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The bells of Camelot tolled in long, sonorous notes that rolled across the city, a sound meant to carry both triumph and solemnity. They announced not a victory in battle, though that too was common enough in the reign of King Arthur Pendragon, but a royal marriage.

The citizens poured into the streets in celebration. Merchants threw bright scraps of cloth from their stalls, children darted between legs carrying wooden swords, and musicians clutched at their pipes, adding shrill melodies to the noise. For most, the wedding between Camelot’s King and the Prince of Drakonia was more spectacle than union—a political knot tied between kingdoms that had eyed one another warily across their shared northern border for generations.

The man at the centre of this spectacle, King Arthur Pendragon, sat astride his destrier, towering above the crowd as he approached the cathedral. He was twenty-eight years old, and though his golden hair gleamed bright in the sunlight, there was no softness in him. His jaw bore the shadow of stubble, the kind that never seemed to vanish even after a shave, as though his body refused to let him appear anything less than the battle-worn conqueror he was.

The people whispered as he passed—some in awe, some in fear. Arthur Pendragon was not a king of poetry or pageantry. He was Camelot’s iron-clad hammer, a warrior king whose victories had been bought in blood. They said no man alive commanded more loyalty from his soldiers, nor more terror from his enemies.

And yet, not a single whisper spoke of him as a lover.

Inside the cathedral, beneath stained-glass windows depicting saints and warriors, the Prince of Drakonia waited. Merlin Emrys stood with his back very straight, though his fingers twisted nervously around the edge of his sleeve. He had been raised in the gentle but proud court of Drakonia, far from the harsh military traditions of Camelot, but his mother, Queen Hunith, had taught him dignity above all things.

Merlin’s beauty was of the kind that drew the eye in quiet awe rather than blazing fire. His hair was dark and soft, his skin pale, his features fine. But it was his eyes—blue as deep water, startling against his pale face—that marked him as different. There was cleverness in those eyes, a spark that even the most carefully schooled expression could not dim.

He had been told, since childhood, that the royals often made sacrifices for their kingdoms. His was to marry the King of Camelot. Yet Merlin had not despaired. He had heard the stories: Arthur was brave, handsome, a man who inspired loyalty even from rough soldiers. Surely such a king, however stern, might find it in himself to show kindness to his consort. Perhaps not love, not immediately, but at least companionship. At least respect.

When the heavy doors opened and Arthur entered, Merlin’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so. Broad shoulders filled his ceremonial cloak, his bearing straight and proud. His face, sharp with stubble and shadowed by years of command, might have frightened others, but Merlin found himself almost dazzled. This was the man his mother had spoken of with careful hope. This was the man he was to marry for life.

Arthur did not look at him.

The ceremony proceeded with rigid efficiency. Vows were spoken, rings exchanged, blessings intoned. Arthur’s voice was deep and steady, the voice of a man who had commanded battlefields, but there was no warmth in it. When it came time for the kiss that would seal their union before court and clergy, Arthur pressed his lips briefly to Merlin’s, cold and perfunctory, and turned away before Merlin could so much as breathe him in.

The crowd cheered.

Merlin’s heart sank.

That night, the Consort’s Palace had been lit with hundreds of candles, the great bed strewn with silks and flowers. Merlin had bathed, had perfumed his skin, had waited with his heart hammering in both dread and hope.

The hours passed.

No footsteps came down the marble corridor. No hand pushed open the carved doors.

When dawn began to pale the curtains, Merlin still lay on the bed, untouched, his body curled around itself as though trying to hold together the pieces of his breaking heart. He had not wept—not aloud. His dignity would not allow it. But his pillow bore the quiet salt of his tears.

Arthur Pendragon did not come.

He was with Lady Sophia, the court knew. A beautiful lady of noble birth, who had long been his mistress. It was whispered that she had been seen in the King’s chambers even on the eve of his wedding. Some servants dared say she had laughed at the very notion of being replaced by a foreign prince.

Merlin, on the first night of his marriage, slept alone. And in the palace across the courtyard, the King lay in the arms of another.

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The Consort’s Palace lay on the eastern side of City of Camelot’s sprawling castle complex, separated from the main royal residence by two courtyards and an arching bridge of stone. Once, long ago, it had been designed for the wives and husbands of kings, a place of beauty and quiet dignity. Its gardens bloomed with white roses, and its high walls had been carved with scenes of love and fidelity.

But to Merlin, who was led there on the morning after his wedding, the palace felt less like a gift and more like a gilded cage.

The steward who conducted him spoke with stiff formality, pointing out chambers and corridors as though listing items for an inventory. Merlin followed silently, his hands folded in front of him, his face calm despite the ache in his chest. He had long since learned how to wear a mask.

When the doors closed behind the steward, Merlin stood alone in the cavernous rooms that were now his domain. The walls glimmered with gold leaf, the furniture rich and heavy, the silks and carpets costly. And yet it all seemed unbearably cold.

He discovered soon enough that the servants of the Consort’s Palace were wary of him. Most performed their duties with clipped politeness, bowing low but avoiding his gaze. They had seen where the King had chosen to spend his wedding night, and in Camelot Capital, servants always took their cue from the throne. If Arthur Pendragon had turned his back on his foreign consort, who were they to offer warmth?

Only a handful defied the unspoken order.

There was Gwen, the maid with warm eyes and a ready smile, who slipped him tea when he had not eaten, who fussed gently with his hair before formal appearances. Tom, the gardener, who whispered jokes as he showed Merlin the secret corners of the rose gardens. A young page, Will, brash and loyal, who would have defended Merlin with a wooden sword had it come to that. And old Mary, the cook, who treated him as if he were her own son, sliding sweets into his hand and clucking over his thin frame.

They saw the kindness in him, and in return, he cherished them. Within weeks, these few became not only his servants but his family, his protectors in a palace that seemed determined to keep him isolated.

But the rest of Camelot was not so gentle.

Merlin was expected to attend court on certain days, to stand beside Arthur as petitions were heard or foreign envoys received. He went dutifully, head held high, robes immaculate, though Arthur never spared him a word.

The nobles noticed.

They were bold, emboldened by the King’s indifference. They whispered and snickered behind their hands, making cruel jokes just loud enough to be heard. Some called him “the ghost prince,” others muttered about Drakonian softness. Once, at a feast, a lord leaned across the table and asked Merlin if his King had grown weary of him already, or if he had never touched him at all.

Merlin had met the man’s gaze, steady and unflinching, and replied, “It is not in my nature to discuss what does not concern you, my lord.”

The hall had laughed, some cruelly, some admiringly. Arthur had not looked at him at all.

Others were worse. Confident that the King cared nothing for his consort, some nobles grew daring, allowing their flirtations to show openly. They would compliment Merlin’s beauty, press too close as they offered wine, linger when they bowed. Merlin endured each with a coolness that belied the humiliation burning beneath his skin. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter. He would not dishonour himself, no matter how lonely the nights became.

Arthur’s only words to him came in the form of parchment. Written in a careful but impersonal hand, the missives arrived when form demanded his presence. ‘Attend the Harvest Festival.’ ‘Be present at the spring equinox rites.’ ‘Escort the Queen of Caerleon during her visit.’ Nothing more. No warmth. No questions. No husband.

Merlin answered each with obedience. He dressed himself in splendour, he smiled with gentle grace, he performed the role expected of him. And when he returned to the Consort’s Palace, he stripped away the finery and lay in his bed, staring at the carved canopy overhead until tears blurred his vision.

He never wept where anyone could see. Not even Gwen, who guessed more than she let on, nor Will, whose temper burned hot on his behalf. Merlin’s dignity was all he had left, and he guarded it fiercely.

But the walls of his chamber heard him. The pillows grew damp with salt night after night. His body curled tight against itself as though, if he only held still enough, the ache in his chest might ease.

Still, each morning he rose. He washed his face, he straightened his spine, and he wore his crown of gentle kindness with unflinching grace. To the world, Consort Merlin Emrys was composed, serene, and untouchable.

Only the night knew the truth—that Camelot’s Consort cried himself quietly to sleep, wishing for the husband who never came.

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The King’s court, for all its grandeur, was a nest of whispers. Beyond the bright banners and polished marble lay intrigue woven as finely as any tapestry, threads of envy, lust, and ambition binding noble to noble in secret knots. And at the center of it all now stood Lady Sophia.

The daughter of a minor Lord with striking beauty. She had a presence that drew every eye when she glided into the council chamber, her golden hair shining beneath torchlight, her dark eyes full of languid calculation. Her voice was like velvet, soft and low, but dangerous in its sweetness. Many a nobleman had underestimated her, only to find himself entangled in her web of insinuations.

Arthur did not underestimate her—he trusted her.

Sophia had been his companion long before Camelot demanded a queen. She knew when to soothe his temper, when to sharpen his suspicions, when to flatter him into believing that his instincts were infallible. To the outside world she was merely his mistress, but within the gilded walls of the royal chambers, she wielded influence enough to sway the very course of governance.

It was Sophia who, in the quiet hours of the evening, leaned against Arthur’s shoulder, tracing idle patterns on his arm, and whispered poison.

“The Drakonian boy plays the victim well,” she murmured one night, lips ghosting along his jaw as he nursed a goblet of wine. “So delicate, so doe-eyed, everyone wants to protect him. But tell me, Arthur… would Drakonia have given their treasured prince so easily if not for a purpose?”

Arthur frowned, staring into the fire. “It was an alliance. His mother begged for peace.”

