Chapter 1: The Royal Lottery
Notes:
First of all, you should know a few things:
First: If you’re looking for a faithful adaptation of the book, this is not your story! This is my version of this magnificent trilogy! So if you’re expecting something straight from the books, it’s not here. While this story is based on both the movies and the books, I adapt them however best suits the narrative, so it’s not 100% faithful to either.
Second: The story isn’t finished yet; I’m only on chapter three. I’ll try to publish a new chapter every Friday as usual, but I genuinely want to warn you that there will be days when the update comes on Saturday or Sunday. I hope you understand!
Third: If you’ve read my other story, you should know this is nothing like The Last Dragonlord, since this is literally just a fanfic I’m writing for fun because it’s what I love most.
Now, all that’s left to say is enjoy the reading! I hope you like it!
Chapter Text
The air smelled of wet timber, of soil churned up by the storm, of that metallic tang water leaves behind when it’s been pounding the earth for hours. Outside, the birds kept silent, as if even they knew this wasn’t a day for singing. The room felt smaller than usual—or maybe it was just the weight of the air, thick and damp, clinging to my skin like a cold sweat. I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was the cabin’s ceiling: old, dark planks, some blotched with black where damp had seeped through the cracks. The rain had started the afternoon before and hadn’t let up until deep into the night, and even now I could still hear, somewhere far off in the forest, the persistent drip of water from the leaves. I stayed where I was, still and silent, my gaze fixed on that ceiling as if looking up was easier than facing what waited beyond the door. I yawned, but it wasn’t from sleep—it was that bone-deep fatigue that settles in after days with your stomach tied in knots. I closed my eyes for a moment, chasing a brief, voluntary darkness, then opened them again. The air came in harsh when I breathed, tinged with the smell of old soot, and I let it out in a sigh that seemed to hollow me from the inside. Slowly, I sat up, my feet finding the cold wooden floor. My eyes went searching for my boots.
They were right there by the bed, freshly washed, their leather dulled and cracked despite a clumsy attempt to polish away the dried mud. Time and rain had stiffened them, and the seams looked like they held together out of habit rather than strength. I bent down, ran my fingers over them, and thought how some things never go back to what they were, no matter how many times you try to clean them. Another sigh left me, but not for the boots. From the kitchen, I heard my mother’s voice—faint, almost lost in the air. She wasn’t speaking to anyone, or maybe she was speaking to herself. Her words were low and halting, as though she feared the walls might overhear. Between her phrases came little sighs, and in those sighs there was something sharper than any word: a weight of grief laced with fear and resignation.
This is my last year in the royal lottery. I repeat it in my head as if that could make it sound less dreadful, but it never does. The last year my name could be drawn from that urn. The last time I might have to walk into the square with hundreds of eyes pressing into my back. And still, my mother feels the same fear all parents feel every year—that old terror that never ages, never fades, never wears thin with time. Because in the lottery, there’s always a child who doesn’t come home. Always an empty chair at someone’s table. Always a mother who cries in silence so she doesn’t break in front of the rest. In my district, no one speaks much of the Dark Days. Maybe because remembering them is like peeling open a wound that never closed. They say those days are long past, but the elders still drop their gaze when anyone mentions them. My mother was barely a child and my father only a year older when it ended. My father’s family didn’t survive—the final war that ended the Dark Days claimed them all. A war we did not win. That was when the Crown Games began: a blood-soaked spectacle to remind us, year after year, who rules and what defying them costs. Camelot calls it justice. We call it what it is—a reminder of our defeat.
My mother appeared in the doorway, her apron wrinkled, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"You didn’t eat yesterday," she said—not a reproach, just an attempt to take care of me, even knowing I couldn’t eat today even if I tried.
"I’m not hungry," I said, and it was as though those words cracked something inside her.
She stepped toward me, her voice trembling just slightly.
"Don’t say that… at least today, try to…" She stopped, pressing her lips together, as if any further word might force the tears to spill.
She crossed the room to the table and sat down, hands clasped tightly. I joined her, and for a while we said nothing. Outside, the silence was so dense it almost touched the skin.
"Are you afraid?" she asked at last, her whisper trembling in the air as if she didn’t want my answer to exist at all.
I didn’t know what to say. I felt her eyes on me, searching for a truth I didn’t even have for myself.
"I don’t know," I said finally, and it was the truth. Fear wasn’t quite the right word. What I felt was a jagged mix, hard to name: anxiety, resignation, and—deep down—something I didn’t want to acknowledge because it sounded too much like hope. A stubborn, fragile hope that barely dared to breathe.
"I don’t want to lose you," she said then, her voice splintering like breaking glass, "I don’t want to lose you too…"
I leaned forward, took her hands—cold as well water—and felt the desperate pressure in her grip, as if holding on tight enough could keep the world from tearing me away. Her fingers trembled, from fear or anger, I couldn’t tell, and that tremor ran straight into my bones.
"You haven’t lost me yet," I murmured, though not even I truly believed it. "My name won’t be called."
Her eyes locked on mine, unblinking, and I knew then that the memory of my older brother, Tarik, was already there, uninvited. I miss him too—every day, every hour—as if his absence were a wound that never heals. Tarik died in the twenty-ninth Games, chosen at sixteen. It was my second year in the lottery, and I can still hear the moment his name was spoken, sharp and cruel, the announcer’s voice lingering over every syllable as if savoring it. Something hollowed out inside me in that instant, as if something vital had been ripped away. I wanted to run to him, to scream, to hold on, but I knew the Knights of the Round Table would never allow it, and the punishment for trying would likely be fatal.
I remember his eyes searching for me in the crowd, holding back desperation until they found me. Despite the wet shine betraying his tears, he smiled—that brief, fragile smile meant to tell me everything would be all right, though we both knew it wouldn’t. I watched him walk toward the makeshift stage Camelot raises each year for the drawing, cold and draped in red and gold banners, as if a splash of color could dress up death. The announcer, dressed absurdly, grinned so wide it felt like an insult. The sun was fierce that day, and I felt a sudden wave of dizziness, as if heat and fear had conspired to bring me down.
Tarik stood beside Melisandre, a girl with narrow shoulders and braids twisted in haste, likely by a younger sister just before their goodbye. Her dress was worn thin, and there was something in her eyes I couldn’t tell was resignation or a desperate wish for it all to be over. It was her last year in the lottery; she would turn nineteen the following week.
"My name won’t be called," I said again, more to myself than to her, clinging to the thought like a plank in the middle of a shipwreck. A part of me wanted to believe it too.
This year, I only took three tesserae—just enough to keep the three of us alive. My father works until his hands feel like splintered wood, and what he earns barely buys the day’s hard bread. I’m not like him or Tarik; I don’t have the strength to fell giant trees or carry logs as if they were sticks. I work at the sawmill, cutting smaller pieces or sorting wood, though I’m rarely trusted with the machines—they say I’m clumsy, and they’re not wrong. Where I’m truly useful is when someone needs to climb. My body is leaner, more agile than most, and I can move through the branches as if the forest has always known me. I climb quickly, dodging knots and deadwood, cutting what’s needed so the stronger men can process it below. Sometimes, when the wind is high and the branches sway beneath my feet, I pretend I’m flying, bound for some place where no one’s name is ever called to die. But then I climb down, and the illusion snaps like a dry twig in my hand.
"Please, eat," my mother whispers again.
And I do it, for her, even though every bite makes me nauseous and I feel my stomach twist as if it wants to throw everything out. The food tastes like dust and ash, but I don’t stop; I chew slowly, swallowing even when every fiber of my body begs me to stop. I keep eating until the cabin door opens with a soft creak and my father comes in. He carries the day’s exhaustion on his shoulders and the cold in his clothes. He smiles at me with that warmth that always tries to hide how hard the day has been.
"I brought you this" he says, setting a pair of black boots by my feet before sitting in the chair to my right, directly across from Mom.
The empty chair in front of me has been that way for four years now. Always the same space. Always the same gap.
"You shouldn’t have…" I reply, bending down to pick up the boots. The leather doesn’t smell new, but they look much better. "You shouldn’t have, Dad."
"It’s nothing" he says, his eyes fixed on her. And in his gaze, the weariness softens into something gentler, warmer. A lovestruck smile.
She meets his gaze, and for an instant, I feel like I’m twelve again, when I still believed my brother’s name and mine would never be drawn from the urn. When I still thought I could do anything, that the world was a safe place. Mom would dance in the living room of this very cabin and Dad would sing to her, always looking at her as if she were the only light in his life. Tarik and I would sit on the floor, clapping along to his voice. But those were other times. Another life. One that ended with Tarik’s last breath.
Tarik was strong, and not just I knew it. It was talked about across the district. Some whispered it, others told me to my face—he would make it. He was one of the best at felling trees, and the axe seemed like an extension of his body. For someone only sixteen, his strength was imposing. I believed it too… I remember seeing him in the Parade of the Crown’s Contenders, wearing the attire of District 7, serious but elegant. Then in the interviews, smiling and pretending there was nothing to fear. His words were like steady anchors in a storm: firm, confident, believable. I thought he would come back. But he didn’t.
"I think it’s time for you to shower, sweetheart" Mom says suddenly, as if to drag me out of my thoughts.
"There’s warm water in the collector" Dad adds with a worried smile. "Take as much as you want, Mer."
"I left your clothes on a chair, son" Mom says as she gets up to serve Dad’s breakfast. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her put on his plate what I didn’t eat.
I nod silently, giving a small smile before heading to the bathroom. It’s so narrow only one person fits inside. The iron tub is connected to the collector by a rusty pipe. I turn the handle and water begins to fill the bottom with a hollow sound. Despite what Dad said, I don’t take as much as I want. Only what’s necessary. I dip my cold hands first, then my whole body, and start scrubbing. I rub my fingers until the skin reddens, scrub my feet, my neck, my arms. I wash my hair four times, as if the dry soap could strip away more than just dirt.
When I come out, the cabin’s icy air hits me like a slap, and for a second I want to get back in, even though the water is cold. I grab the towel hanging from a nail; it’s rough, almost abrasive, but I drag it over my skin without thinking. I dress in the clothes Mom left on the wobbly chair.
In the living room, Dad is finishing his breakfast while Mom washes the dishes. I sit at the table, next to the boots, and start putting them on. Dad watches me in silence, as if holding a million words he’ll never speak. I want to ask him to say them, but my voice catches in my throat.
Mom comes over with an almost-empty jar of gel. She squeezes the last bit out, rubbing her hands before running her fingers through my hair, combing it gently. Her voice trembles when she says I should look nice, as if clinging to that small gesture will keep her from breaking.
"I just… want you to look like yourself, Mer" she whispers, and in her eyes shines a moisture she refuses to let fall.
I want to say something to them, but then the drums sound. The rumble spreads through the streets like a mechanical heartbeat that belongs to no human chest. It’s time.
Mom flinches, her shoulders stiff, her breath uneven, startled by the metallic roar of the loudspeakers posted at every corner of the district. Dad exhales—a long, weary sigh that seems to carry years of silent defeats—as he rises slowly, as if standing were an act of defiance against gravity. I take Mom’s hand, cold as ice right there in front of me, and bring it to my lips. I kiss her knuckles softly, as if I could pass some of my warmth to her, or the little hope I have left.
"Everything will be fine" I murmur, my voice cracking just slightly.
Their eyes bore into me, trying to believe me. And though I want to cling to my own words, I know they too are holding on purely out of instinct. After Tarik’s death, Mom sank into a depression so deep she sometimes seemed to forget how to breathe. That was when we were forced to take tesserae for the first time. In our district, it’s not unusual for someone between twelve and eighteen to request them, but it’s still a mark, a silent reminder of need. That year I asked for three. Two the next. None the third. This year, another three. I don’t regret it; those tesserae gave each of us an annual ration of grain and oil—barely enough for one person, but a lifeline all the same. The price was another matter: each tessera put my name back into the urn.
The names of all eligible youths are added automatically each year. For this, my final lottery, there should be seven slips with my name. But tesserae are cumulative, so today my name appears fifteen times. A small number compared to the poorest families in the district, but large enough to give chance more than one shot at me.
