions.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
“You found me.”
“Yes,” Arthur said dryly. “Thanks entirely to Aithusa’s insistence, Kilgharrah’s obedience, and the fact that you apparently expect us to solve whatever mess you leave behind.”
Merlin smiled faintly.
“I had faith.”
Arthur stared at him for a long moment.
Then he shook his head.
“Incredible,” he muttered.
Freya’s hand slipped gently into Merlin’s.
For a moment none of them spoke.
Outside, far above Camelot, two dragons continued to circle the sky.