“Peace,” Sophia echoed, as though tasting the word. Then she let out a low laugh, sultry and knowing. “No, my king. Royals are never sent without reason. A marriage alliance is a weapon, as sharp as any blade. Drakonia placed their son in your bed to sway you. To soften you. To undo you from within.”

Arthur’s hand tightened around the goblet. His consort’s face rose unbidden in his mind—the fragile curve of his neck as he bowed at the altar, the quiet way he endured the stares of the court, the fleeting hope that had glimmered in his wide blue eyes before fading into despair. He had looked so young. Too young.

Arthur forced the image away. “He has shown no signs of cunning. He does not even speak unless spoken to.”

“And is that not the cleverest disguise of all?” Sophia purred, settling herself on his lap. “The harmless, silent consort who earns sympathy and loyalty from all around him… all while slipping deeper into your court, one servant, one knight at a time.” She tilted her head, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “If you are not careful, Arthur, you will wake one morning to find the boy has stolen what you fought to build.”

Arthur said nothing. But he did not push her away.

---

The court fed on Sophia’s whispers as eagerly as Arthur did. Already filled with men who saw their king’s marriage as an inconvenience, they found fresh sport in his silence. Merlin’s very presence was treated as folly: the foreign prince, the pretty consort no one respected.

At the morning assemblies, nobles traded barbs thinly veiled as courtesies.

“My lord consort looks weary,” sneered Lord Barney during one session, his lips curling in a cruel smile. “Perhaps Camelot’s demands are too heavy for one so delicate?”

Merlin bowed his head, his pale hands folded tightly to hide their tremble. He said nothing. His dignity was all he had left, and he clung to it like a drowning man clings to driftwood.

Another day, Lord Osric dared more. He leaned close during a feast, his wine-soured breath hot against Merlin’s ear. “If the king does not warm your bed, sweet prince, I would happily do so in his stead.”

Merlin’s cheeks flamed, though he did not flinch, did not even turn his face. He stared at his untouched goblet, the muscles in his jaw clenched until they ached. To react would be to dishonour himself, to confirm their every sneer. So he endured in silence, as always.

Across the hall, Arthur laughed at something Sophia whispered, oblivious—or unwilling—to see.

---

The knights saw.

Sir Leon, steady as an oak, watched Merlin walk from the Great Hall each day with a silence that cut sharper than swords. Sir Elyan muttered curses under his breath every time some lord dared to mock the consort within earshot. Sir Percival’s fists curled at his sides, aching to strike. Sir Gwaine, reckless and loud, once threw a goblet across the hall in fury when Osric’s words grew too lewd.

But worst was Lancelot. Loyal, honourable Lancelot, who could not bear injustice when it stared him in the face.

“Your Majesty,” he said one evening after hearing the petitions, when the Great Hall had emptied of all save the king, Sophia, and the knights. “This cannot continue. Your consort is humiliated daily. He is your husband, your chosen, whether you will it or not. He deserves your defence.”

Sophia’s smile was soft, poisonous. “How very gallant of you, Sir Lancelot. But do you not think it suspicious that you feel so… drawn to the boy?”

Arthur’s gaze hardened. “Enough.”

“But sire—” Leon began.

“Enough,” Arthur barked, standing so swiftly his chair scraped against stone. “This matter is closed. You are my knights, not my counsellors.”

Lancelot’s jaw tightened. Gwaine cursed under his breath. But they bowed, because they had no choice.

Sophia’s hand curled around Arthur’s arm, possessive and triumphant.

And Merlin, alone in his chambers that night, pressed his face into his pillow and wept quietly, unheard by anyone but the loyal servants who dared linger by his door.

He was further isolated than ever.

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Three years passed in the Consort’s Palace, three long years in which Merlin learned to mask loneliness with composure. He became a shadow, a quiet ornament wheeled out when ceremonies demanded his presence, only to retreat again to the cold isolation of his chambers. Arthur never came. Arthur never looked at him. When notes came from the King’s hand, they were penned by clerks in stiff script, requesting the Consort’s appearance for a festival, a seasonal rite, or the signing of decrees that required both their names. Merlin fulfilled them all with the grace drilled into him since birth, but once dismissed, he was forgotten again.

Meanwhile, Camelot itself grew restless under Arthur’s rule. Though he proved himself on the battlefield, his victories bred neither security nor peace. The realm seemed stretched thin—its people taxed, its borders raided, and its nobility fracturing into factions. Beyond Camelot’s borders, the Saxon clans grew stronger. No longer were they mere scattered bands; whispers carried that they had united, forging pacts and armies vast enough to threaten even Camelot’s proud walls.

Arthur, however, trusted his council.

The very men who sat at his table night after night, flattering his judgment and swearing loyalty, were already bought and sold by foreign coin. Some whispered promises of titles under Saxon rule; others simply lined their coffers with bribes, caring little for Camelot’s fate. And always, at Arthur’s side, there lingered Lady Sophia.

She leaned in close at councils, her words honeyed with false concern. She had perfected the art of seeming indispensable—her voice a constant murmur in Arthur’s ear, her hand brushing his sleeve, her eyes cast toward Merlin only to sneer in disdain. To Arthur she whispered that the Consort was frail, unfit, disloyal; to the nobles she spread that Merlin was plotting to undermine the throne.

The King, wearied by battles and deluded by trust in his circle, listened.

Merlin, from his cold palace, saw nothing of it. He only noticed that each year, Arthur grew more distant, and his own role shrank further to irrelevance. The only news that reached him was through his handful of loyal servants or the knights who still cared for him—Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, and above all Lancelot. They, too, found themselves increasingly pushed from the inner court. Their counsel was dismissed, their loyalty questioned, their presence no longer welcome.

Thus, when the Saxons finally struck, the kingdom was wholly unprepared.

They came not in scattered raids, but in a wave. Coordinated armies landed upon many of Camelot’s borders, burning villages, cutting through garrisons, and advancing with terrifying speed. Smoke rose in the south, then in the east; reports arrived too late, for the invaders moved swifter than Arthur’s council claimed possible.

And on the eve of Camelot’s greatest need—Sophia vanished.

One morning she was there in Arthur’s chambers, soothing him with false promises of strength and comfort; by nightfall, she was gone, fleeing the citadel under cover of darkness. Her absence was not long a mystery. Messengers soon returned with word that she had been sighted riding openly with the Saxon war-leaders, laughing at Arthur’s name, calling herself ally to their cause.

The betrayal struck Arthur like thunder.

Arthur raged, demanding answers, but none came. The council that had urged him to dismiss warnings now proved complicit, their hesitation and poor counsel revealed for what it was—treachery bought in silver. Nobles who had pledged loyalty melted away when battle approached, retreating to their estates or bending knee to the invaders.

Within weeks, Arthur saw the edifice of his reign crack. His victories in the field counted for nothing, for rot had hollowed the foundation of his rule. His mistress had fled, his council betrayed him, and Camelot itself trembled under the Saxon advance.

The King who once seemed unshakable now stood betrayed and dangerously alone.

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The Saxons came to the capital city of Camelot like thunder.

The sky itself seemed to shake when the first battering rams struck against Camelot’s gates. Towers crumbled under the relentless hail of fire and stone, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of smoke, the cries of the wounded, and the deafening roar of horns. Panic spread through the city like a plague. Families fled into the streets, clutching whatever meagre possessions they could carry, while soldiers scrambled to hold their posts.

The Consort’s Palace, though smaller than the royal keep, was one of the Saxons’ first targets. Its delicate columns and painted halls made for easy fire, and its association with Arthur’s consort marked it as a symbol of Pendragon pride to be defiled. By dusk, fire arrows had already lodged themselves into the rooftops, smoke curling in dark tendrils across the night sky.

Merlin stood in the great vestibule as chaos erupted around him. His small household of loyal servants—the handful who had dared stay by his side when the rest of Camelot turned its back—were frantic.

“Please, my lord, you must come with us!” Will, the young page who had grown fiercely protective of Merlin, clutched at his sleeve. “The palace will not hold. The Saxons will burn it to the ground. You cannot stay.”

Behind him, Mary, the palace cook who had always treated Merlin with maternal kindness, wrung her hands, her eyes red from smoke and tears. “Consort, listen to reason. The tunnels are still open—for now. We must flee while we have the chance.”

Merlin’s heart ached at their desperation, but his decision had been made long before the first cry of invasion echoed through the city. He smiled softly, though his eyes betrayed sorrow. “Go. All of you. Take the back passages and keep to the river. If anyone can escape this, it’s you.”

“But what about you?” Gwen’s voice cracked.

Merlin shook his head. “My place is here. With him.”

The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of three years of neglect, scorn, and silent endurance. Arthur might never have looked at him as anything but an inconvenience, a duty bound in marriage, yet he was still Merlin’s king. And more than that—though Merlin would never admit it aloud—he was the man Merlin’s heart stubbornly refused to abandon.

Gwen opened his mouth to protest further, but Merlin pressed a hand to her cheek, firm yet tender. “No more arguments. If you love me, then live. That is the only way you can honour me now.”

One by one, the servants bowed their heads, reluctant tears streaking soot-stained faces. They fled into the shadows of the tunnels, leaving Merlin alone in the hollowed palace, the crackling fire outside throwing ghostly shapes against the walls.

---

Meanwhile, Arthur Pendragon ran.

The once-proud king of Camelot, heir of late King Uther’s iron rule, was reduced to stumbling through narrow tunnels beneath the keep, the sound of battle fading behind him. His council had scattered like rats at the first sign of danger, their oaths of loyalty abandoned for promises of Saxon gold. Sophia—his mistress, his whispered confidante—had vanished without a trace, her betrayal so complete that her absence was almost louder than the roar of war above.