We head toward the central square. The air there always smells of hot stone and old dust, but today, in the crowd, the metallic scent of the Knights of the Round Table’s red-and-gold embroidered uniforms cuts through everything. Their helmets hide their faces, but not the threat they carry. Mom wraps me in a hug so tight it’s almost painful, as if she could anchor me to life by sheer physical force.
“Soon we’ll be home,” he whispers, and his words tremble more than his voice.
Dad squeezes my shoulder.
“You don’t need to worry”—But I know that phrase is more for him than for me.
I separate from them and join the tide of young people walking toward the registration area. The line moves quickly. I’m behind Gertrude, a fifteen-year-old girl who never knows when to be quiet, even in this heavy silence. When it’s my turn, I find myself in front of a white table. A knight extends his gloved hand. Mine trembles slightly, but I place it on his. His grip is firm, almost aggressive. The scanner bites my index finger, and I feel a brief sting, like a needle of fire. A drop of blood forms, and he smashes it onto the paper carelessly, leaving an irregular stain. He releases me abruptly, without even looking at me, and calls the next person.
I bring my finger to my mouth, licking the wound that no longer bleeds, as I walk toward the group of eighteen-year-olds. We line up in silence, wearing our best clothes, which are still simple and worn.
Among the crowd, I spot Mayor Fitzgerald, sitting beside his wife, with a posture meant to be imposing. Next to him is Gwaine Blackwood, victor of the twenty-sixth Crown Games. There are other winners, but my eyes stop on him.
Gwaine… The name feels strange in my mind. He won three years before Tarik died. Before that, we were friends, barely a year apart. After his victory and my brother’s death, the gap between us grew wider. He tried to cross it several times, but I rejected him, and eventually he stopped trying. We haven’t spoken in two years. Sometimes I see him at the sawmill, always from a distance. Even he seems to avoid contact, as if victory left him lonelier than any defeat.
No one beside me says a single word. Gazes are lost in invisible points, fixed on the ground or the void, as if the only way to endure is to lock oneself inside. Everyone carries their own thoughts, and I am no exception. The weight of mine drags me down until, suddenly, a sound rips through the air: the announcer, the same one for the past three years, hits the microphone with his knuckles, producing a static snap that makes me want to cover my ears. To my right, I see Armond do exactly that, contorting his face as if that noise were a physical blow.
“Welcome, everyone, my friends,” says the announcer, trying to give his voice a velvety tone that cracks under the weight of its artificiality. “Happy Crown Games, and… may fate choose the victor.”
His suit is a shrill blue that seems to absorb the sun and return it violently, hurting the eyes. The shine is such that I feel if I stare too long, it could blind me. His hair is soaked in shiny gel that traps his curls, giving them a strange appearance, as if they were pieces of a cheap ornament placed on his head. The mustache, long and twisted in perfect spirals, tries to give him a distinguished air, but only makes him look like an actor trapped in a role too big for him.
He begins reciting the usual speech: how the Crown Games were founded, how the Dark Era was born from the districts’ rebellion against Camelot, how innocent blood was spilled until Camelot, magnanimous in victory, forgave the traitors. He speaks of the punishment that became tradition: an annual spectacle where each district of Albion delivers two crown contenders, a man and a woman, as a display of obedience, honor… and sacrifice. Only one will bathe in riches; the rest will vanish beneath sand and blood. Every word is so rehearsed it could be said he is a machine repeating a code he does not understand.
When he finishes, the silence is absolute. Perhaps he expects applause that never comes. His stiff smile trembles slightly before straightening.
“Now,” he says, stretching his voice as if to prolong the anticipation, “it is time to choose two brave youths who will represent District Seven in the thirty-third Crown Games.”
My hands are damp. A cold sweat runs down my back. Then, without seeking it, my eyes meet Gwaine’s. I’m not sure if he’s really looking at me or if it’s just my imagination, but I feel the weight of his presence even when I look away too quickly, like letting go of a red-hot iron.
“First, the ladies,” he announces with a smile that seems on the verge of tearing his face.
He walks to the glass urn on his left, plunging his hand into a sea of papers containing hundreds of names, hundreds of destinies. He stirs slowly, savoring the moment like a predator playing with its prey. Finally, his hand stops and he extracts a perfectly folded paper. He doesn’t open it yet; he lifts it for everyone to see, as if the gesture were part of a macabre ritual, then returns to the microphone.
“Let’s see…” he whispers, unfolding the paper with excruciating slowness. He clears his throat, then pronounces the name. “Mithian Dalecrest.”
A heavy silence falls over the square. No murmur, no audible breath. Mithian Dalecrest. Seventeen years old. Short, thin, with straight brown hair. She always greets me in the mornings when she sees me on the way to the sawmill. The gray cloak hanging on her shoulders was once as white as snow before time and use faded it. Now it’s there, motionless, as if nailed to the ground. I see her lower her head, inhale deeply, then lift it again before starting to walk. Her steps are firm, too firm for someone who cried for hours when she splintered a finger while working. The Knights of the Round Table wait to escort her to the stage.
“No, no,” says the announcer in a paternal tone, smiling. “Stand here, come.”
She obeys, placing herself to his left.
“Very well,” he continues, “let us give a big round of applause to our young Crown contender of this year, Mithian Dalecrest.”
No one claps. No one even nods. I think I hear a weak, contained sob coming from where Mithian’s mother stands. The announcer clears his throat, trying to dispel the tension.
“And now…” he resumes, puffing out his chest, “it is time to choose the knight who will be a contender.”
He heads toward the urn on the right. It is fuller than the previous one, and the sight tightens my chest. My hands sweat even more, and the cold drop running down my back turns into an icy river. I tell myself it can’t be my name. It’s only there fifteen times. Fifteen against hundreds. The odds are in my favor… right?
I get so lost in that thought I don’t see when he returns to the microphone. I don’t see when he unfolds the paper. I don’t hear the sigh accompanying his smile. I only return to the present when his voice shatters my world.
“Merlin Emrys.”
I feel my feet trembling, but a part of me clings tooth and nail to the absurd idea that I can stay upright. The murmur of the crowd is an irregular wave that envelops me completely, a sound that seems to fade and amplify in rhythm with the runaway beats of my heart. Their faces are a cruel mirror of my own thoughts: some watch me with restrained sadness, with that look reserved for those already lost; others, however, sketch almost imperceptible smiles, smiles of relief for not having heard their own name drawn from the urn. I do not blame them. I smiled like that once too, after Tarik’s death, feeling a selfish, fleeting relief when my fate was not sealed in front of everyone.
Amid my shock, I run a nervous hand over the fabric of my shirt, trying to smooth it as if that ridiculous gesture could give me a modicum of control. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two Knights of the Round Table making their way through the crowd, their armor gleaming under the gray sky, each step they take sounding like a sharp strike against the ground. They approach me with the solemnity of those accustomed to escorting the condemned. Cold sweat runs down my skin, and as I start walking toward them under their watchful gaze, I fix my eyes on my feet, fearing that the weakness in my legs will betray me.
In my mind repeats a question that scratches me from within: how did Tarik and Mithian manage to walk like this, without desperation breaking them completely? Both so serene, so unreal, as if they had found a way to deceive fear or look death in the eye without blinking. I, on the other hand, feel that every step is a confession of defeat.
Before reaching the stage, I anxiously search the crowd, and then I find them. Mom is undone, clinging to Dad’s chest as if his body were the only anchor she has left. He wraps his arms around her, but his eyes are also red and wet, a contained sea threatening to overflow. The people around them look at them with that pity that hurts more than any word. A thought strikes me with the violence of lightning: is it possible that fate could be cruel enough to make me a Crown contender four years after my brother?
My hands are drenched in sweat as I try to smile at them, a useless gesture to make them believe I am still strong. But I know my eyes are red, that the pressure behind them has already given way, and tears slide down my cheeks uncontrollably. I turn my face before breaking completely and keep walking toward the stage.
“Come, come,” says the announcer in a voice laden with false sweetness, “up here, dear.”
I obey, moved more by inertia than by my own will, and take my place to his right. The light enveloping me is colder up here, and the crowd seems like a single body breathing irregularly.
“Very well,” continues the announcer, with a flawless smile that does not reach his eyes, “here are our Crown contenders from District Seven.”
The silence that follows is not empty; it is heavy, rough, like a rope tightening around our throats.
“What are you waiting for?” adds the announcer, ignoring the invisible weight crushing us. “Greet each other, greet each other.”
Mithian and I look at each other, and in that instant we know, without needing to say it, that most likely one of us will die… or that we both will. Still, I extend my hand, and hers responds, firm, warm, in an act that defies the inevitable. The announcer laughs briefly, excited as if this were a light spectacle, and announces:
“Happy Crown Games, and… may the Crown guide your destiny and fortune protect you.”
Behind me I hear the rustle of fabrics and footsteps: the mayor has risen beside his wife, accompanied by the other winners. The announcer takes Mithian and me by the shoulders and leads us inside the plaza building. It is then, without even seeing him, that I can feel Gwaine’s gaze pinned to my back. My eyes, however, stay forward, as if looking away would make me fall. The tears continue to fall, one after another, without respite. And when the doors close behind us, the hollow sound of the latch echoes in my chest like a final sentence.
I know, with the cruelest certainty, that my life has ended.
Chapter 2: The Face of Games.
Chapter Text
The sound that manages to slip through the door is faint, fragile, like a thread barely holding reality together, and not strong enough to drown the knot in my throat or silence the relentless drum of my own heart. Every vibration that reaches my ears feels as if it comes from another world: the steady, ordered footsteps of the Knights of the Round Table patrolling like relentless guardians of a fate I dare not name. Among those sounds, muffled murmurs drift, half-whispered conversations of those assigned to escort Mithian and me to the train station, from where a train will take us straight to Camelot, the golden city so many call a sanctuary, but that now, to me, feels like the threshold of a judgment.
I remain standing in the center of the room, motionless as a broken statue, unable to move a single muscle since the knights left me here, separating me from Mithian and taking her to another room. The silence within weighs heavier than any unspoken word. I know what’s coming. And the mere certainty of it empties my chest, as if my heartbeat is being ripped away, one beat at a time. My eyes remain fixed on the door, measuring every second by the sounds that reach me: the rustle of fabric, a boot pressing down harder than usual, the sharp snap of an order. Someone mentions that an important figure is waiting for us on the train. Curiosity barely flickers before dying under the weight of my anxiety.
The tremor in my right leg is persistent, an involuntary reminder that I’m still alive, even if I feel trapped in a dream unraveling at the edges. Without realizing it, my fingers begin an ancient, familiar ritual: my thumb brushing over the tips of my other fingers, a gesture I’ve repeated so many times in moments of despair that it’s become a compass for my breathing. I do it once, twice, ten, twenty times, until I lose count. When I’ve reached, perhaps, the thirtieth repetition, the door opens.
A Knight of the Round Table is framed in the doorway. He wears no helmet, which allows me to see his tired eyes, the shadows beneath them that even military discipline cannot conceal. His voice is firm but void of emotion as he announces we only have five minutes. And then, time shatters: my parents walk in.
Mom doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the distance between us as if she could tear through space itself with her urgency. Her arms wrap around me with a desperate need, and her silent tears strike me like a rainstorm held back for far too long. The dam holding my emotions crumbles. I feel the warmth of her embrace, the pressure of her hands clinging to my back, and my own sobs escape with a violence that steals my breath. Dad stays a few steps behind, fists clenched, watching us with a mix of pride and sorrow, until the knight closes the door behind us. When our eyes meet, he breaks too. His tears, heavy and bright, fall as he steps closer and envelops us both in an embrace that feels like he’s trying to fuse us into one.
"Promise me you’ll do everything you can to come back," Mom whispers against my temple, and I can feel the warmth of her breath mingled with the tremor in her voice. "Please… I couldn’t survive losing you too."
Dad tightens his hold as he hears her, as if he’s trying to shield us from words that, though drenched in love, are poison in their desperation.
"You have to be strong," I say, clinging to them like I’m holding the last fragment of life that belongs to me. "You can’t leave Dad alone…"
She tries to answer, but I cut her off, my tone sharp with a pain that pierces me too as the words leave my mouth.
"You can’t leave him alone, do you hear me?" I repeat, feeling the weight of my words settle on my shoulders like armor impossible to carry. "I know it hurts, I know it’s hard, but you have to promise you won’t give up, Mom. Not again."
"Promise me you’ll take care of her, Dad," I whisper with a lump in my throat, though I know I shouldn’t ask him for such a thing. I feel his arms tighten around me, like he fears I might disappear right then and there. "I’ll be fine… really… I swear I’ll do everything I can to come back."
And as I speak those words, a part of me writhes with guilt, because they are the exact same ones Tarik said before he left four years ago. And he never came back. What haunts me is that I know it too: my chances in the Queen’s arena are as thin as a ray of light in a sealed cavern. Tarik was the best of us, the strongest, the most agile, the most prepared to survive… and if anyone should have made it back, it was him. But he didn’t. He died there. And if he couldn’t… what hope do I have?
"I know, my boy," Dad whispers, but I catch the tremor that shakes his voice, that crack he’s trying to hide. "I know you’ll come back…"
The door opens again and, with the solemnity of a sentence, the same Knight of the Round Table steps in. His voice rings firm as he declares that time is up. Dad shakes his head, his embrace hardening, Mom clinging to me with sobs she no longer tries to hold back. The knight, exasperated, steps forward, extending his arm to pull us apart, but Dad stands before he can touch me. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, a gesture that looks less like pride and more like a shield against pain.
Mom is slower to let go. Her hands tremble as she pulls back, as if she doesn’t trust I’ll stay standing without her touch. She stands beside Dad, and he looks at me with reddened eyes, trembling lips, and a dignity I don’t know if I deserve.
"We’ll be waiting for you, son," he says, intertwining his fingers with Mom’s, who keeps staring at me like she’s trying to memorize every detail of my face.
The knight escorts them away without mercy. There is no time for final caresses, nor soft words, only for a desperate cry of "I love you!" that I yell before they cross the door. Mom answers with a sob-choked "Come back!" Then, the slam. The silence.
I remain standing, motionless, my ears ringing. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold onto the warmth that just left. They’ve barely gone, and I already miss them as if I hadn’t seen them in years. My fingers return to their old habit, my thumb brushing over the tips of my other fingers. It’s mechanical, a way to keep from breaking down.
The emptiness crushing my chest is almost unbearable. Since I heard my name called by the announcer, I’ve felt it as a cold weight, but now… now it’s a pit swallowing me whole. I can’t stop thinking about Tarik. About how alone he must have felt, locked up here, knowing that every second dragged him closer to his end.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, inhaling sharply to hold back what little remains of my tears. Then the door opens for the third time. And there he is. Him. He closes the door without taking his eyes off me, and before I can hold myself back, my feet are already moving, running toward him like he’s the last safe harbor.
"Gwaine…"
"Merls," he answers in a murmur thick with relief and fear, wrapping me in an embrace that anchors me to the world.
It’s in that moment that I understand: I hadn’t realized how much I missed my best friend until now. And that, though I don’t want to admit it, I’ll need him more than ever for what’s coming. I feel the warmth of his breath brushing my hair, as if each of his exhales carries an unspoken confession I don’t dare decipher. Gwaine’s embrace engulfs me entirely, making me feel small in his arms. He’s always been taller than me, maybe five or seven centimeters at most, but in this moment, he feels like a wall, a refuge I cling to as if the world were about to collapse. His build is strong, muscular, yet without losing the leanness of someone forged by constant movement, effort, and battle. A neatly trimmed beard of no more than two days rests on his angular face, so precise it seems sculpted to fit his features. His hair, short but long enough to brush his ears, shifts lightly with every breath passing between us.
"I’m sorry," I whisper, and my voice sounds so broken it hurts even me to hear it. "I’m so sorry, G."
"Shhh" he replies, caressing my back with a slow, steady movement, as if he were trying to calm not only my body but also all the chaos I carry inside. "It's okay, it's nothing."
"I'm really sorry" I repeat, with a sob muffled against his neck. "You left, and you won… and I felt like I didn't… and then Tarik left, and he never came back… I'm so, so sorry, Gwaine."
His embrace tightens, his arms wrapping around me with a strength that doesn’t suffocate but leaves no escape, as if he wants to hold together every shattered piece of me before it hits the floor. The warmth radiating from him seeps into me, and for an instant I think I might be ruining his tailored suit, the one that still carries the scent of new fabric and fresh stitching. Gwaine won the twenty-sixth Crown Games at only thirteen years old. The youngest victor in all of Camelot’s history. That year is carved into my memory as both a wound and a miracle. I remember seeing him on the projectors Camelot placed in the plaza and streets, broadcasting every moment to the districts as if it were a sacred spectacle. I remember his parade as one of the Crown's Suitors, wearing with pride a suit in shades of brown and white, embroidered to resemble wood grain and paper texture, symbols of our district.
I also remember his interview with Lancelot Devereux, the host of "Flame and Crown". He was only thirteen, yet he spoke with the calm of someone who feared nothing. It was well known that his father, Laurent Blackwood, had trained him since childhood to wield an axe with precision, making him one of the best at the lumber mill, thus securing his worth within the district. Our home was never among the poorest, unlike others, and asking for tesserae to feed a family had always been rare… until Tarik died. After that, everything crumbled like a building stripped of its foundations.
"You're going to be fine" he tells me, and his voice is firm, almost convinced, "I'll be with you every step of the way. This year there will be four mentors, two for each of you. I'll do everything I can to keep you safe."
Keep me safe. Those words pierce my mind like an unbearable weight because there’s no real safety once you step into the Queen’s arena. The only way to survive is to stain your hands. I remember Gwaine, the thirteen-year-old boy who swung an axe with deadly precision, felling a Champion of the Court from District One with a single blow, and my stomach churns. Gwaine killed seven of the twenty-four suitors of his year and was crowned victor. I think of Tarik, of how far he got… my brother took down nine. He became Camelot’s favorite, his name chanted in plazas, until the Toll of the Crown rang out. That deep, solemn bell, impossible to mistake. Slow, grave, sustained… as if the very kingdom mourned his death, though we all know Camelot never mourns anything.
"I'm scared" I admit, and the words taste of iron and salt on my tongue.
Gwaine pulls back just enough to look at me directly. His eyes, a dark green bordering on gray, seem to want to read me inside out.
"I was too" he says, lifting both hands to wipe my tears with his thumbs. The skin on his fingers is soft, free of calluses. Not like mine, hardened from years of work. Maybe because, since his victory, Gwaine never had to work at the lumber mill again.
The silence in the room weighs like a cold slab on my shoulders, heavy enough that I can hear the muffled echo of my own breathing. It’s broken only when the creak of old wooden boards announces Gwaine’s movement, just a few steps to put some distance between us. His eyes remain fixed on me, dark and tense, searching for a way to begin that seems harder for him than any battle. I watch him quietly, swallowing the urge to ask what’s wrong. I know that if I speak, I’ll shatter something he needs to say in one breath.
"You know" his voice comes out lower than usual, hoarse, as if each word had to tear through a wall of thorns. "There was a moment… in my Games… when I thought that was it."
My body leans slightly toward him, but my lips don’t move. His tone forces me to stay silent, to not interrupt the delicate balance holding him together as he speaks. I see him swallow hard, as if what comes next has never been said aloud.
"It was night… and all I could do was run. Run and pray the darkness wouldn’t swallow me before they did. Every step I took sounded like a scream in the woods. I felt their footsteps behind me, the cold air tearing at my throat, and then…" he breathes in deeply, but his voice shakes, "I felt the blade at my back. Just for an instant, a graze, but enough to know if I took a wrong step… that was it. And I thought, Merlin… I thought: Well, this is how it ends."
He pauses. The kind of pause not meant for breath but for surviving the memory. The silence thickens, almost liquid, like it wants to seep between us and drown us.
"But it didn’t end" he finally continues. "She grabbed my arm with a strength I didn’t think she had, and when I turned I barely saw it was the girl from Three. She shoved me backward, I fell on my back onto the damp earth, and the blade meant for me struck the ground because her hand shook. Just a tremor… and that gave me time."
His gaze drifts somewhere invisible, as if he can still see it all.
"I understood I had to fight. I fought however I could. Found my axe on the ground, felt it in my hands again… and she was the first" his laugh is short, dry, stripped of any humor. "After that, everything I did was to make sure no one caught me off guard again. But you know? I didn’t want to do it. I almost let her win."
His fingers twitch nervously at the back of his neck, scratching awkwardly as if trying to claw away the weight of that moment.
"I never told anyone this."
"It’s not weakness, Gwaine" my voice sounds firmer than I expected, but I feel he needed to hear it.
He looks at me then, and in his eyes there’s something that isn’t defeat, but it’s not hope either. He smiles sadly, as if that curve of his lips hides years of silence, then steps away, walking toward the door. He grips the handle but doesn’t turn it yet.
"Maybe not" he says, exhaling a sigh that seems to drag centuries of dust. "But you don’t know what it means to look her in the eyes and then keep walking. That night taught me if I ever find myself there again… I won’t wait for someone to save me. And if I can stop you from getting to that point… I will."
His words hang in the air like an oath that asked for no witnesses but that I know he’ll keep. There’s nothing to add. So he gives me one last smile, just a flicker, and leaves. The door closes with a soft click, but to me it sounds like a slam. I’m alone again.
And the loneliness… this time it’s heavier. I don’t have close friends who’d want to visit, to say goodbye one last time. Tarik’s absence still aches like an open wound, and in these moments, when I feel most vulnerable, is when I miss him the most. I think of his laughter, of how his voice had the power to make everything seem less dark. Now, that echo is gone.
About thirty minutes pass, maybe more. In that time, I barely move. I’ve ended up sitting in a chair, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I wait… though I’m not sure for what.
Finally, the door opens and a knight of the Round Table enters. I don’t know if it’s the same one who’s been here since I arrived, the one who let my parents in but denied me a proper farewell. He wears a red uniform embroidered in gold, gleaming, and as he approaches the metallic scent of steel fills my nose, cold and harsh.
He escorts me through the building, our footsteps echoing in the stone hallway, until we reach the back exit. There, at that very moment, I see Mithian approaching as well. Between the two of us, a matte red car waits, imposing, with its back doors open. It’s not just a car… it’s the vehicle that will take us to the train station, the official beginning of the journey from which we probably won’t return.
On one side, several cameras from the Flame and Crown show keep filming every movement, every breath. I can hear, in the distance, someone saying there will be more cameras at the station. I sigh.
As I step into the car, I see that it’s spacious. Inside are Camila and Ashton, the other victors from District Seven. Gwaine is there too, sitting at the back, next to the host who drew our names from the urn. And that’s when I remember what he said before: each of us would have two mentors. But one is missing. Something doesn’t add up. I’m about to ask, but the driver speeds up, and the city begins to blur through the window.
I can hear the murmurs of the victors chatting cheerfully with Gwaine and with the host, who introduces himself as George. His voice is deep but modulated, as if he’s used to captivating audiences. There’s something rehearsed in the way he speaks, every word heavy with intent. He explains that he’ll be part of our team alongside the trainers, but not as a mere assistant—he’s an escort, a title that carries weight in Camelot that I don’t fully understand, though he seems to enjoy explaining it. His role, he says, is to oversee the Royal Summoning, escort the Crown’s chosen contenders all the way to the golden city, and guide them through their first days upon arrival. He also adds, with a gesture that blends pride and gravity, that he will advise us during the Crown Games events. And if one of us becomes a Victor, then he will have the honor"and the responsibility"to lead the Victor’s March, that parade the whole of Camelot eagerly awaits, where the entire city hails the winner as if sent by the gods themselves.
He tells it with solemn calmness, but with the subtlety of someone who knows he’s speaking about more than just a job; he dresses it in glory, in prestige, as if expecting us, the contenders, to recognize that his presence is almost a privilege.
"I hope you understand what it means for me to be here" he says, his gaze sweeping over each of us as if measuring our reactions. I don’t say it out loud, but in my head I think it hardly matters who accompanies us if the end is the same for almost everyone.
Mithian and I don’t talk much, we simply listen. She keeps her head high, her gaze fixed on George as if every word were a revealed secret. I, on the other hand, nod from time to time, but in my mind I barely retain the essentials. I wait, hoping his chatter will eventually reveal something truly important, something that might mean an advantage when the arena swallows us all. From what I’ve seen on the Flame and Crown show, I know the first thing they’ll do is film us upon arrival at Camelot’s train station, the central hub that connects all the districts to the golden city. Then they’ll show a recap of what the hosts consider the best moments from last year’s games, an edited spectacle meant to entertain and remind everyone of the bloodshed. After that will come the Crown Contenders’ Parade, and then we’ll spend a week in the Tower of Challengers, training and honing our skills, always under the watchful eye of cameras capturing only fragments, the ones they deem worth showing. After that will come the skills test, where the main sponsors decide who deserves their support.