Arthur’s chest burned with shame and fury. His kingdom was crumbling, his people slaughtered, and he—Arthur Pendragon—was fleeing like a coward.

And then he saw him.

At the crossroads of the tunnels, a figure waited in the half-dark, lantern held steady despite the tremors in the earth above. Cloaked in simple robes, face pale but resolute, stood Merlin.

“Y–you,” Arthur stammered, breathless from smoke and exhaustion. For a moment, he thought his mind had conjured the sight, a fevered ghost of guilt. “Why in God’s name are you here? You should have fled.”

Merlin lifted the lantern higher, revealing steady blue eyes that burned with quiet defiance. “Because you hadn’t.”

Arthur froze, struck silent. Of all the answers he had expected—the bitterness of a consort long scorned, the plea of a man desperate to save his own skin—this calm, unwavering loyalty was not one of them.

“There’s no time to argue,” Merlin continued, stepping closer. “Follow me. I’ve memorised these tunnels. They lead beyond the lower fields—if we’re quick, we can reach the woods before the Saxons find us.”

Arthur blinked. “You memorised them?”

Merlin gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “Someone had to. You never know when the people might need a way out. Or when a king might.”

Despite the gravity of the moment, Arthur felt a flush of shame creep up his neck. He, who had ruled with arrogance and pride, had left his consort to cold isolation—yet here was Merlin, guiding him through the dark, prepared and unshaken, when everyone else had betrayed him.

---

The tunnels shook as debris rained down from above, and more than once Arthur stumbled, only to find Merlin’s hand grasping his arm, steadying him. When Saxon scouts discovered the lower passage, Merlin was the one who devised distractions—a trail of spilled oil set alight, a broken cart shoved into the narrow way—to delay pursuit. His mind was quick, sharp, utterly focused.

“Left here,” Merlin commanded once, pulling Arthur into a narrower passage.

Arthur obeyed without hesitation. He had led armies, commanded knights, and worn the crown of Camelot with iron will—but now, for the first time in his reign, he found himself trusting his life completely in someone else.

At one turn, a Saxon soldier burst into the passage, sword raised. Arthur drew his blade instinctively, but the fight was clumsy in the confined space. Before the man could strike, Merlin seized a length of broken timber from the ground and swung with surprising force, knocking the soldier back into the shadows.

Arthur stared, chest heaving. “You… you saved me.”

Merlin smirked faintly, though his eyes were tired. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

They moved again, the bond between them shifting with every step. Side by side, they fought their way through darkness and fire, and Arthur found himself relying not on the council who had flattered him, nor the mistress who had whispered poison in his ear, but on the consort he had dismissed for years.

When at last they burst from the tunnels into the cool night air of the woods, the distant glow of Camelot in flames behind them, Arthur turned to Merlin—sweat-soaked, bruised, yet unyielding.

For the first time, Arthur looked at him not as a burden, but as the reason he still drew breath.

✤✥✤✥✤

The night was endless.

Arthur and Merlin stumbled through the wild northern lands, the pale glow of the moon spilling over jagged rocks and the restless rustling of pines. Their horses had fallen behind hours ago, stolen or slain in the flight from Camelot. Only their feet carried them now, bleeding and bruised, pressing northward with the desperate hope of crossing the border into Drakonia—where safety could still be found.

Neither spoke. Arthur’s breath came ragged, every step weighted by the ruin he had left behind. Camelot—the jewel of Albion, his father’s legacy, his own blood and years of struggle—had fallen to smoke and flame. And yet, as he glanced sideways, he saw Merlin: his consort, once dismissed, once scorned, running with him still. Torn cloak, dirt smudging his face, eyes burning with the same determination that had carried them through the tunnels.

Arthur’s throat tightened. ‘Why did you stay?’ he wanted to demand. Why had Merlin not fled with the others, the way any sane man would?

The distant sound of horns split the silence. The Saxons were hunting them.

Merlin slowed, listening, his hand brushing the rockface as though measuring their chances. “We’re close,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. “If we keep west, the river will guide us to the border.”

Arthur nodded, forcing his legs forward, each muscle screaming. They scrambled down a narrow ravine, half-sliding on loose shale, until the moon revealed the shimmer of water in the valley below.

But the horns grew nearer. Shouts echoed, the harsh guttural cries of Saxon tongues, and the pounding of boots struck the earth behind them.

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Faster—”

Then the whistle of an arrow sliced through the air.

Arthur turned in time to see it—a cruel black-fletched shaft cutting straight toward him.

But Merlin moved first.

There was a sickening thud as the arrow buried itself deep in Merlin's chest. His breath caught, his body jerked, and the world slowed into silence.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice broke like glass. He lunged forward, catching Merlin as he crumpled, the weight of him folding into Arthur’s arms. Blood spread across Merlin’s tunic, dark and merciless, seeping between Arthur’s fingers as he pressed desperately to stop it.

Merlin coughed, red staining his lips, yet still his eyes lifted—bright, unyielding, burning through the haze of pain.

“Arthur…” His voice was faint, but resolute. “Run. You have to live.”

“No!” Arthur shook his head violently, pulling him closer, his cheek pressed to Merlin’s hair. “I will not leave you. Not now, not ever.”

Merlin’s trembling hand brushed Arthur’s jaw, his palm cool against the king’s fevered skin. He tried to smile, though the blood would not let him.

“Live, Arthur… don’t waste it…”

His eyes dimmed even as he spoke, lashes fluttering as though the weight of the world pulled them closed. His hand slipped from Arthur’s face, falling limp.

Something inside Arthur shattered beyond repair.

The sound of the Saxons drew closer, the clash of steel, the trampling of boots. But Arthur heard nothing—only the fading echo of Merlin’s voice, the last words that had torn through his soul.

Hot tears blurred his sight as he gathered Merlin’s lifeless body into his arms, clutching him as though by sheer will he could keep the soul inside. His sobs were raw, unrestrained, breaking him open like a child.

“No, Merlin… please—wake up, please—” He rocked him, kissed his hair, begged a god he no longer believed in.

The horns blared again. The Saxons were upon them.

Arthur rose slowly, cradling Merlin against his chest. He staggered to the edge of the cliff where the river roared below, white with fury, a chasm of water and stone. Behind him, torches flared.

The choice was no choice at all.

With tears streaking his dirtied face, Arthur pressed one last kiss to Merlin’s temple, whispering through his tears, “If you go, I go. Always.”

And without hesitation, he leapt.

The world turned into a rush of wind and darkness as they plunged into the waters below. Cold swallowed them, merciless and unending, until everything was silent.

✤✥✤✥✤

Arthur awoke with a violent start. His body lurched upright, lungs dragging in air like a man who had been drowning for days. Sweat clung to his skin, his pulse hammering against his ribs as though trying to break free. The echo of Merlin’s bloodied whisper still rang in his ears—“Live, Arthur… don’t waste it…”—so sharp, so real, that Arthur half expected to find his husband's body still cradled in his arms.

But there was no blood. No cold river dragging him down into suffocating blackness. Instead, the dim golden light of early dawn bled through the heavy curtains of his chamber. His sheets were tangled, his nightclothes soaked with sweat, and—

Arthur’s stomach twisted. Sophia lay beside him.

Her soft curls spilled over his pillow, her arm draped across his waist in a claim he had once welcomed, and now it made bile rise in his throat. The scent of her cloyed at him, familiar but unbearable. It stank of betrayal, of chains, of the blind ignorance that had cost him everything.

For a long moment, he sat frozen, staring at her sleeping face, disoriented. His mind rebelled, overlapping reality with the memory of Merlin collapsing into his arms—Merlin’s weight, Merlin’s blood staining his hands, Merlin’s fragile chest rising and falling raggedly until it simply… stopped.

He pressed a trembling hand to his face, dragging it down until his palm covered his mouth. What cruel torment was this? A dream conjured by grief? Or madness at last?

Arthur’s breath came shallow, harsh. He had felt death. His own, and Merlin’s. He had leapt with his husband’s body pressed to his chest, refusing to let go, choosing the river’s oblivion rather than a world without him. The Saxons had bellowed behind him, but it hadn’t mattered. Nothing had.

Yet now—

He looked around his chamber, heart thundering. Every detail was exactly as it had been years ago. His armour stood gleaming where he had left it after patrol. A half-burnt candle on the nightstand. The familiar woven rug by the bed.

Slowly, disbelief cracked. Memory—clear, terrifying memory—shifted into recognition. He knew this room, not as the place he had left yesterday, but as it had been a few years past.

Arthur’s breath caught. He pushed Sophia’s arm from his waist, ignoring her sleepy murmur, and stumbled from the bed. He dragged open the carved wardrobe doors, half wild, half desperate, searching. His eyes locked on the calendar etched in neat hand on the inside of the doorframe. The date leapt at him, undeniable.

It was two years earlier.

Not before his marriage—but one year after. One year after he had bound Merlin to him as consort. One year into what should have been a life of devotion and care. And instead, what had he done? He had chosen another’s bed. He had broken his husband’s spirit. He had blinded himself to betrayal, letting poison seep into the very foundations of his kingdom.

Arthur swayed where he stood, every muscle taut, every vein filled with fire. The weight of his past life pressed on him—not as mist, not as dream, but sharp as a blade. The laughter of Saxons. The hollow clatter of Merlin’s last breath. His own scream tearing from his chest as he leapt into the abyss.

It had been real. Too real.