I know, like everyone else, that the Court Champions almost always dominate that evaluation. They always come from Districts One, Two, and Four. The name isn’t just a title: in those places, children grow up training for this moment, their entire lives shaped to triumph in the arena. In contrast, the lower districts—Ten, Eleven, and especially Twelve—hardly ever stand out. Twelve has never had a victor; Eleven, only one; Ten, three in its entire history. Meanwhile, District One boasts twelve victors, a record they proudly repeat in every broadcast. I know because they mentioned it during Tarik’s games, and the boy from One, arrogant to the core, made a comment about it during his interview with Lancelot Devereux. It didn’t do him any good. The image of my brother raising the axe and slitting his throat in a single strike still haunts me some nights, embedding itself in my mind like a knife that never rusts. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the dull sound, the final gasp, and the heavy silence that followed.
By the time the car stops in front of the train station, I feel a little calmer, though every muscle remains on alert. Mithian whispers something to me before stepping out, her lips moving quickly, but the outside noise drowns her words.
"What?" I manage to ask, but it’s too late; she’s already turned her face toward the cameras, smiling as if she were born for that moment.
When she steps out, she raises her right hand and waves with a coy gesture that earns a murmur from the crowd. For a moment, I feel the urge to yell at her, remind her she’s not here for a fashion show, that she was summoned to fight to the death and will probably never return. But I hold back. Her strategy is clear: start seducing sponsors from the very first second. It’s smart. And I… I can’t blame her for it.
I take a deep breath before stepping out of the car. My hands are still sweaty, and my eyes burn, red from silently crying when no one was watching. I straighten my back and force my lips to form a smile I don’t feel. I walk toward the station, wave my hand, and fix my gaze on the cameras as if I’m convinced I belong in this golden world.
The station’s façade rises before me like a monument to Camelot’s greatness: tall walls, windows reflecting sunlight like mirrors, and the sound of trains echoing beneath the glass ceilings. Everything is imposing, designed to remind you it belongs to the heart of the Kingdom. And while the cameras film and capture every gesture, I can only think of how fragile that image is. Because behind all this brightness, I know every step I take brings me closer to a place where there will be nothing but blood, screams, and death.
However, it doesn’t take long before the station doors swing open. The metallic sound rings out like a warning bell, and for a second, I swear my heart stops. I hear Gwaine curse under his breath, barely a whisper laced with irritation and, perhaps, resignation. Before I can even ask him what’s happening, a strong, masculine, and above all calm voice rises above the general murmur. That voice has a steady rhythm, as if every word is calculated to convey absolute control. And most unsettling of all, it carries what feels like a smile hidden behind every syllable. Mithian and I turn almost at the same time toward the source of that voice and, the moment my eyes land on him, I feel the air leave my lungs.
There, standing before us as if he’d stepped straight out of an imperial portrait, is Arthur Pendragon, only son of King Uther and Queen Ygraine Pendragon. His mere presence transforms the atmosphere; everyone’s eyes sharpen, the cameras activate with a mechanical murmur, and I feel as though, somehow, we’ve stopped being in the station and are now standing on the stage of a carefully orchestrated spectacle.
And then, like a puzzle piece clicking into place, I remember Gwaine’s words, the ones he muttered in the building’s plaza room. He said it so casually I didn’t think much of it at the time: that there would be four trainers. I don’t understand how I could have missed the obvious. Maybe it was because my mind was saturated with the certainty that I was going to die, and rationality wasn’t exactly my priority. Now, seeing him there, so real, so impossible to ignore, I realize Gwaine might have been leaving me a clue… and that I, naïve, let it slip through my fingers like sand.
Arthur Pendragon is still smiling, but when his eyes lock onto mine, that smile seems sharp. His golden hair catches the light as if it were liquid fire, each strand seeming to shine of its own will. His eyes, a blue so intense it almost hurts to look at them, bore into me with a mix of judgment and calculation. He’s tall, maybe a little taller than Gwaine; his body is more muscular, but he hasn’t lost the agility of a lean frame. There’s no doubt he’s built to draw attention—not just because of his lineage, but because he knows exactly how to present himself.
I swallow hard, aware of what it means that Arthur Pendragon is here. He is not just a simple trainer. He is the most recognizable face of the kingdom’s propaganda, the living emblem of Camelot. Each year, he trains a tribute from a different district, and though some have won, most end up falling. Victory, however, isn’t the point. Arthur guarantees a spectacle; he is the narrative the Crown wants to sell: heroism, sacrifice, glory… and blood. I vividly remember the twenty-ninth Games, when he trained the tribute from District Three. It wasn’t his strategy that stood out, but how every gesture, every piece of advice, was recorded to feed the official broadcasts. The war was a show, and he knew how to be its star.
"Prince Arthur," says Mithian, bowing her head in a reverence so flawless it could almost be part of royal protocol.
I, on the other hand, remain trapped under the weight of what his presence means. I can’t even manage a greeting. He, for his part, seems to notice my lack of manners. His gaze, cold and precise, sweeps me from head to toe and then back up again, as if assessing me, and in the process, finding something he doesn’t like. For a moment, I feel my skin burn under that scrutiny. A part of me reacts instinctively, lowering my head in a sign of respect, though I know it’s far too late to correct my mistake. George, with a voice more artificial than ever, breaks the silence to greet him, but Arthur responds with a curt gesture, as if granting attention purely out of courtesy. Gwaine and the other victors merely shake his hand before disappearing into the station, leaving Mithian and me alone before him. Well, as alone as you can be when at least eight cameras are circling around, capturing every angle.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you," says Arthur, and every word of his seems calibrated to sound perfect on a live broadcast. He walks toward us with steady, unhurried steps, and the cameras glide behind him as if they were an extension of his shadow. I have no trouble imagining that this will be broadcast in Flame and Crown within minutes, so everyone in Camelot can watch.
Mithian keeps her face serene, but I recognize that rigidity in her features. She tries to smile, but there’s a trace of tension in her eyes that she can’t hide. She understands the same thing I do: being chosen by Arthur Pendragon is no honor, but a sentence disguised as glory. The tribute he selects will have a nearly sealed fate, and the first image of their story will likely be their corpse in the bloodbath when the Games begin.
Arthur steps closer to us, and his voice fills the air as if the station itself had been built to amplify it.
"Not everyone is born for glory," he declares, looking at the cameras with that calculated glint in his eyes. "Not everyone has the courage to face death’s edge and keep moving forward, but you…" he lifts his chin slightly "…you have been chosen. The Games are not just a spectacle; they are the heart of the kingdom. A reminder that the sacrifice of a few guarantees the peace of many. In every blow, in every fall, in every drop of blood, the Crown finds strength. And I will be here to forge that strength into something worthy of being remembered."
His words are a perfectly measured mix of heroism and veiled threat. A speech dressed up as honor, but that reeks of spectacle and applause beneath the surface. The invisible crowd watching through the cameras won’t hear the true weight of his words; only the glorified music of an elegant executioner. I, however, feel the blade hidden behind every syllable.
Arthur lets a dramatic silence settle between us before twisting his lips into an arrogant smile.
"Gwaine mentioned something… about taking charge of the male tribute this year." His eyes lock onto mine, cold and calculating. "But I think I want him for myself."
For a second, I’m not sure I heard him correctly. Beside me, Mithian keeps her face composed, but I swear her shoulders ease just slightly, as if she’d been holding her breath and could finally exhale. And that’s when I see it: a flicker of a smile, so fleeting anyone else might think I imagined it, but I know it’s real. She knows what this means… and for her, it’s not bad news.
The cameras capture the moment, recording it for tonight’s broadcast. Then, one by one, the red lights indicating we’re live switch off. Technicians and guards begin to move, breaking the solemn frame Arthur had created.
"Miss," Arthur says with rehearsed courtesy, "would you step inside the station first?"
She nods, throws me one last brief glance—I can’t decipher it—and disappears through the metallic doors.
As soon as they close, Arthur’s smile vanishes as if it never existed. He looks at me for a moment, his voice dropping to a tone not meant for anyone else to hear.
"Don’t mess this up."
It isn’t advice. It’s an order. And he doesn’t need to decorate it with threats, because I already know them all.
Arthur turns on his heel and strides into the station, leaving me alone, surrounded only by the echo of my own thoughts. His words still weigh on my mind, and the air feels thicker, as if the place itself knows the game has begun.
I exhale, feeling the cold metal beneath my boots and the vertigo of the inevitable. I don’t need to say it aloud to know: I’m already dead.
Chapter 3: What is not said.
Chapter Text
The air inside the train still feels dense, loaded with an uncomfortable heat that seems to cling to my skin as if it refuses to let me fully breathe. It’s stifling, but not unbearable; rather, it’s the kind of heat that reminds me I’m trapped in a sealed place, moving at an absurd speed toward a destination I never asked for. The constant roar of the wheels against the tracks blends with a low hum that seems to emanate from the walls, a sound so steady it could almost convince me it’s part of me, like a second heartbeat. Outside, the world is a blur of greens and shadows: the forest stretches on both sides, distorted by the speed, until it becomes streaks my eyes can’t catch. I try to focus on a tree trunk, a branch, but everything slips away from me as if the very landscape refuses to leave me with a clear memory of this moment.
I sit next to Heather, and across from us, Mithian maintains that flawless composure that seems made for cameras, even though there’s none recording right now. They talk in a light tone, discussing trivialities I can’t follow: details about some dress, a comment on the décor of the carriage, even an observation about the weather we left behind. My eyes, however, settle on the strange little snacks they’re both sharing. One in particular catches my attention: a sort of round pastry, topped with something viscous that, at first glance, reminds me of the resin dripping from trees at the sawmill… except this one is a bright caramel color. Mithian eats it with absolute naturalness, as if it’s some delicacy from another world, and for a moment I wonder if it is.
Heather offered me one a few minutes ago, but I declined with a quick gesture, more instinct than politeness. Now, though, curiosity starts eroding my resistance. I glance sideways, following Mithian’s movements as she eats the snack, bringing it to her mouth with her fingers. I think of Gwaine, how I haven’t seen him since he went through those metal doors, just seconds after Arthur. The last thing I caught was the start of a tense argument between them, whispers with an edge. Then Arthur grabbed Gwaine by the arm—not violently, but with the firmness of someone who doesn’t take no for an answer—and escorted him out of my sight. I haven’t seen them since.
I don’t know how long we’ve been in this carriage, but judging by the slanted light coming through the windows, I guess the day is dying. The sky outside must be turning gold and purple, though in here the artificial lighting makes everything seem the same as always. I look again at Heather Woods, and my mind runs through what I know about her: victor of our district, twenty-seven years old, red hair cascading down to her knees, always with a sweet gaze and a strange calm that, they say, she never lost even during her own Games. I’ve seen her hand out food at the sawmill when the knights aren’t watching too closely, how she earns smiles and respect effortlessly. I also think of Dylan Hoechlin, the other victor, not here, but his image is so familiar in my mind I can almost see him: short hair, green eyes, and a perfectly trimmed beard that, according to many girls in the district, is as legendary as his victory. And of course, Gwaine: always distant from them, as if he belonged somewhere else, except when Camelot calls him to fulfill his duty as mentor.
"Are you sure you don’t want one, Merlin?" Heather’s voice cuts through my thoughts. It has that kind tone that makes it impossible to refuse without feeling guilty.
"It’s fine…" I answer this time, nodding before I can change my mind.
She smiles and hands me a small tray with a variety of bites, each one a different shape and color. There are golden pastries filled with something thick, paper-thin cookies that look like they’d break just by looking at them, and tiny pieces that glitter as if dusted with sugar or maybe edible crystals. I only take one of each from the top row, but Heather looks at me as if I’ve just insulted a king’s generosity.
"Take more," she insists, tilting the tray toward me. "I can already tell what your reaction will be."
"These are fine for now," I say, giving her a small smile to show it’s not rejection, just postponement.
"She warned you," Mithian cuts in, with a half-smile that seems to relish what’s about to happen.
I bring one to my mouth: it has the same brown pastry base I saw earlier, but this time the top is covered with a soft cream, pale pink and almost unreal. The first touch on my tongue is enough to send a shiver through me. It’s as if every flavor unfolds in layers, revealing nuances I didn’t know could exist in a single bite. Soft fruits, something floral, a subtle warmth lingering in my throat… and then I realize I’m softly moaning as I chew.
"Oh… shit…" I whisper, barely noticing I’ve let the thought slip out loud, feeling every fiber of my body respond to the explosion of flavors flooding me. "This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life…"
Mithian bursts into a brief laugh, one that tries to disguise a teasing fondness, while Heather, clearly pleased with my reaction, sets the tray on the back of my seat, close enough to tempt me into eating more.
"Try that one," Heather points to a particular snack, long-shaped and bright orange. "In Camelot they call it salmon… it’s salty, but there’s something… something that makes it irresistible."
I obey. The taste hits me as soon as it touches my tongue: a deep, oceanic flavor with a smoky, salty note that clings to my palate. My eyes close involuntarily, and I let out a low sigh, almost a stifled moan. Mithian imitates me, tasting the same snack, and throws her head back with a sound of delight that makes me chuckle quietly. Heather, her high ponytail slightly undone, watches us like she’s seeing two children discover the world for the first time.
The conversation that follows is light, almost trivial, but strangely comforting. We talk about flavors, textures, oddities one would never imagine finding in a dish. I discover my favorites: fig rolls with dark honey, and small seaweed balls filled with spiced cheese that crunch when bitten, releasing an intense aroma. Heather insists we also try a thick liquor that tastes of coffee and cinnamon, then offers me a cold drink, red berry lemonade, leaving a tangy-sweet aftertaste, like summer and winter meeting on my tongue.
Slowly, daylight fades. The forest, once a blur of green beyond the windows, is replaced by the thick blackness of night. That’s when the door opens, and Dylan appears.
He’s wearing a white shirt, so thin the dampness of his hair has left faint transparencies, revealing the shadows of his muscles. His gray pants seem made of fabric so soft they barely brush his skin, and he’s barefoot, giving him an oddly domestic air, almost out of place on this train.
He smiles, first at everyone, but then his eyes lock on me. In that instant, the smile falters slightly, barely noticeable, and what I see on his face is… discomfort, maybe guilt.
"Heather…" he calls her, his voice deep and lower than usual.
She sighs, sets the tray aside, and stands to meet him. Their words are barely audible whispers, but their glances, fleeting and tense, include me even as they try to hide it. I catch fragments: Gwaine angry because Arthur chose me, Arthur irritated that Gwaine dared to suggest he stay away from me… and Gwaine’s request to Dylan to switch suitors, a desperate attempt to protect me even if it means working alongside the prince.
Heather nods almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if Mithian has heard anything; her expression is neutral, but her eyes remain on me like she’s trying to figure me out.
"Merlin…" Dylan says, this time out loud, as if he needs to cut through speculation with a single word. "Arthur and Gwaine will show you your room. They’re waiting for you right now."
I feel Mithian’s inquisitive gaze, but I don’t return it. I simply bring one last piece of salmon to my mouth, chewing slowly, as if I could somehow buy time before facing what awaits me. I get up and walk toward Dylan. As I pass by him, his hand closes around my arm.
Our eyes meet. There’s a flicker of frustration in his, something he seems to want to say but that gets stuck in his throat.
"I…," he whispers, but stops and shakes his head. "I’m truly sorry."
And he lets me go. There’s no need for him to say more. I know exactly what he means. Having Arthur Pendragon as a mentor isn’t a blessing… it’s a curse.
I wander aimlessly down the hallway until I hear Arthur and Gwaine’s voices. A young man dressed in white, so white it hurts to look at, stands by the door with a rigid posture and his gaze fixed on nothing. When he sees me, he nods and knocks on the door three times. The voices stop immediately.
Arthur opens it. His expression is pure disdain, but he steps aside to let me in.
"Merls…," Gwaine greets me with a strained smile, heavy with tension he can’t quite hide. His voice is rougher than usual, as if he’s holding something back. "Come, take a seat."
Arthur scoffs with a mocking gesture and sits next to him, as if this meeting were a tedious formality.
"You’re probably wondering why we called you," Gwaine begins, ignoring the prince’s attitude. "You see, Arthur has chosen you to be trained…"
"I’ve given you the honor of being my trainee," Arthur cuts in, his tone dripping with condescension. "So Gwaine and I will train you for the next two weeks at the Tower of Challengers."
I look at Gwaine. His left eyebrow lifts ever so slightly, but his gaze says it all: hold on.
"This is where you say thank you," Arthur continues, oblivious to the tension hanging invisibly between Gwaine and me. "It’s quite the honor to have me as your mentor, boy."
He gets up and walks toward the door, but before leaving, he turns. His smile is cold, calculated.
"I assure you…," he whispers, with a poisonous pause, "your brother would have won if he’d had me."
I feel my blood boil. The image of his neck under my hands flashes through me like lightning. I’m about to stand, but Gwaine grabs my hand tightly, anchoring me to the seat.
Arthur bids farewell with a curt gesture, just a slight nod that could be mistaken for politeness if you didn’t know the blade hidden behind it. He leaves without looking back, and the door closes with a sound that isn’t loud, but final. The silence that follows stretches out, thick and rough, like a taut rope neither Gwaine nor I dare to cut. I stare at the door for a few more seconds, as if I could force it open again through sheer rage. My brows are furrowed, my jaw tense, my blood pounding in my ears. A part of me wants to run out, catch up with him in the hallway, and land a punch right in his face. Not out of pride, but because I feel he deserves it. And yet… Gwaine’s hand pressing down on mine keeps me anchored, as if he can read the war in my head and reminds me, without words, that it isn’t worth it.
"It’s not worth it," he says, with that calm that unsettles me. I turn to him with a raised brow and he smiles, as if trying to soften the edge of my thoughts. "You know it’s not."
"Is he always like this?" I ask, though I know I won’t like the answer.
"Yes," he replies without hesitation. He lets go of my hand and leans back, exhaling as though the weight of that truth rests heavier on him than me. "The good thing is that sometimes I don’t have to be around him much, and I can avoid it… but now he’ll be working with us."
"Yeah, I heard what Dylan told Heather."
Gwaine gives me a look that’s part surprise, part resignation.
"You weren’t supposed to know that, Merls." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up carelessly. "But yes… it was supposed to be Dylan and me training you, but Arthur… ruined everything."
I watch him and can’t help but notice the frustration in his eyes. I’m surprised by how easily he seems to move past the fact that I’ve been distant from him all these years. As if none of that ever happened. As if we were still those two children breathing the same forest air. I remember Gwaine at twelve, his hands always covered in sawdust, his skin marked with cuts and scratches from chopping wood. Always stronger, faster than anyone our age… even some adults. A year later he won, and then he became a mentor when he was just fourteen. Heather, at twenty-one, and Dylan, at nineteen, had been his trainers. Sometimes it still amazes me that he survived it all.
"Well," he says as he stands, as if trying to distance himself from the conversation, "this will be your room until we get to Camelot."
He walks over to what at first looks like a black mirror on the wall. He grabs a rectangular object, also black, with buttons I don’t recognize. He presses one, and the mirror comes to life, glowing with images. It’s similar to the projectors they use in the district to show the games, but the quality… it’s different. Sharper. Crueler.
"Here." He hands it to me. "It’s not that hard to use, just follow your instincts. Tomorrow we’ll talk about some things. In the meantime, that door over there"—he points to an opaque glass door on the other side—"is the bathroom. You can watch TV after a shower. I’ll come see you tomorrow and…" he pauses, and for a second his voice loses its steadiness, "I’m really sorry about all this."
He doesn’t add anything else, and neither do I. I know he’s not just talking about Arthur, but about my presence on this train, about my sealed fate. A journey toward a death we all seem to have accepted by now, myself included. He ruffles my hair with a smile and leaves, the silence closing in around me.
The screen is still on, showing the program Flame and Crown with Lancelot Devereux and Leon Hawke. They speak about the games with an enthusiasm that makes me sick. The broadcast shows scenes from past editions. I recognize Heather in a recording from when she was fifteen: her hair cut short, her sharp eyes, an axe in hand. The camera shows her panting, blocking her opponent’s attack with quick movements until, in a flash, she drives the weapon into the boy from Ten’s chest. The hosts comment on that and other deaths as if they were brilliant plays in a sport, not stolen lives.
Among the images, I recognize faces from my district. Some triumphant, others… falling. And then, I see him. Gwaine, barely thirteen. The camera captures him perched high in a tree, watching the Crown Champions’ camp. The boy I remember and the man I know overlap in the image.
"Gwaine Blackwood will always be a revelation," Leon says with a smile.
"And at only thirteen," Lancelot adds. "One of Camelot’s favorite sons. Look at that, Leon…"
The images roll on. Gwaine waits. Patient. Silent. Leon almost leans into the camera.
"He waits until the camp is half empty to strike. Watch, watch… by the kings…"
In the scene, Gwaine slips down from the tree without a sound. The axe glints faintly under the light. The girl from One is distracted, looking at her nails. She doesn’t have time to scream. The cut is swift, clean. Deadly.
"I've always liked that part," says Leon with a glimmer in his eyes that churns my stomach, "that moment when a suitor… becomes a sacrifice."
The following scenes are more of the same, but that doesn’t mean they hurt any less. Each image flashing before my eyes is like a needle sinking deeper and deeper into my skin. I see faces I recognize: people I once exchanged words with, those I worked alongside at the sawmill, and others who were nothing more than fleeting shadows in the crowd. And then, like an ambush I didn’t see coming, the moment arrives.
The first scene is of Tarik. He’s hiding in what looks like an abandoned building. It’s not hard to recognize: the ruined architecture, the cracked walls, and the hollow windows are all trademarks of the city where his Games took place. A city that seemed alive and hostile, shifting its insides as if it wanted to devour those who lingered too long in its depths.
I shift on the bed, searching for a more comfortable position. The same bed I collapsed onto when Gwaine left, leaving me alone with these memories that the television now insists on tearing open like fresh wounds.
"Tarik was also quite the revelation," Leon comments, his voice laced with an enthusiasm I find unbearable. "Without a doubt, he was one of my favorites."
"Yours and all of Camelot’s, Leon," Lancelot replies, his smile burning in my ears. "Tarik had everything it took to win. He lasted nearly the full three weeks of the Games that year."
The camera zooms in. Tarik is curled up against a wall, his breathing ragged. His right arm is clumsily bandaged, and his leg… God… the wound is so gaping I could almost swear the bone is showing. I swallow hard, my stomach twisting. I watch him apply an ointment sent by his sponsors, his hands trembling, his teeth clenched to stifle a scream. Lancelot isn’t exaggerating: by the second week, Tarik had already taken down three Champions and a girl from District Eight. Camelot celebrated him as a hero. Back home, they were preparing his welcome… but Tarik never returned.
"Yes," Leon continues, as Tarik faces an opponent whose strength nearly radiates through the screen, "it’s a shame… Camelot truly loved him."
The air grows heavy. Something warm slides down my cheek: tears. I don’t try to stop them. The scene moves forward, and I find myself facing what I’ve always dreaded reliving. Tarik and Tanner, the boy from District Two, fighting hand-to-hand. Tarik has two cuts across his face, he’s limping, bleeding from his mouth, but he’s still standing. Tanner, on the other hand, carries a deep slash from chest to waist, a black eye swollen shut, and a broken finger dangling crookedly.
And then it all happens too fast. Tanner lets out a raw scream that cuts through me and charges at Tarik with the desperate strength of someone who knows this is his last chance. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see. I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. The sounds still reach me: the dull thud of bodies colliding, the gasps, the clash of steel on steel. Tarik’s axe grazes Tanner’s neck, but that instant is all Tanner needs to drive his dagger into the center of my brother’s chest. The bell tolls. Tarik falls. Tanner, staggering, rises to his feet as triumphant music fills the room. The Twenty-Ninth Crown Games have a victor.
And it’s not my brother.