And now—he was back.

Arthur fell to his knees on the cold stone floor, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. He tilted his head upward, eyes burning.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Goddess, thank you…”

Whether it was mercy, magic, or madness, he did not care. He had been given a gift—a second chance. He would not squander it.

Tears blurred his vision, but determination carved itself into every fibre of him. Never again. Never again would he leave Merlin unguarded, uncherished. Never again would he waste the precious devotion of the man who had chosen him above all else.

Arthur pressed his palm flat over his heart, swearing aloud into the silence of his chamber:

“By the blood I carry, by the crown I bear, I will not repeat my sins. Merlin—my husband, my heart—I will not fail you again.”

The words trembled with fury, with grief, with a love so fierce it threatened to consume him.

A second chance had been granted. The wheel of fate turned once more.

 And Arthur Pendragon would not waste it.

✤✥✤✥✤

The morning sun broke across Camelot’s towers, gilding stone with soft gold, but the light did little to soothe Arthur’s restless spirit. His heart was steady, purposeful, yet beneath the surface a storm brewed. He had lived this before—every misstep, every humiliation Merlin endured, every smirk Sophia wore as she tightened her hold on Camelot’s court. But this time Arthur was not the man who had faltered. This time, he had awoken.

He dressed with quiet precision, sliding into his tunic and cloak as though donning armour. His sword belt buckled into place not just as a weapon, but as a promise. Today, Sophia would stumble.

Court was crowded that morning. Nobles gathered in silks and furs, murmuring to one another as Arthur entered. The scrape of chairs, the hush that fell—he felt their eyes, their curiosity, their constant hunger for spectacle. Sophia swept into the hall moments later, her gown a waterfall of emerald velvet, her hair gleaming in the torchlight. She placed herself by his side with a practiced air, bold as ever, the queen in all but title.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. For too long he had let her play the role Merlin had been too gentle to contest. For too long he had hidden behind excuses. Not anymore.

It was Sir Leon who provided the opening. Standing with his ever-straight shoulders and unshakable loyalty, he remarked—innocent, respectful—on the successful training of the young knights. Sophia’s lip curled.

“Successful?” she said sharply, voice cutting through the hall. “They look like stumbling boys on a battlefield. Perhaps, Sir Leon, you think too highly of your own work.”

Gasps whispered among the courtiers. No one insulted Leon—certainly not openly, and certainly not the king’s mistress. Arthur’s hand stilled on the arm of his throne. This was the moment.

He leaned forward, his voice carrying with chilling clarity. “You will not speak to my knights that way.”

Sophia blinked. She turned, smile faltering. “Arthur—”

“Sir Leon has served this kingdom with honour longer than you have dwelt within its walls. He deserves respect.” Arthur’s tone was iron. “If you cannot offer it, then you would do well to hold your tongue.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. Sir Leon’s eyes flickered in shock, though quickly masked with a soldier’s composure. Sophia’s cheeks flushed crimson, the haughty words dying on her tongue. She bowed her head, retreating with no more than a brittle nod.

Arthur sat straighter, his pulse steady. One blow struck.

---

The next encounter came swifter than expected.

Later that day, in the council chamber heavy with parchment and wax, Sophia entered with her usual sway of hips, expecting her seat by Arthur’s side. She leaned close, lips curving with saccharine promise, as though the scolding in court had never been.

Arthur didn’t look at her. His gaze remained on the map spread before him. “Your contribution here is not required, Sophia.”

Her brows knit. “Arthur—”

“You may leave.” His words were final, sharp as the steel he carried.

A muscle twitched in her jaw. She lingered a heartbeat too long, as though testing whether he would relent, then turned on her heel, silks hissing like a snake across the stone floor.

Arthur exhaled slowly, eyes on the parchment, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Merlin. Always Merlin. He knew the reason Merlin no longer stood beside him, why he kept himself away from court. The sneers, the gossip, the way Sophia had flaunted her influence—Merlin had borne it quietly until his dignity was worn threadbare. And Arthur had allowed it.

Never again.

---

That evening, visiting nobles from Nemeth were welcomed into the grand hall: Lord Cerdan and Lady Alina, gracious in their bearing, their kindness unfeigned. They bowed deeply to Arthur, exchanging words of goodwill.

Arthur’s heart faltered at the empty space to his left. Merlin should have been there, standing tall as consort, his quiet strength radiating in the hall. Instead, Arthur’s fingers tightened on the throne, an ache twisting in his chest.

Sophia glided forward, her voice honeyed.

“My lady,” she said brightly, “you must join me for tea this evening. I would be honoured to host you in the royal chambers.”

Arthur’s head snapped toward her. The hall stilled. She had overstepped—and purposefully. Such an invitation was the privilege of the king’s consort. By speaking it, Sophia had declared herself equal to Merlin before the entire court.

Arthur’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“No.”

Sophia froze.

“I have a consort.” Arthur’s gaze was level, unyielding. “My husband will see to it.”

The silence was crushing. Whispers erupted, nobles leaning close to murmur behind raised hands. Lady Alina’s eyes widened, then softened with sympathy. Lord Cerdan cleared his throat and inclined his head, as though to smooth the tension.

Sophia’s lips parted, her complexion pale as chalk. She bowed stiffly, her pride cracking, and swept from the hall, the train of her gown dragging like defeat behind her.

Arthur did not move. His heart hammered, but he did not waver. The second blow had been struck.

---

That night, as moonlight cast silver across the floor of Arthur’s chambers, Sophia came again. No longer bold, she tried anger first.

“How dare you humiliate me before the court, Arthur?” she spat, eyes flashing. “If this is how you see me, then perhaps I should leave Camelot altogether!”

Arthur rose from his chair, meeting her gaze with unflinching calm.

“Then leave.”

Her mouth fell open. She had expected coaxing, perhaps apologies, perhaps promises of renewed affection. Not this.

“You—what?”

“I do not love you, Sophia. I never truly did. And I will not live another day tangled in lies. You are free to go.”

She laughed nervously, a brittle sound, and softened her tone, letting her hand trail across his arm. “Arthur, darling, you don’t mean that. You’re only angry. Tomorrow you’ll see—”

His voice was flint.

“Leave my chambers.”

Her hand dropped. Silence pressed between them, heavy and suffocating. For the first time, she had no retort. No weapon left to wield.

And so it was that Sophia, mistress of Camelot's king, was cast from the royal chambers that very night. Servants watched with wide eyes as her belongings were carried out, whispers darting like fire through the corridors. By dawn, she was gone—disgraced, humiliated, retreating to the hollow shell of her house in town.

Within days, the news spread further: Sophia had fled Camelot altogether, abandoning the gilded halls. Nobody knew where she went, except Arthur.

Nobles whispered behind closed doors, speculating, gossiping. Yet Arthur did not falter. He had made his choice, and the path to redemption stretched clear before him. Sophia’s hold was broken.

And though Merlin’s seat remained empty beside his throne, Arthur knew the first step was taken.

The first stone of the wall between them had been torn down.

✤✥✤✥✤

The Consort’s Palace was quiet that morning, its white marble halls gleaming with sunlight. The gentle rhythm of the fountains in the inner courtyards filled the silence, while the servants moved with quiet efficiency under their Consort’s gentle and watchful eye. It was a household of dignity and calm, carefully curated by Merlin himself—his private domain, far from the main palace and the heavy shadow of the King who had never crossed its threshold.

So when the thunder of hooves echoed in the courtyard and the King of Camelot himself strode through its arched gates without warning, the stillness shattered like glass.

Merlin was in the solar when the herald announced Arthur’s arrival. At first, he thought he had misheard. In their first year of marriage, Arthur had never once set foot in the residence reserved for his consort. The King always sent his messages by scribe or steward, never through his own lips.

Merlin rose slowly, spine straightening as the doors opened.

Arthur Pendragon entered, every inch the monarch in crimson and gold, though his face was curiously pale, his jaw tight as if every step had been a battle. His gaze landed on Merlin—on the consort who stood waiting for him, serene in posture though his heart raced in his chest—and for one long breath, neither of them spoke.

Merlin inclined his head with courtly grace. “My lord husband.”

Arthur’s throat tightened at the title, at the careful restraint laced into Merlin’s voice. He had come prepared, had rehearsed a dozen openings, but all fled the moment he saw him. The memory of that past life—Merlin pale and lifeless in his arms—rose like a spectre, threatening to choke him.

“I came to speak with you,” Arthur managed at last. His tone was too blunt, too abrupt, but it was all he could do not to falter.

Merlin gestured to the seat opposite his. “You could have sent word, sire.” His words were polite, smooth, yet edged with quiet bewilderment. Arthur had dismissed him so many times before; what was different now?

Arthur ignored the sting in Merlin’s gaze, forcing himself forward. “It concerns Lady Alina of Nemeth. She arrived last evening as an honoured guest, and I would have her hosted under your patronage—as my consort.”

Merlin blinked, startled. Of course, he could do it. It was his duty. Yet the request carried an intimacy that unsettled him—Arthur acknowledging his role so openly, assigning him a task that required his presence in the Main Palace.

“As you command,” Merlin said softly. His hands folded in his lap, fingers steady though a storm churned beneath. “I will see to Lady Alina’s comfort. Though again, a missive would have sufficed.”

Arthur nearly flinched. How could he explain that he needed to see him? That he could not bear the silence of parchment between them any longer? Instead, he pressed on, voice low.

“There is more. I would have you return to the great hall—to sit in attendance at court. It is your rightful place.”

Merlin’s composure slipped for the briefest instant. In their one year of marriage, Arthur had scarcely acknowledged his presence in public, relegating him to quiet invisibility. To suddenly summon him forth… Merlin could not make sense of it.

“If that is your will, my lord,” Merlin said at last, his voice even though his chest ached with unspoken questions.

Arthur wanted to reach across the polished table, to take Merlin’s hand, to beg forgiveness for every cruelty, every neglect. But the words caught in his throat. He feared that if he moved too quickly, Merlin would retreat behind walls Arthur could never breach again.

So he swallowed his apology, forcing himself to patience. Step by step, he vowed silently. Slowly, carefully. I will not drive him from me again.

Merlin’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before he lowered his eyes. His servants stood along the walls, watchful as hawks, protective of their consort. Arthur felt their silent judgment but accepted it. He had earned their mistrust.

Still, he had come. And when he left that palace, the memory of Merlin’s calm, wounded dignity seared into him, Arthur swore once more that this time, nothing—not pride, not fear—would keep him from reclaiming what he had nearly lost.

✤✥✤✥✤

The first day Merlin stepped once more into the Great Hall as Consort, silence fell upon the court as though the air itself had been struck still. He carried himself with his usual quiet grace, every movement deliberate, his robes cut from deep blue silk edged with white embroidery that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. He looked every inch the King’s consort, but also a man walking willingly into a den of wolves.

The last time Merlin had stood there, the nobles had torn into him with venomous words. Arthur had allowed it—no, encouraged it. The memory had lingered like a poison in Merlin’s bones. Now, as the carved wooden doors creaked open and he moved forward, heads bowed just enough to show courtesy, though he could feel their whispers prickling behind their lowered gazes.

Arthur’s expression was unreadable when he saw Merlin enter, though something in the set of his shoulders eased, as if the weight he carried had shifted just slightly. He rose from his throne, voice ringing out in the hall.

“My husband joins us once more,” Arthur said, not grandly but firmly, the weight of a proclamation beneath the simple words. “And his counsel is mine. You would do well to hear him as you would hear me.”

That small defence, unlooked for and utterly public, sent ripples across the Great Hall. Several of the older lords visibly stiffened, their lips curling as though they had bitten something sour. Yet none dared voice dissent.

Merlin, however, kept his eyes lowered, inclining his head only slightly toward Arthur before taking his place beside the throne. His heart was an unsettled thing in his chest. He could not make sense of what had changed in Arthur—what had made him step into the Consort’s palace, or now shield him openly. It was bewildering. Dangerous, even.

And yet… somewhere deep inside, something warmed.

---

Court business resumed, disputes brought forward as they always were. A merchant accused a minor noble of withholding grain, and Merlin expected Arthur to dismiss it as beneath his station. Instead, Arthur turned deliberately to him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice steady. “What do you make of this?”

All eyes fell upon the Consort.

Merlin blinked, startled, but rose with a composed air. His words were measured, practical. He pointed out that the noble in question had been granted rights to a granary that had not been properly inspected, and suggested that a joint steward, chosen by both merchant and noble, oversee its division until fairness was assured.

The hall was silent. Then, slowly, a few heads nodded. It was not flashy, but it was just. Reasonable. The noble bowed stiffly, agreeing, while the merchant looked almost dumbfounded at being heard so plainly.

Arthur hid his smile poorly.

And so it went for several petitions. Each time, Arthur leaned toward Merlin, inviting him—encouraging him—to speak. And each time Merlin untangled snarls of arrogance and pride with startling simplicity. By the end of the day, even those who despised him looked at him differently, if only because the King himself had shown so much faith in his Consort’s wisdom.

---

That night, Arthur called for his knights to a private meeting. They were waiting for him in the smaller council chamber. Sir Leon was the first to speak, his face stern.

“My lord,” he said, “I cannot help but remark… this day was unlike the courts I have witnessed these past years.”

Arthur gave a humourless laugh. “That is because I have been a fool these past years.”

The knights exchanged startled glances. Gwaine leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. “A rare admission, Sire.”

Arthur’s gaze swept across them—Leon, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival, and even Gwaine, who often pretended not to care but always remained near. “I dismissed you once. Your counsel, your loyalty, your friendship. I listened instead to men who fed their pockets with corruption and their bellies with wine. That ends today.”

The Knights were cautious. Years of being shoved aside did not fade easily. Yet Arthur pressed on. He began stripping his council of parasites one by one, each removal masked by a cunning excuse.

Lord Ulric, notorious for his bribes, was suddenly named ‘indispensable’ for managing the King’s new granaries—in the farthest reaches of the kingdom.

Lady Halwyn, who whispered venom against Merlin, was graciously granted leave to “recover her health” at her estate—escorted by knights to ensure she remained there.

And Lord Brandor, infamous for lining his coffers with peasant taxes, was caught in a staged “clerical error” that conveniently proved his misdeeds, forcing him to retire in disgrace.

Each move was clever, deliberate. The knights began to see the outline of Arthur’s mind again—the mind of the King they had sworn to follow.

“You truly mean to mend this, Sire?” Lancelot asked one evening, low-voiced.

Arthur’s eyes flicked briefly toward the window, where he could almost glimpse the distant spires of the Consort’s palace. “I do,” he said. “For the kingdom. For…” He faltered, the word nearly escaping him. “For what I cast aside.”

---

Days stretched into weeks, and the court began to change. The snarling noblemen who once delighted in belittling the Consort now thought twice before sharpening their claws. Merlin’s measured judgements won favour not only among peasants who brought petitions but also among lords who found his clarity disarming.

“He has a sharp mind,” Elyan murmured once to Arthur as they left the hall.

Arthur smirked, pride warm and sharp. “He has the sharpest.”

What Arthur did not say—what he could not say—was how his chest swelled every time Merlin’s voice rang in the hall, calm and sure. How he wanted the world to see what he had glimpsed long ago but had been too proud, too blind, to cherish.

For now, he would take slow steps. For now, he would let Merlin shine, and silently stand guard against the shadows that threatened him.

Arthur’s knights noticed. Merlin’s servants noticed. And the kingdom, slowly, began to notice too.

✤✥✤✥✤

The council chamber had always been Arthur’s battleground—though the swords wielded here were words, and the victories more dangerous than any won with steel. This morning, however, a subtle tremor of anticipation buzzed through the vaulted room as the councillors gathered at the great table, parchment and wax seals ready, quills sharpened. Whispers ran along the benches, trailing up to the carved beams like smoke.

Because today, the King had invited someone unexpected.

The King’s Consort, Merlin Emrys.

The double doors creaked open, and Arthur strode in with his customary brisk confidence, crown gleaming, cloak trailing, boots clicking against the tiled floor. His knights followed to stand at the periphery—Leon, Percival, Elyan, Lancelot, and Gwaine—silent sentinels who had learned to trust their King again. But behind Arthur, at a respectful distance, came the slender figure of his consort.

Merlin’s robes were modest yet elegant, tailored not for ostentation but for ease, the deep blue fabric setting off the pale curve of his throat. His step was steady, though his eyes—clear, deep blue, and wary—betrayed his reluctance. He had been summoned, not volunteered.

A ripple of mutters surged through the chamber.

“Your Majesty, the Consort—?” stammered Lord Bertram, a hawk-faced man of long service to the crown.

Arthur stopped at the head of the table and levelled a gaze as sharp as any drawn blade. “Yes,” he said coolly. “The Consort. Is there some problem?”

The murmurs faltered. Lord Cerdic of Wye, who had been whispering to his neighbour, cleared his throat. “Sire, we only wonder if—if it is wise. Matters of state require loyalty beyond question. The Consort is… a foreigner. And though a royal, his roots are not in Camelot’s soil.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his temper flaring. He cast his eyes across the long line of peers—men who once had seemed pillars, yet whose judgement had nearly let Camelot rot from within. He had seen where blind trust in their counsel had led him. Never again.

“Loyalty?” Arthur said, his voice rising. “Merlin’s loyalty is beyond question. He has already proved himself, time and again, in ways that most of you cannot even begin to fathom. He has more courage in him than many of you have shown in years of service.”

A silence thickened in the chamber. Some of the older nobles bristled, affronted; others lowered their eyes, chastened.

Arthur’s lips curled into something dangerously close to a smile. “And as for wisdom—Merlin is cleverer than most of my advisers combined. You would do well to listen to him.”

He gestured to the empty seat at his right hand, a position of honour none had ever expected to see offered. “Sit, Merlin.”

Merlin hesitated. His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment Arthur thought he might refuse outright. But slowly—reluctantly—Merlin obeyed, lowering himself into the chair. His posture was rigid, hands clasped together on the polished oak table.

The council began. Petitions of trade, disputes between fiefdoms, the ever-present rumblings at the northern borders. At first, Merlin said little, eyes flicking between parchment and peers, listening intently but giving no sign of engagement. His very stillness was unsettling to the councillors, many of whom expected him to falter.

Then came the first thorny matter: two lords quarrelling over river tolls that neither parchment nor precedent could neatly resolve. Voices rose, accusations of dishonour hurled like daggers across the table.

Arthur let them bicker for a time, then, deliberately, he turned to Merlin. “Well? What do you think?”

Merlin blinked, startled. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

The chamber hushed. Every eye fixed on him.