My hands tremble as I pick up the remote Gwaine left behind. I’m about to turn it off when the image changes, and my own face appears next to Tarik’s. A lump forms in my throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe.
"In these Games, we have his brother, Merlin," says Lancelot, his tone sounding more like a performance than a tragedy. "If he’s as good as Tarik, I think we have another favorite among us."
The screen shows my Reaping. There I am, small before the crowd, my face contorted, my eyes red. There is no courage in my stance. I am not Tarik, and it’s obvious. He accepted his fate with his head held high; I, on the other hand, look like a child ripped from his home by force.
"These things don’t happen as often as one would think," Leon adds, his smile twisting my stomach, "but Tarik was my favorite… he’s set quite the bar for his brother."
I turn the television off. The silence left behind is more unbearable than the noise. I feel filthy, as if I’d been displayed in a marketplace, compared like livestock to a stronger, worthier animal. But that’s all we are to Camelot: cattle for the spectacle.
I sigh and walk toward the frosted glass door, determined to take a bath before bed, though I know not even the hottest water could wash away this feeling of humiliation that seeps into my bones. I still carry the weight in my chest of the images on the screen, the comparisons, Lancelot’s voice announcing my name like I’m a product on display. There is no refuge, not here, but at least silence and water might dull this rage.
The bathroom greets me with a white so pure it nearly stings my eyes, as if I’d stepped into a room made of polished snow. A switch on the wall catches my attention, similar to the ones at home but with more buttons. I can’t help myself; curiosity pushes me to try them. The first turns the light on and off, just like any other, but the second dims it until it’s soft, pleasant, as if the room were breathing with me. Another button releases steam from the ceiling, warm and almost comforting, not scalding. The next three release different scents: the first is too sweet, the second has a metallic perfume that reminds me of the Capitol’s halls and churns my stomach, and the third… lavender. At least that one doesn’t make me nauseous. I press the last button, and the air clears of all scent, even the steam. I leave the light dim, almost intimate, and my steps lead me to the tub.
The tub is both opaque and gleaming white, as if it held the light of a thousand candles within. Several buttons are embedded along its edges, and I feel like a child faced with a new toy. The two largest ones are labeled: the right releases a torrent of near-boiling water; the left, a flow of crystal-clear cold that bites the skin at its touch. I decide to start with the hot water, watching as steam rises and fills the room. Among the smaller buttons, I recognize the same ones for scenting the water, and without hesitation, I choose lavender. Another, barely noticeable button releases white foam that spreads like clouds across the surface.
I sink in slowly. The water wraps around my body as if embracing me, and for a moment… I think of nothing. At home, water is barely lukewarm, always carrying a sharp edge of cold that never fades, not even in summer. Here, the heat seeps into my bones, pushing the tension from my muscles. I rest my head on the edge and close my eyes. The lavender mingles with the steam, and the soft murmur of the water becomes a distant voice that says nothing, yet says everything.
I don’t know how much time passes. My fingertips begin to wrinkle, and my skin feels so saturated with moisture I fear I’ll come undone if I stay longer. I climb out, shivering at the abrupt chill of the air against my skin. I open a cabinet made of the same material as the tub and find clothes. They’re soft, unbelievably comfortable, as if made for someone who has never felt the scratch of poorly mended fabric. I dress slowly, almost reverently, as though covering myself in something more than cloth.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I notice the same panel of buttons beside the bed. I dim the light until it’s low again. I sink onto the mattress, which gives beneath my weight as if swallowing me whole. I think I could get used to this… and that’s perhaps the most dangerous thought of all. My eyes close without me realizing, and darkness takes me completely.
• ────── ♕ ────── •
When I wake up, the clock in my mind tells me it’s six in the morning… or at least I think so. It’s the time I always wake up in the district, when the chill of dawn still clings to the cabin walls and I have to get ready to go to the sawmill. Here, in this silent and artificial place, there’s no birdsong or scent of damp wood. Only a dense silence that gives me too much space to think.
And thinking is the last thing I want to do… because every thought leads me back to my parents. I picture them now, so vividly it hurts. Mom, in her room, with swollen eyes from not sleeping and a heavy body, dragging her feet to the kitchen. Dad, leaving early, as if work could hide him from the pain. Both of them trying to protect each other from the weight of my absence, pretending to be strong when I know inside they’re breaking.
I think about what they must be feeling, watching me march to the same fate my brother had. It’s a blow that will carve an abyss into their hearts. I only hope my death—if it comes—doesn’t make them give up. They still have life ahead of them, even if mine already feels mortgaged to an ending I don’t want.
I take a deep breath, as if that could loosen the knot in my throat, but it only makes it hurt more. I get up slowly, spending nearly half an hour convincing myself to leave the room.
The train corridor is dim, lit by warm lights that seem to try to imitate the dawn’s glow, but without soul. I follow the sound of voices coming from the end, toward the room where I was yesterday with Mithian and Heather. When I enter, a stronger light strikes my eyes, and I blink, dazzled.
No one announces me, and nobody seems to notice I’m there. Prince Arthur sits with his back to me, in front of a table with barely any food. In the corner, upright and still as a statue, stands the young man in white I saw last night guarding my room.
"No, Dad…" Arthur’s voice is low, cracked in a way I’ve never heard before. "I don’t know if I want to keep doing this…"
My first instinct is to leave. This doesn’t concern me. But something in his tone roots me to the floor. It’s pure exhaustion, emotional nakedness, like he’s speaking without armor.
"Mom wants to use me in these games more than I want to participate…" his voice fades, then returns, tighter. "She says we can use the suitor as an anchor for the games… his brother was here four years ago, Dad… the file says he’s the only one his parents have… yes… yes, I know… but Dad…"
Each word is an icy heartbeat. I know they’re talking about me. And I know I shouldn’t listen any further, but my feet refuse to move. The air in the room feels heavier, as if even the silence of the white guard knows what’s at stake.
"I’ll just do my job…" Arthur’s voice breaks, and this time there’s no doubt: he’s crying. "I don’t want to give Mom more things to punish me for…"
I swallow hard. The boy in the corner keeps his gaze fixed forward, seemingly unaware, but I can’t help wondering how much he knows, how much he hides. And why Arthur trusts him enough to speak like this in front of him.
I’m about to step back when Arthur turns and sees me. His eyes widen in surprise for a moment… and then the surprise dies, replaced by something darker. He pockets the device he was speaking into, saying goodbye to his father, and stands.
Everything happens too fast: in a second my back is against the wall, and he’s gripping my shoulders with a strength that pierces through my clothes; I can feel his breath against my face. His eyes burn, but it’s not just anger. It’s fear. Fear that I’ve heard too much.
I place my hands on his chest by instinct, feeling the heat of his body, the tension in every muscle.
"Haven’t they told you that listening to other people’s conversations is rude?" his voice is low, but sharp, like a knife sinking in slowly. His fingers press harder, and I feel the sting of his nails marking my skin.
"I didn’t mean to listen," I reply, though we both know I’m lying.
A mocking smile curves his lips, but there’s no humor in it. He shoves me harder against the wall before letting go. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something else… but he stops.
He grabs a plate from the table, walks toward the door opposite the one I entered, and just before leaving, he turns.
"Whatever it is… you’d better not say a word," his frown hardens with controlled fury, "or you won’t even make it to the arena, boy."
He leaves, immediately followed by the white guard.
I stay there, with the echo of his threat floating in my mind. I know I shouldn’t worry: I don’t plan to say anything. But there’s something in his words that weighs on me… something that isn’t fear, but guilt.
Hours later, Gwaine and Heather enter while whispering to each other. They find me sitting at the table, with the scraps of food Arthur left behind. Heather smiles as soon as she sees me.
"We’ll arrive in Camelot tomorrow morning," she says, her voice carrying an emotion I’m not sure is hope or just habit.
I wonder if I’ll be able to survive another day here, on this train, with Arthur. And I hate myself a little for feeling pity for him. I’d always imagined him as the perfect face of the games: arrogant, confident, willing. But no. He’s just another pawn. A pawn with an invisible crown and unseen chains.
And now… he’s my mentor.
Chapter 4: Camelot
Chapter Text
"Come on," Gwaine tells me again, his voice low, almost as if he doesn’t want Arthur to hear, "I know you can…"
I look at him, outraged. In my chest swirl feelings that have no name, a mix of shame, rage, and something very close to fear. I truly don’t know what to think about everything we’ve talked about in the last two hours. My throat burns as if I had swallowed fire, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve held back tears or because I refuse to let them see how much this is breaking me.
Arthur watches me with frustration from the corner of the room, where he’s entrenched himself since the moment Gwaine asked me for whatever this was. Two hours have passed, and I still can’t believe it.
"I know it’s not what you expected," says Gwaine, his voice weighed down with a melancholy so dense it pierces my chest. "Believe me, I didn’t want to say it now either… but I have no choice."
His smile is sad, fragile. I think I see in his lashes traces of restrained tears. And I hate him for that, because he forces me to feel his pain as if it were mine.
"Did he do this?" I ask in a hoarse voice, barely recognizing myself. And I know Gwaine understands I’m talking about my brother.
A thick silence fills the room. Gwaine looks at me, and in that instant I know that even if his answer isn’t terrifying on its own, the truth will end up tearing something vital from me. It isn’t my body that will die when I leave this damned train and step onto the cold, merciless ground of Camelot—it will be my soul. That I know. What I don’t know is how long it will resist before it breaks completely.
I see Gwaine sigh, as if he’s been carrying the weight of this truth for years, and in his eyes I read it all. He doesn’t need to speak, because I already know. I know it by the way Tarik looked at the former host of Flame and Crown, Lancelot’s father. I know it by the way he blew kisses to the audience, by how he presented himself, by how his interview outfit revealed more skin than the Suitors’ parade costume. Everything clicks in my mind in just two seconds. And still, it hurts. It hurts as if I had been ripped open with a knife in the middle of my chest.
"Yes," Gwaine finally replies, and that word kills me a little more.
Arthur snorts impatiently, as if my pain were a waste of time.
"I don’t understand your attitude," says Arthur, his voice loaded with annoyance. "He’s only asking you to look desirable, to look like a good appetizer so the sponsors will take interest in you. I don’t understand what your damn problem is. It’s just strategy, boy."
His word cuts me like a whip.
"Call me boy one more time and…"
Arthur steps toward me, his shadow covering my space, his firm footsteps pounding like hammers against my sanity.
"Oh, what…?" he spits, with a mocking tone that ignites my blood, "do you think I’m afraid of you… boy?"
I open my mouth, ready to respond, but Gwaine cuts us off at the root.
"Enough!" he interrupts, with a firmness I’ve rarely seen in him. He looks straight at me, serious, and in his eyes stirs a sorrow so vast I feel it drag me with it. "I know it’s not what you expected, Merls… but it really is the strongest strategy."
I look at Gwaine, and suddenly I understand everything. I understand the weariness in his shoulders, the bitterness hidden behind his smile, the resignation that follows him every time he advises me. I hate myself for not having read between the lines before, for not having seen what was obvious.
My voice comes out trembling, barely a whisper.
"You used it too, didn’t you?"
For a moment I think he hasn’t heard me, but he looks at me. And in that silence I know my question doesn’t need an answer. He says nothing. And that’s worse.
I feel my heart shatter into a thousand pieces.
"God… Gwaine," I whisper, barely breathing, "you were only thirteen…"
Arthur snorts again, this time louder, as if my pain were a nuisance to his ears.
"For God’s sake," he says, his voice heavy with exhaustion and frustration, "he’s only asking you to look desirable, so the sponsors will take interest in you. He’s not asking you to actually sell your body to them, is he?"
I glare at Arthur with rage, but before I can answer, I notice something. Gwaine’s face collapses for just a second. His eyes widen as if someone had struck him in the chest, as if Arthur’s question had unearthed a memory he didn’t want to relive. But he hides it quickly, too quickly. When I look at him again, he seems calm once more.
Even so, that instant haunts me.
"No…" Gwaine whispers, and though I want to believe him, though I need to believe him, a part of me cannot ignore what I saw in his eyes.
"See?" Arthur says, smiling with that arrogance that seems tattooed on his face. "It’s just strategy, boy."