Merlin swallowed, and his voice, though soft, carried. “If the toll is doubled as Lord Balric demands, the peasants on both banks will be the first to suffer. Starvation, not coin, will follow. And if the toll is abolished altogether, as Lord Fenwick insists, the bridge repairs will be neglected, and trade will falter. Both extremes invite ruin.” He paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “A modest toll, earmarked specifically for bridge maintenance, and exempting grain merchants, would prevent famine while keeping the structure safe. The people thrive, the bridge remains strong, and both lords’ coffers will fill more slowly—but steadily.”

A silence followed. Then Lord Balric, a barrel of a man, grunted. “It… would work.”

Lord Fenwick scowled but gave a stiff nod.

Arthur allowed himself a private thrill of satisfaction, watching how quickly even the most sceptical were forced to recognise Merlin’s acuity. He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching upward. “You see? Practical. Fair. Exactly as I said.”

Merlin, cheeks faintly pink, dropped his gaze.

As the days passed, Merlin became an increasingly familiar presence at the council table. Each morning he told Arthur he would rather not—“I’m not one of them, my Lord, they look at me like I’m a wolf among sheep”—but duty kept him returning. And each day, another dispute fell before his insight: a land border quibble solved by rotation of shared grazing rights, a brewing rebellion in the east cooled by granting certain villages the right to elect their reeves. Even the oldest lords, grudgingly at first, began to murmur their assent.

Arthur glowed with pride, though he masked it behind regal composure. To him, Merlin’s brilliance had been obvious. Now, at last, the world was forced to see it too.

When the sessions ended, Arthur did something that baffled the entire council. He rose, dismissed the assembly, and then—without hesitation—walked Merlin back to the Consort’s palace himself.

At first, Merlin tried to wave him off. “My Lord, you’ve got better things to do than play escort.”

Arthur only shrugged, unbothered. “I enjoy the walk.”

“People are staring,” Merlin murmured one evening, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Good,” Arthur said with infuriating calm. “Let them stare then.”

And so the routine became habit. Each evening, across the marble corridors and torchlit courtyards, Camelot’s King walked beside his consort—not as master and subject, but shoulder to shoulder, as though daring the world to question it.

Merlin’s suspicions lingered, a cloud shadowing his wary blue eyes. He could not fathom the reason behind Arthur’s stubborn courtesy. Yet Arthur, thick-skinned as ever, offered no explanation. He simply matched Merlin’s stride, silent, steady, and unyielding in his quiet devotion.

✤✥✤✥✤

Arthur had never been known for patience. In battle, he demanded swift action. In council, he brooked no delay. Yet when it came to Merlin—his consort, his enigma, his reluctant ally—the king discovered within himself a rare capacity to wait.

He did not push, nor command, nor demand what Merlin was not yet willing to give. Instead, Arthur turned to smaller gestures, quiet offerings meant to bridge the vast gulf between them.

At first, Merlin regarded every attempt with suspicion, his wary eyes narrowing as though Arthur were presenting him with a weapon cleverly disguised as a gift. But Arthur only smiled, unbothered, and tried again.

The first was a picnic, arranged on the western lawns of the palace. Arthur sent away the servants and insisted they pack the basket themselves, though his own contribution amounted to little more than stubbornly slicing bread and looking smug about it. Merlin, baffled, stood stiffly under the summer sun as Arthur stretched out lazily on the grass.

“This is hardly kingly,” Merlin muttered, eyeing the blanket as if it were some trap.

“Exactly,” Arthur replied, taking a bite of cheese. “Which is why it’s perfect.”

It took half the afternoon, but Merlin eventually sat, and by the time the shadows lengthened across the lawns, he was eating and laughing quietly at one of Arthur’s self-deprecating jests.

Then came the long walks. Arthur had always preferred his horse, but he found himself strolling the palace gardens on foot, slowing his stride so that Merlin could keep pace. They spoke of inconsequential things—the roses blooming late, the clumsy antics of the court hounds—and though Merlin’s answers were often curt, Arthur treasured each word.

On rainier evenings, Arthur coaxed Merlin into the game of chess. The first time Merlin accepted, Arthur assumed victory would be swift. Yet within six moves, his consort had him cornered.

“You’re holding back, Merlin.” Arthur accused, frowning at the board.

Merlin’s mouth quirked, shy. “Maybe you’re not as clever as you think, Sire.”

Arthur laughed, long and loud, and demanded a rematch.

Some nights, they read together by the fire. Merlin, absorbed in scrolls of history or medicine, seemed to forget his distrust when the lamplight softened Arthur’s features. Arthur would pretend to study his own book but found his gaze drifting instead to the curve of Merlin’s jaw, the delicate concentration furrowing his brow.

On other evenings, Arthur led Merlin to the ramparts, where the stars stretched endless over Camelot. Wrapped in silence, they watched the heavens turn. Arthur named constellations his nurse had once taught him, while Merlin told old folk tales of Drakonia, weaving myth and magic into the night.

Always, Arthur kept his distance. He never reached, never pressed closer than Merlin allowed. The king who could break armies with a word chose, instead, to wait for a single smile, a fleeting softening in Merlin’s guarded eyes.

It did not go unnoticed.

The knights, seasoned in battle and loyalty, had long been attuned to their king’s moods. They soon discovered a simple truth: Arthur was most agreeable when Merlin was near. If a man wished for an extra hour away from drills, or a rare evening at the tavern, the surest way was to present the request when Arthur and Merlin walked together through the training grounds.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Elyan once began, cautiously. “We’ve been drilling without pause these last two weeks—”

Arthur opened his mouth to refuse, but Merlin’s quiet voice interjected: “Even the strongest steel requires tempering. You’ll wear them down.”

Arthur glanced at him, lips twitching, then turned back to his men. “Very well. One night. Don’t squander it.”

The knights exchanged victorious grins the moment Arthur’s back was turned. From then on, whenever a favour was sought, they waited until their king’s consort was present, knowing his influence softened even the sternest decrees.

But it was not mere convenience that shaped their regard for Merlin. In time, they began to watch over him with the same fierce loyalty they afforded Arthur. Sir Leon escorted him across crowded courtyards. Gwaine, with uncharacteristic restraint, refrained from his bawdier jests in Merlin’s presence. Even Percival, who rarely spoke, seemed to position himself near Merlin whenever danger might conceivably arise.

At first, Merlin bristled under such attentions, suspicious that it was only Arthur’s command that had made them tolerate him. But when he stumbled one afternoon on uneven stones and Gwaine caught his arm with a laugh—“Careful there, my Lord, wouldn’t want the king to murder me for letting you fall”—Merlin saw only genuine fondness in his eyes.

They did not protect him because Arthur demanded it. They did so because they recognised the truth: Merlin was changing their king. And in so doing, he was shaping the kingdom itself.

Arthur, watching it unfold, could not have been prouder.

✤✥✤✥✤

The air in Camelot carried the fragrance of late summer blossoms, heavy with warmth yet touched by a faint coolness that whispered of autumn to come. Within the Main Palace, preparations were discreetly underway. Servants moved quietly, arranging fresh garlands in the corridors and polishing the silver that would grace the table that evening. It was no public feast, no grand parade of luxury for foreign envoys or nobles to gawk at—this day was private, marked only between the King and his Consort.

The second anniversary of their union.

Arthur stood before the great mirror in his chamber, his reflection staring back at him with eyes that were almost unrecognisable to himself. A year had passed since his rebirth, since the cruel shroud of pride and blind arrogance had lifted, and yet… the weight of the first year still hung on him. The memory of his words, sharp as blades; his neglect, deliberate and cold; the looks of quiet hurt that Merlin had tried to conceal. Arthur had been many things—soldier, prince, now king—but never had he been more ashamed of anything than of how he had treated his consort.

He had waited for this day, deliberately. Not the first anniversary, when the wounds were still raw and his sincerity might have been doubted. But now, with a year of effort behind him—small kindnesses, the offering of partnership, the patience of steady friendship—he had earned the chance, perhaps, to speak the words that had burned on his tongue for months.

When Merlin entered the chamber, he came in silence, his long robes whispering against the marble. He looked surprised to see Arthur standing without crown or cloak, dressed simply, almost humbly. His dark hair fell untamed as always, and the cautious way his gaze lingered on Arthur betrayed the fragility that still clung to him.

“My Lord?” Merlin asked softly. “Why are the halls decorated? There was no announcement.”

“No announcement,” Arthur confirmed. He took a breath. “Because this day is not for them. It is for you. For us.”

Merlin’s lips pressed together, as though he could not quite bring himself to smile. He folded his hands before him, waiting.

Arthur crossed the room slowly, his heart beating as though he were heading into battle. When he stood before Merlin, he lowered his head—not as a king, but as a man humbled.

“Two years ago today,” Arthur began, his voice quiet but steady, “I made vows to you. Vows to honour, to protect, to cherish. And I broke every one of them from the very first day. I made our union into a prison when it should have been a bond.” His throat tightened. “I wronged you, Merlin. Cruelly. Willfully. I gave you reason to hate me, and yet you endured.”

Merlin’s breath caught, though he said nothing.

Arthur pressed on, his words raw. “This past year, I have tried—tried to mend what I shattered. But I know effort cannot erase the pain I caused. And so, I offer no excuses, no demands for forgiveness. Only this: my most sincere apology. From my heart. From the man who wronged you to the man who has every right never to trust me again.”

Silence filled the chamber, heavy and fragile. Merlin’s fingers trembled where they gripped the folds of his robe. His blue eyes glistened, though no tear spilled. He inhaled shakily, then exhaled, steadying himself.

“I had thought,” Merlin said slowly, “that I would never hear those words from you. Not truly. You’ve spoken apologies before, Arthur, but… they were armour. Polished phrases meant to silence, not to heal. But this—” his voice wavered, and he forced it firm again “—this feels different. Real.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “It is real.”

Merlin lowered his gaze for a long moment. When he raised it again, there was a sheen of unshed tears, but also a fragile strength.

“I forgive you,” he said at last, softly but firmly. “But you must understand—the cracks remain. Trust does not mend as swiftly as words. It will take time.”

Arthur’s chest ached with both relief and regret. He inclined his head, bowing once more. “Then I will give time, as long as it takes. I will never again treat your trust as a thing to be squandered.”

Merlin did not embrace him, nor step closer, nor let those tears fall. But he stood a little taller, and in his gaze there was a flicker—a spark that might one day burn brighter.

Arthur, for his part, held the silence, his heart tight with the love he dared not speak aloud. It was there, consuming him, unrelenting, a fire that he kept carefully banked for Merlin’s sake. He longed to confess it, to let the truth spill forth. But he feared that naming it too soon might crush the fragile bridge they were building. So he swallowed it down, let it burn quietly in his chest, and instead offered Merlin only the gentleness of his eyes.

The second anniversary passed not in feasts or in laughter, but in truth—and that, Arthur knew, was worth more than gold or wine.

✤✥✤✥✤

Spring returned to Camelot with shy blossoms along the castle’s stone walls and the song of larks spiralling into the air above the training grounds. It was a season of renewal, and though Arthur never admitted it aloud, he felt as if the rhythm of the world itself was conspiring to soften the distance that still lingered between himself and Merlin.

They spent more time together now—small, ordinary things that might not have seemed worth notice to others, yet meant everything to Arthur. Sometimes it was a hunt, where Arthur would pretend not to see Merlin’s dismay at the thought of killing for sport and instead let him chatter about the trees, the changing wind, or the herbs that grew in the underbrush. Other times it was a late-night conversation in the library of the Consort’s Palace, a candle guttering low between them, their voices pitched in that intimate hush reserved for confessions that could only be made in darkness.

Merlin would speak of Drakonia, of days playing with newborn pups and listening to his mother sing by the hearth. Arthur, in turn, told him carefully chosen stories of his boyhood—ones that showed him not as a king or warrior, but as a boy trying to outrun the shadow of his father’s expectations. It startled Arthur how easily laughter could spill between them in those moments. He found himself reaching for it again and again, like a man thirsting for water.

One evening, they lingered in the solar after supper. A lute lay abandoned on the table, left behind by one of the court musicians. Merlin, curious, plucked at the strings. The sound was uneven, half-laughable, but Arthur found himself smiling as though Merlin had struck the sweetest note.

“You’re hopeless,” Arthur teased.

Merlin’s grin was crooked, self-mocking. “Hopeless but enthusiastic. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“It counts for far too much,” Arthur said before he could stop himself, his voice low with a warmth that made Merlin look at him sharply. For a heartbeat, Arthur thought he might finally say the words pressing on his tongue—I love you, I love you, I love you—but the fear of ruining what fragile trust Merlin had given him knotted the words in his throat.

So instead, Arthur swallowed them down and reached across the table to take the lute from Merlin’s hands. His fingers brushed over Merlin’s, lingering longer than was necessary, and Merlin did not pull away.

On another day, they walked the castle ramparts together. The evening was painted in shades of gold, the setting sun gilding Merlin’s dark hair so that Arthur thought he looked touched by some secret divinity. They spoke of poetry—Merlin had always loved the old ballads sung in taverns, while Arthur confessed he had once tried, and failed, to write verse in his youth.

“You?” Merlin had laughed, eyes bright. “Arthur Pendragon, poet? I should like to see that.”

Arthur had almost answered, You inspire it in me now. But once again, the words remained locked in his chest. Instead, he only gave a wry smile and said, “Perhaps I’ll prove it one day.”

That night, Arthur lay awake on his bed. His heart ached with all he wished he could say—how Merlin’s presence filled the emptiness he had once mistaken for strength, how his laughter was the only sound that ever made Arthur believe in redemption. He longed to press a kiss to Merlin’s temple and whisper that he loved him more fiercely than he had thought possible.

But when Merlin looked at him with curious eyes, Arthur only muttered about something else before his feelings could betray him.

For his part, Merlin was not blind. He had always been perceptive, and though Arthur said nothing outright, the truth lived in the spaces between Arthur’s silences and his glances. Merlin felt it when Arthur’s hand lingered too long on his arm, when his voice softened only for him, when his laughter came more easily in Merlin’s company than anywhere else.

And Merlin—though he fought to deny it—had begun to feel something stir in return. It unnerved him, this slow warming of his heart toward the man who had once been his callous tormentor. Yet scars of neglect were stubborn things. Each time Arthur’s affection shone too bright, Merlin felt the old ache in his chest whispering: Don’t trust it. He once let you bleed in silence.

So Merlin held his feelings close, hidden behind gentle smiles and quiet companionship. He forgave more readily now, he even welcomed Arthur’s presence—but the thought of surrendering his heart still made him wary.

Arthur, meanwhile, stood at the edge of confession again and again, only to falter. Each time, the weight of his love grew heavier. Each time, Merlin’s half-knowing gaze seemed to ask if he would be brave enough at last.

And yet, neither spoke.

Not yet.

✤✥✤✥✤

The days after the warmth of laughter and music between them were filled with an odd quietness that Camelot rarely knew. Spring turned toward summer, and though the roses bloomed across the Consort’s Palace gardens and the air was filled with birdsong, Arthur’s senses remained honed beyond peace. It was not merely the kingly instinct for vigilance. It was memory—dark, heavy, inescapable—guiding every step he took.

In his first life, he had not been prepared when the Saxons struck. They had spilled into Camelot with an unforgiving wave, their boots drowning the land in blood, their banners like the stormclouds that broke the skies. He had known betrayal in the worst way: from council members, from Sophia, from secret passages carved beneath Camelot’s bones. And he had lost.

This time, he swore, Camelot would not fall.

For months, he had quietly set things into motion. Without alerting even his most trusted knights, Arthur ordered inspections of the southern and eastern borders, strengthening the watchtowers, replenishing the stores of grain and weapons, ensuring the hidden tunnels leading into the heart of the citadel were collapsed and sealed with stone. The masons who worked thought themselves summoned for routine fortification; the soldiers believed their king only rigorous in defense. None knew the weight of foreknowledge that lay behind Arthur’s calm instructions.

Merlin, from his palace, noticed the increased drilling of soldiers, the discreet reassignment of patrols, and the new, almost casual orders that doubled the medical stores. When he asked Arthur about it in their late-evening walks through the castle courtyards, Arthur’s lips curved, not quite into a smile but into something steadier.

“Precaution,” was all he said, though Merlin felt the truth thrumming deeper beneath his words.

When half a year beyond their second anniversary had waned, Camelot’s bells sounded not for festival, but for alarm. The Saxons had returned.

---

The invasion began just as Arthur had foreseen: from the south and the east, a two-pronged strike that once before had crippled Camelot’s response. But Arthur had been ready for weeks, his knights spread with precision, his men already at arms before the Saxons breached the outer lands.

Trumpets split the air as Arthur, golden hair catching sunlight even beneath his helm, led his knights onto the field. His sword gleamed, his shield bore the Pendragon crest like fire, and his voice carried across the ranks like a clarion call.

“Camelot holds. Camelot endures. For Camelot!”

And his soldiers answered, their roar shaking the very ground.

---

Meanwhile, in the citadel, Merlin worked with quiet determination. He had been given charge over the castle’s interior affairs, and he carried the responsibility as though it were his birthright. Servants moved in smooth order under his direction, food supplies rationed and distributed without panic, the halls cleared for makeshift infirmaries. Teams of healers and physicians were organized in advance, every corner of the Consort’s Palace and the lower barracks transformed into spaces where the wounded might be carried.

Merlin moved among them tirelessly, his sleeves rolled, his voice low but certain, soothing maids and children who trembled, instructing pages in the transport of water and cloth, guiding physicians to what they needed before they even asked. For all the scars of neglect left in him, Merlin proved in those hours that he was not fragile. He was the spine of Camelot when Arthur was its sword.

---

On the field, the Saxon tide crashed and crashed again, but Camelot did not yield. Each advance met the steel of Arthur’s knights, each secret passage they sought found itself collapsed into rubble. Where once traitorous council members had opened gates, now there was only silence and stone.

It was during the height of the battle, however, that an old shadow returned.

Sophia.

She appeared amidst the Saxon generals, clad in armor finer than before, her eyes shining with arrogance, her lips curled in triumph. She rode forward as though expecting Arthur to falter, to rage, to curse the betrayal she brandished before him like a weapon.

Instead, Arthur regarded her as one might regard a gnat. Unmoved. Unimpressed.

“You did not think me gone forever, did you?” Sophia called, her voice carrying. “While you place your faith in your weakling consort, I bring armies to your very gates. Does it sting, Arthur, to see what you have cast aside? To realise what you chose instead?”

She expected fury. She expected Arthur to turn his blade upon her with the desperation of a man unmoored.

But Arthur only sat tall on his horse, his gaze like sharpened ice.

“You mistake yourself, Sophia. You are nothing. You were never anything that mattered.”

Her smirk wavered—but before she could retort, the twang of a bowstring cut through the chaos. An arrow flew swift and true, striking her square in the chest. She gasped, hands clutching at the shaft that blossomed from her heart.

She looked at Arthur as though seeking mercy, perhaps even recognition. But Arthur leaned forward slightly, his voice low, cold, final:

“You are not even worthy to be the dust on Merlin’s shoes.”