His voice echoes in the room as if he’d dropped a sentence upon me. I look at him with contained fury, with that burning helplessness that scorches my throat. Part of me wants to punch him in the face, shut him up, stop him from uttering that word as if I were a weak toy, a clumsy novice incapable of understanding what’s happening around me. But another part of me, the one I don’t like to admit exists, knows that what he’s saying carries a ring of truth.
I know it because Gwaine didn’t hold my gaze for more than a second. Just a blink, and even so that brief spark has haunted me like a curse in my mind. A truth hidden in shadows, that Gwaine carries in silence, and that terrifies me to discover in its full magnitude.
I take a deep breath, trying to push away everything that’s wearing me down. Yes, they’re right. If I want to survive, if I want at least a meager chance to stand out among the others, I have to draw the sponsors’ attention. And if that’s the price, what choice do I have? I don’t feel strong, I never have been, nor fast nor lethal like the others. But even knowing that, what burns me inside is having to become something I’ve never believed myself to be: a desirable object.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t feel capable of seeing myself as a prize. I know that, at least in appearance, I am attractive. Tarik used to repeat it with arrogance, in those late-night talks, telling me that I could have anyone I wanted, that even the girls in the district looked at me with a certain sparkle in their eyes. But I never returned those looks. I never felt that kind of attraction toward anyone. There were smiles that seemed kind, yes, but nothing that pulled me in, nothing that made me burn inside.
Two girls once dared to tell me that they’d like to go out with me, that it could be nice, just like that, with that small word. I never answered. I never dared. Everything remained in what could have been and never was. And now... now they ask me to be able to use exactly what I always denied, to sell myself with body and gaze.
I don’t manage to say anything else, because the door slides open with a metallic hiss and Dylan enters.
"You must change," he says in that firm voice that never breaks, looking at me first and then at Gwaine and Arthur. "We’ll arrive in Camelot in one hour."
The weight of those words crushes me. One hour. Just one hour for my life to change completely, to stop being myself and become what they expect me to be.
I nod silently. Gwaine gives me a brief, almost imperceptible look, before turning toward Dylan and starting to talk with him about the details of the arrival. Their voices mix, but I don’t really hear what they say. The sound is distant, as if they were both speaking underwater. When they leave through the door, Gwaine allows himself one last look at me, fleeting, almost a plea. And then he disappears.
Arthur stays. He remains standing, arms crossed, watching me with a mixture of exhausted patience and smugness. He raises an eyebrow, and that simple gesture is enough to make my hands tense on my knees.
"You must understand that here things are done differently," he says, with a grave tone, as if he were instructing me in something transcendental. "It’s..."
"I think you should go," I cut him off immediately. My voice sounds indifferent, but inside I tremble. I don’t want to listen to him anymore. "The queen should be giving you instructions, shouldn’t she?"
The silence that forms is dense, heavy. I know I’ve struck him where it hurts most: his loyalty, his constant servitude to his mother. And I see it in his eyes, the wound my words open. Arthur looks at me as if he were evaluating whether I’m worth it, as if he wanted to remind me that I am nothing compared to him. But he says nothing.
He sighs, shakes his head, and walks to the door. His back moves away rigidly, and when the glass closes again behind him, I am left alone in the room.
Then I allow myself to breathe, as if until that moment I had refused to. The air feels colder, heavier, as if Camelot were already sending me its looming shadow.
I let myself fall onto the bed and close my eyes. I think of the days that have passed since I was summoned. They are not many, and yet I feel they’ve torn years from my life. Every hour, every word, every look becomes one more weight on my back. And even if I want to deceive myself, I know it: I’m not made for this.
The memory of Gwaine returns, his gaze, his damp eyelashes. And the secret he holds. I wonder if something truly exists at the end of these games, or if hell doesn’t end with victory, but only begins there, in the silences of the winners.
Almost all the players used that strategy, I know. Selling themselves, showing off, being desirable. But what happens after winning? What happens with the scars that can’t be seen, with what is never told in the glorious tales?
I cover my eyes with my arm. I try to empty my mind, but I can’t.
I know I won’t win. Not because I won’t try, but because I already feel I’ve lost even before beginning. And it hurts. It hurts in the deepest part of my bones because a part of me, stubborn and fragile, still wants to go home. Wants to hear mom’s laughter as she twirls in her own steps, dancing clumsily to the sound of dad’s voice, that raspy, deep, and serene voice that seemed to hold up the entire world when he spoke. A part of me wants to see the guys at the sawmill, even though we were never more than simple co-workers, men who barely shared words, but who deep down knew they needed each other not to feel alone. A part of me wants to go back to filling water buckets, washing clothes, and laughing while making soap bubbles, just as I used to with Tarik, when he still breathed, when death hadn’t yet ripped him away from me in the very same games where now I’ll be thrown like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.
And a part larger than all of those, the part that burns in my chest and keeps me standing, simply wants to live. To live for my parents, for Tarik, for every memory that weighs on me, but above all for myself. Because I haven’t done anything in life yet, and still they already want to take it away from me.
I close my eyes, letting the tears collect at the edge of my eyelids. I don’t let them fall. I won’t give myself that luxury. I can’t allow myself to collapse. I pass a clumsy hand over my face and feel how my breathing stirs. In that moment I decide that the old me dies here, in this train that takes me straight to hell. That innocent me, the one who dreamed, the one who laughed, stays behind, locked within these walls. I’ll only return to him if I come back alive, if I manage to embrace mom again.
I walk to the wardrobe and take the simple clothes Gwaine left me hours ago, when he woke me to take a bath before giving me the first instructions about the strategy. The set is a bone shade, almost dull, and of a fabric soft as air, light as a caress. I change slowly, but inevitably my eyes fix on the mirror when I am left naked.
I observe myself, and what I see I don’t like. I see the paleness of my skin, a body too thin to inspire strength, ears that seem to stick out too much. My collarbones are two sharp bones that seem ready to pierce the skin. My arms are long, but not strong; they look like branches that would bend under the weight of the wind. I feel such a crushing weight in my chest that for a moment I think I won’t be able to breathe.
When I finish dressing, I look at the reflection again. But now it is no longer the same. I am not the boy who left the district, nor Tarik’s brother, nor mom and dad’s son. I am something else, something colder, something willing to pretend and to do whatever it takes. This new version of me, though broken, will be the one that tries to survive. I sigh, adjust the black boots they also gave me, heavy but comfortable. Every step I take with them sounds as if I were carrying invisible chains.
Time passes slowly, maybe twenty minutes, until the door opens. Arthur enters.
I don’t know if it was the light or the way he walked in, but for a second the air left me. He comes dressed as the prince he is, and there’s no doubt he knows it. The clothes he wears seem woven by gods: an intense red with golden embroidery that makes the gold of his hair shine even more, hair that falls perfectly combed as if every strand knew its place. On his forehead, a discreet crown rests naturally, as if he had been born with it. And I, like an idiot, catch myself swallowing a sigh, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.
I understand it all at once. Arthur is not a mentor in the real sense; he knows nothing about combat strategies or how to keep me alive inside the queen’s arena. He is a prince, a pretty face placed in front of the cameras. But there is something he does know, something Gwaine insisted on hours earlier: Arthur knows how to be desirable. And in this twisted world, that can mean the difference between life and death.
If Gwaine can teach me how to fight, Arthur can teach me how to become an object of desire for the sponsors. To be flesh, to be spectacle. And that thought burns my skin, it hurts to admit it, but it also makes me aware that maybe… maybe I have a chance.
Arthur looks me over from head to toe. His gaze is a blade that cuts, and I feel my skin burn under his scrutiny. He frowns as soon as he finishes analyzing me, and then he speaks.
"We’ll arrive in ten minutes," his voice is confident, arrogant, as if he knew he would always be in control. "We’ll try to work more on your appearance, but… that will do."
His words fall on me like an unbearable weight. That will do. As if I were not enough, as if I barely measured up. I feel a knot in my throat, but I don’t respond. I only look at him, and in that silence I find a strange hatred mixed with a sting of attraction that should not exist.
Yes. It definitely won’t be easy to work with the prince.
"Come," Arthur tells me when I don’t answer. "Follow me."
I follow him, walking behind him until we reach the first car, right where George, the presenter, and whom I hadn’t seen since we boarded the train, is standing dressed almost the same as he was for the royal drawing, the only difference being the colors he now wears. They are colors that directly allude to District Seven, as if by wearing them he wanted to remind us where we come from, as if that weren’t already marked in our skin and in our sentence.
"Well, well," George says when he sees me, smiling as if all of this were a festival and not a death sentence. "The doors will open two minutes after the train stops. You know, you must look good for the cameras."
I look at Mithian, who gives me a small smile, with that serenity that seems like a mask, though I know that inside she must be trembling just like I am. Her eyes look out the windows, and the sound of the shouts from the people of Camelot reaches my ears, vibrating in my chest like a war drum. They are all here for us, to see the Crown Pretenders of District Seven. Us.
I glance sideways at Gwaine, who is standing next to George. The two of them speak quietly about how quickly this must go, about how after the initial exposure we’ll have to be escorted to the restoration building. George calls it that, as if the place were a sanctuary, but it’s nothing more than a workshop where they will dress us, polish us, mold us so we shine in the parade like brand-new toys. There we’ll also meet our stylists. One for Mithian, one for me. People who will become part of our team. My team. My sentence. Gwaine, Arthur, George… and someone else I don’t yet know, but who will soon have power over every thread that dresses me, every look I project.
Then, Gwaine places himself at my side. He takes my hand quickly and squeezes it three times, exactly as he used to do when we were children, when there were still days of games by the river and nights of laughter under the trees. That secret code we invented in silence meant I’m with you. And, for a second, it hurts so much that I feel like crying. But he only squeezes it and lets go, returning to his rigid role, the one he always uses whenever he’s in front of Camelot’s cameras.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Arthur watching me. His jaw tight, his eyes scanning me as if searching for flaws, as if I were a poorly sculpted statue that still needed chiseling. And then, suddenly, I see him bite his lower lip. It’s a tiny gesture, almost imperceptible, but it hits me hard, so much that I feel a strange heat on my skin. I swallow, uncomfortable.
Arthur sighs and, without warning, walks toward me. He positions himself behind me, and I feel his hand press firmly against my back, correcting the curvature of my shoulders.
"That," he whispers, and his breath grazes my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. "Straighter, you must look confident. They’ll love you, I know it…"
I don’t fully understand his last words, nor if they were truly directed at me or just part of that script he seems to have so well rehearsed for the cameras. But I obey. I breathe deeply, clench my teeth, straighten my back as if I truly believed I had something worth showing. Arthur pulls away and stands at my side, opposite from where Gwaine is, and suddenly I find myself between the two. Between the broken loyalty of my childhood and the dazzling arrogance of the prince.
I look straight ahead, shoulders firm, eyes fixed on a horizon that doesn’t feel like mine. My posture reflects a confidence I don’t possess, but that I need to fake as if my life depended on it. And maybe it does.
The train doors open. The hot air of the sun strikes my skin and the light blinds me. The roar of the crowd intensifies, and the cameras turn immediately toward Mithian and me. I see the euphoria of the people of Camelot, their painted faces, their exaggerated clothing, that decadence disguised as luxury.
And then I smile.
I raise my hand and begin to wave as if I were grateful to be devoured by their gaze. The crowd cheers furiously, shouting my name, shouting anything just to make me look at them. I feel Gwaine’s hand brush mine, just for an instant, and I know it’s my signal. I move forward with him and Arthur, in perfect sync, as if we were pieces of the same mechanism. And that perfection sickens me. It sickens me because it isn’t real.
With every step, the crowd stirs more. They stretch out their arms toward me, some nearly touch my clothes, others scream with such emotion they seem on the verge of tears. It is repulsive. It is terrifying. And yet, I keep smiling. I keep waving as if I were glad to be there.
We walk to the cars waiting. The air of Camelot still vibrates with the echoes of the crowd we left behind, and I feel on my skin the electricity of those shouts, as if they had stuck to me. I climb into the first car, right after Arthur and followed by Gwaine, and as soon as I close the door, a heavy silence envelops us. No more cheers or lights, only the sound of our shared breathing. I watch through the glass as Mithian settles into the car behind, accompanied by Dylan and Heather. That simple sight makes me swallow with difficulty; a lump in my throat rises until it nearly chokes me. It feels as if all the air in the world were concentrated only inside this car, too thick for my lungs. I sigh, unable to stop it, and the glass gives me back my own reflection: a face I don’t fully recognize.