Her eyes widened, not at the arrow’s wound but at the weight of those words. Then she fell, lifeless, to the trampled earth.

Arthur did not spare her body another glance. With a lift of his sword, he rejoined the fray, his knights rallying once more.

---

The battle did not stretch for days as it once had. This time, Arthur’s foresight strangled the Saxons’ strength at its root. By nightfall, the invaders lay scattered, their leaders dead, their forces broken. Fewer than a hundred Saxons survived, fleeing beyond Camelot’s borders in ragged retreat.

The victory was not only on the field.

Within days, Arthur stood before the people in the great courtyard, his knights flanking him, Merlin present as consort in quiet dignity. Arthur’s gaze swept the assembled court, his voice ringing as he named the traitors who had conspired with Sophia, those who in his first life had ruined Camelot from within. This time, he dragged their treachery into the light.

Some nobles were executed before the crowd, their banners torn down. Others were stripped of title and land, exiled beyond Camelot’s reach. The people watched, and though some trembled at the severity of their king, many more felt a rising certainty—this king would not allow rot to fester within Camelot’s heart.

Arthur spoke the last judgment with a steadiness that left no room for doubt.

“Camelot has endured the fire of betrayal. And yet she stands. Stronger, purer, unbroken. As long as I draw breath, I will protect her—and all who call her home.”

The cheer that rose then was deafening, echoing across the citadel’s stones, carried into the skies as a vow unshaken.

And when Arthur turned, his eyes met Merlin’s beside him. For a heartbeat, neither king nor consort moved. In the silence between them, something unspoken—trust, gratitude, perhaps even the beginnings of love—passed like lightning.

Camelot had survived. And in surviving, Arthur and Merlin had drawn closer still.

✤✥✤✥✤

The weeks following the war were like a great exhale across Camelot. For the first time in what felt like decades, the air was not heavy with dread. Banners once torn and muddied were re-stitched and flown again, markets filled with laughter instead of whispers, and villages rebuilt on promises of brighter tomorrows.

For Arthur, however, peace brought no rest. It brought stillness—and in stillness, truths pressed closer, unbearable to contain.

Merlin had not left his side during the campaigns. He had tended wounds, soothed fevered nights, and stood watch with a quiet resilience Arthur knew he would never deserve. More than once Arthur had caught himself staring—not with gratitude, but with aching, all-consuming love.

Tonight, that love left him restless.

The library of the Consort’s Palace lay hushed under pools of golden candlelight. Tall shelves embraced the chamber, the scent of vellum and ink deepened by the faint smoke of the hearth. Arthur sat at the long oak table, papers scattered before him, yet he read nothing. He could not. His gaze drifted instead to the figure on the window seat.

Merlin, barefoot, robed in soft blue, curled against the cushion with a book open on his knees. His profile was caught in lamplight—the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his lashes as he read, the gentle crease between his brows when he turned a page with unusual care. Arthur’s throat tightened.

How many times had he nearly spoken these past months? A hundred? A thousand? Each time, he’d swallowed it back with the discipline of a soldier. But tonight, the silence seemed unbearable.

He rose before he could lose courage.

Merlin looked up as Arthur approached, a faint smile tugging his lips. “You’re brooding again.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, though his chest was taut. “Do I brood?”

“Constantly. It’s almost impressive.” Merlin set his book aside, tilting his head. “What weighs you down now that peace has finally been won?”

Arthur stopped before him. Words trembled at the edge of his tongue. For a moment he only looked down at Merlin—the man who had endured so much, who had withstood his cruelty in those early months of marriage, who had shown him grace he did not deserve.

“I cannot keep it in any longer,” Arthur murmured, voice low.

Merlin blinked. “Keep what?”

Arthur reached out, hands hesitating before cupping Merlin’s face. His palms tingled as though touching sacred flame. “You,” he whispered. “My heart, my love—Merlin, it is yours. It always has been, even when I was too blind, too proud, too wretched to admit it. I swear to you, I will cherish you for as long as I draw breath.”

The silence was a heartbeat, two. Then Merlin’s eyes glistened. His lips parted on a trembling laugh that broke into a sob.

“Arthur…” His hands came up to grasp Arthur’s wrists, holding them tightly as though fearing he might vanish. “Do you have any idea—how long I have wanted to hear those words?” His voice cracked. “I have loved you quietly all along. Even when it hurt. Even when I thought you’d never look at me as anything but a duty. But I was afraid, Arthur. Afraid you would break me again.”

Arthur’s chest caved. He bent, pressing his forehead to Merlin’s. “Never again. I will never let you doubt again. You are my heart, Merlin. My soul. You are the very breath in my lungs.”

And then their lips met.

It was not tentative, not hesitant, but a desperate claiming. Years of unspoken ache poured into the kiss, mouths moving with hunger, with reverence, with need. Arthur held Merlin close, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other splayed against his back. Merlin clung to him as though drowning, their breaths mingling, their lips breaking only to return again and again, unwilling to let go.

By the time they pulled apart, Merlin was flushed, his lips swollen, eyes shining like stars. Arthur’s heart swelled so fiercely he thought it might tear apart his ribs.

That very night, Merlin left the Consort’s Palace for good. His belongings were carried into the Main Palace, into Arthur’s own chambers. No longer would he be left in isolation; no longer consort in name only, but partner in truth.

And Camelot rejoiced.

At Arthur’s side, Merlin shone—his presence quiet yet commanding, his smile a beacon. Where once he had been whispered of with disdain, now he was beloved.

Yet all of that was nothing compared to what happened when the chamber doors shut, leaving only the two of them.

Arthur kissed him, tenderly at first, then with a hunger barely restrained. Merlin, pliant and trembling beneath his touch, gave himself wholly, trust shining through every sigh. Their clothes fell in forgotten heaps, hands exploring reverently, desperately, as though making up for every lost year.

Arthur worshipped him—every kiss along his throat, every caress of his trembling body a vow. Merlin gasped his name, soft and broken, arching into Arthur’s touch, yielding with a sweetness that undid him completely.

When they joined at last, it was not only the consummation of their marriage, but the sealing of their souls. Arthur moved with reverence, with love so deep it shook him, guiding Merlin with patience, with devotion, until pleasure and love blurred into one. Merlin clutched at him, trusting utterly, and Arthur whispered promises into his skin—that he would never again let harm or loneliness touch him.

They found their release together, shattering in each other’s arms, and when the storm quieted, Arthur held Merlin close, unwilling ever to let him go.

Merlin lay against his chest, lips curved in a drowsy, contented smile.

Arthur pressed a kiss to his hair. “Mine,” he whispered.

Merlin’s hand curled over his heart. “Yours.”

And for the first time since their vows were spoken, both knew the truth of it.

✤✥✤✥✤

The years passed in quiet triumph. Camelot, once riven with old wounds and rivalries, flourished beneath Arthur Pendragon’s reign. His hand was steady and firm, his rule respected. Yet, for all his victories in council chambers and on the field, Arthur knew his truest conquest was won in the quiet hall of the consort’s palace library—that night Merlin had finally taken his hand, his lips, and his heart forever.

Merlin stood beside him now, not in the shadows but in the light, a consort beloved by the kingdom. The nobles bowed with respect when he entered the great halls; knights lit with pride when he praised their skill; the palace staff adored his kindness; and the common folk whispered fondly of him as if he were their own. He was no longer the foreign prince who had been ignored, slighted, and bruised by neglect—he was Consort Merlin Emrys Pendragon, cherished and radiant.

Arthur, for his part, had become shameless in his devotion. It was said the king could not pass his husband in the corridors without touching him in some way—fingers brushing his sleeve, a palm pressed against his back, lips stolen to Merlin’s temple. “He dotes,” the court gossiped, “like a knight upon his lady in a troubadour’s song.” Arthur never denied it. He only smiled smugly when Merlin blushed.

Their love became legend. Songs were sung of it in the marketplaces, scribes recorded it in glowing prose, and Camelot itself seemed to shine brighter beneath their reign. The golden age, they called it—peace, prosperity, unity, all flowing from a king whose fiercest vow was not to crown or country but to the consort who had stolen his heart.

Camelot and Drakonia, once kingdoms separated by mountains, rivers, and generations of wary politics, became one at last. After Queen Hunith’s gentle reign ended, her crown passed to her son. Merlin, now not only Arthur’s consort but the rightful heir of Drakonia, stood beside his husband as both king and consort of a realm reborn. Arthur and Merlin swore no borders would ever divide their people again, and the two crowns were forged into one.

Together, their rule brought prosperity, peace, and unity to Albion. The new golden age was not only of Camelot but of Drakonia too—kingdoms turned one, thriving together under the strength of Arthur’s hand and the wisdom of Merlin’s heart.

One evening, years later, Arthur stood upon the palace terrace as the sun bled gold into the horizon. Below, in the gardens, Merlin played with Sir Lancelot and now Lady Guinevere’s children. A boy, calm and patient, steadied his sister as she attempted to climb a marble bench. Merlin’s laughter carried upwards, sweet as bells, and Arthur felt his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe.

This was his second chance. Not the lonely throne he once thought would define him, nor the endless wars of ambition, but this—Merlin’s smile, his gentle eyes, his laughter. His husband. A future.

Arthur’s vision blurred with unspilled tears as he whispered to himself, a vow renewed in silence.

Merlin, this time, I will love you until the end of time.

And in that golden light, with Merlin’s soft laughter ringing below, Arthur Pendragon knew that eternity itself had already begun.