"You did well," Arthur says suddenly, beside me, his voice strangely soft, almost human. It surprises me so much that for a second I forget the weight in my throat. His hand rests on my leg, just a touch, but enough to set off another alarm in my chest. It’s a contact as light as it is dangerous, because it reminds me that he is not just Arthur, but the prince of Camelot, and I am nothing more than another pawn destined to be devoured.
"You did well, Merls," Gwaine confirms. His tone is different. There is in it something I haven’t heard in a long time: naked sincerity, without the mask of hardness he wears in front of everyone. That voice is the one of the boy I knew before the Games broke him. And though it is only a glimpse, it hits me hard, because it reminds me that he too was dragged into this hell as barely a child.
I smile, barely, a minimal gesture that feels more like a spasm than a true act of joy. The car starts, taking us away from the station and from the crowd. Every meter that separates us from the noise brings us closer to the queen’s arena, to death, to the inevitable. Camelot’s landscape rushes by the window, blurred in lights and shadows that seem to belong to a world other than mine.
I still feel Arthur’s hand on my leg, his thumb drawing slow circles, almost unconscious. I sense he doesn’t realize what he’s doing, since his gaze remains fixed outside, serious, as if he were searching for answers in the golden streets of his kingdom. But I feel it. Every movement engraves itself on my skin like fire.
Beside me, Gwaine closes his eyes. His breathing is deep, measured, as if he were holding back thoughts he cannot allow himself to release. And I know it: the conversation the three of us had before reaching Camelot still lingers in his mind, just like in mine. George sits in the front seat, with that satisfied air of someone who believes they control the whole board, talking about figures and protocols. But as soon as he opens his mouth, Gwaine growls:
"Shut up for a moment, George. My head hurts."
Silence settles then, dense, and I’m grateful for it. Because in that silence I have space to think, even though what I think terrifies me.
The ride is quick and far too comfortable, as if they wanted to remind us that we are valuable pieces… at least for as long as we last. Outside, the city of Camelot shines with excess. The white towers rise like fangs seeking to tear the sky. And at the end of the road, the Challengers’ Tower appears before my eyes.
I lose my breath.
It is immense, impossible. A mass of polished stone that gleams under the sunlight, with thirteen floors that seem to touch the very sky. And yet, there is modernity in every line, in every pane of glass reflecting the city. A mixture of ancient opulence and the arrogance of the new. A prison disguised as a palace.
"The twelfth is a penthouse," George says suddenly, smiling at me through the rearview mirror. His smile is a reminder that he enjoys this game, that we are his entertainment. I look into his eyes, surprised and, in part, disgusted.
"But you’ll be on the seventh floor," adds Gwaine, still with his eyes closed, his voice heavy with a weariness he can’t quite hide. "Each floor number corresponds to the district you come from."
I nod, in silence. Mithian and I will share the seventh floor for the next two weeks. Two weeks that will decide whether we keep breathing or become forgotten names. Two weeks to train, to learn how to fake, to transform my weaknesses into weapons.
And then I think of the strategy I built in my head while waiting for the train doors to open. I know I have a chance, however small. I’m not strong, I’m not big, but I’m agile. I’m fast. I can climb, hide, move where others couldn’t. And Gwaine… Gwaine can teach me to sharpen that, can show me how to survive. After all, he did it. He was the only one to win at the minimum age.
I think of Arthur. His job is different, more banal, more superficial. But not for that any less useful. Arthur can make people desire me, make them see me as something worth protecting. He can turn me into flesh appetizing to Camelot’s eyes. And though it hurts, though I feel the stab in my chest when I remember Gwaine’s discomfort at hearing it, I know that maybe that is my best chance. Because in the end, no matter how, I just want to go home.
The car moves forward after the access confirmation. And my mind fills with images. I see my mother in the kitchen, crying while slicing bread, like when Tarik was called. My father in the shower, crying in silence so she wouldn’t hear, so she wouldn’t break down more. I picture them both, their eyes full of hope at seeing me return alive. That thought is my engine. The only thing that holds me up.
The vehicle stops in front of the tower. Arthur still has his hand on my leg. I don’t know what drives me to do it, but I suddenly grab it and squeeze, hard. Arthur turns his face toward me, surprised. His gaze locks onto mine, and in those seconds I feel like there is nothing else in the world. His eyes lower briefly to my lips, and I understand something with painful clarity: if I can make the prince see me as desirable, all of Camelot will.
The doors open. Gwaine steps out first, his figure straight as if carrying the weight of a memory that haunts him without mercy. I follow with tense steps, and Arthur walks behind us.
And I know, with certainty, that what I just began has no turning back.
George is the last to leave the place and, when he does, he signals us with his hand to follow. His gesture is mechanical, almost indifferent, as if taking us from one place to another were nothing more than a formality in his day, a worn-out routine. But for me each step feels like a weight threatening to crush me. He leads us, not toward the main entrance of the Challengers’ Tower, but toward a side hallway, narrow, where the air seems to vibrate with voices overlapping each other.
The murmur turns into waves when I enter, right behind Arthur and Gwaine. The first thing I notice is how many pairs of eyes fix on me at the same time. I feel the impact of those gazes like knives on my skin: they aren’t just curious, they’re Suitors, possible rivals, pieces of the same macabre game I’m trapped in. I can see young faces, some barely entering adolescence, thirteen, fourteen years old; others firmer, hardened, eighteen, with that look only those who know what it means to survive one more year have. Each one is accompanied by older figures: their mentors.
My eyes wander unwillingly through the rows until they stop on the girl from District Five. Her dark hair is tied in a messy braid and, beside her, with an imposing stance, is last year’s victor. Her mere presence crushes my chest; she did it, she made it home alive, and now she stands with another girl to teach her how to endure the unbearable. A knot forms in my throat as I realize that, inevitably, one of those I am seeing will be the next victor. And I… I could be just a memory in the arena.
I take a deep breath, but then I freeze. My gaze stumbles upon him. The victor from four years ago. At the back of the room, set apart as if he needed no one, I recognize him instantly. His brown hair, cut almost to the scalp, exposes with cruel clarity the scar crossing his face. The patch over his eye is the indelible mark of the fight he had with my brother in the final of his Games. My brother… the weight of that memory sinks me. I feel breathless, as though my lungs forgot their function.
I should have imagined he would be mentor of his district. I should have prepared to see him here. But I didn’t. And now my whole body betrays me.
"Come," I hear Gwaine whisper at my side, and then I feel his hand, firm and warm, wrapping around my waist. He gives me no choice, he pushes me gently, almost protectively, steering me away from Tanner, the mentor of District Two.
That simple touch from Gwaine gives me back a fragment of stability. I knew since we were children that he could read me better than anyone, even in silence. Now he places me with my back against a carriage. Its wood is a warm, simple brown, and when I look closer I notice each carriage is designed with details representing each district. Mine, though austere, bears carved patterns I would recognize anywhere: symbols of carved wood, allusions to District Seven.
I lean a little more against the surface of the carriage, trying to reclaim my breathing, and then Gwaine meets my eyes.
"I know what you’re thinking," he says in a low voice, never looking away from me, as if he wanted to anchor me.
From the corner of my eye, I see Arthur approaching, his walk straight and confident, as if this place had been made for him. And, in truth, it was.
"I didn’t expect to see him here…" I whisper, my voice breaking more than I want.
Gwaine sighs, and his gaze softens, as if for an instant he remembered that beneath all this spectacle we are still the same as before, the same who shared secrets in long winter nights.
"Oh, Merls…" he says, and without waiting he pulls me into an embrace. It isn’t an open embrace, not in this place where eyes stalk; it’s a controlled gesture, one arm resting on the carriage and the other wrapping just enough for me to feel the warmth of his body. His voice, barely audible, trembles against my ear. "Everything will be fine. I’ll make sure to bring you home… Don’t cry, please… No one can believe you’re weak."
The knot in my throat threatens to break, but I force myself to swallow it, to hold it all in, because I know he’s right. Here there is no room for tears. Here tears make you a target.
Arthur clears his throat. The sound is like a sharp blow in the air. Gwaine lets me go slowly, though his eyes tell me he doesn’t want to, that he still feels the need to protect me from something even he cannot stop.
I raise my eyes to the prince. Arthur stands tall, almost solemn, though I sense the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his left leg that he barely dares to show.
"The carriage will take you to the other side," he says in a firm tone, but there is something hidden in his voice, as if he wanted to tell me something else but couldn’t.
Gwaine places himself at his side, his robust presence contrasting with Arthur’s controlled delicacy.
"There your stylist will be waiting for you," adds the prince.
"The Suitors’ Parade is at seven," Gwaine adds, his voice returning to the practical tone he always uses when there are too many people around. "Once the parade is over we’ll escort you inside the tower."
In the distance, my eyes find Mithian, who, along with other Suitors, enters the same place. Her figure circles the carriage and I can guess Dylan and Heather are repeating the same instructions they just gave me. She looks at me just for a moment, enough for us both to know what the other feels. A mix of fear and resignation.
"We’ll see you when it’s all over," says Gwaine, giving me a smile that tries to be reassuring. "You’ll do fine."
Arthur doesn’t smile. He just watches me, his dark eyes fixed on mine, and nods in silence. In that gaze there’s something I can’t decipher, something that unsettles me and at the same time pulls me in.
Heather calls Gwaine from the other side. He throws me one last look, one that seems to say "hold on" before walking away with her. And then I’m left alone with Arthur.
I take a deep breath. I know I have to work on this, on pretending, on manipulating if necessary. It’s a risk to use him this way, to use his feelings against him, but I can’t afford to be careless. Not when everything depends on my ability to survive.
I try to give him a flirtatious smile, though I feel how forced it is. Arthur doesn’t respond with words, only with a slight movement in his left leg that almost goes unnoticed, but I catch it.
I’m about to say something, to fill the silence that’s consuming me, when he comes closer. His shoulder brushes mine and, in a whisper that freezes and burns me at the same time, I hear him say:
"I’m dying to see what you’ll wear…"
His voice doesn’t tremble, though I feel the world beneath my feet does. And before I can react, he’s gone. I don’t see in which direction. My eyes search for him desperately, but Dylan is already announcing that the carriage will depart. I have no choice.
I climb inside, the air within is cold, icy, and my skin welcomes it in contrast to the stifling heat outside. I breathe deeply, trying to anchor myself to the present. Seconds later, Mithian enters.
It’s the first time we are truly alone since the Royal Lottery.
"I’m scared," she whispers, almost as if confessing a sin.
"So am I," I reply, and my voice feels like a broken mirror.
Our eyes meet. There’s no need to say it out loud: we both know. It doesn’t matter if it’s not one of us. Only one will return.
The carriage moves forward and I feel the sway beneath my feet. Mithian breaks the silence, her voice so soft it feels like a fragile thread.
"I’m sorry about your mentor."
It takes me a few seconds to understand. She’s talking about Arthur, though she doesn’t know the whole truth. To her, the prince is nothing more than a pretty face from the propaganda, a mentor condemned to watch his Suitors die year after year. She doesn’t know what it really means to be under his shadow.
"We found a way to make it work," I say, keeping my tone ambiguous, almost indifferent.
She nods, as if accepting that answer without wanting to dig deeper. Through the window, I see the immense avenue we will soon parade down. A colossal fountain marks the beginning, and at the end, towering, the Tower of the Challengers rises as a reminder of the inevitable. There we’ll be presented in costumes that represent our district. There the Queen will give her speech. There the path toward death will officially begin.
The carriage halts abruptly. The doors open and we step out. Mithian is escorted by a young man dressed in white, so immaculate he reminds me of the boy who accompanied Arthur on the train. I’m escorted by a young woman equally white and ethereal, as if carved from marble. We walk in silence for what feels like centuries, but is only two minutes, until we enter a quiet building.
They leave me in a room. Five minutes later, the door opens.
And then I see her.
A young woman, no older than twenty-four, enters with measured steps. Her black hair shines with impossible perfection, so sleek it seems to defy reality. Her eyes, dark and piercing, trap me instantly. I feel vulnerable, exposed, as if she could read every crack within me.
And I recognize her. I swallow hard. My chest tightens. It can’t be.
"Welcome," she says with a firm voice, full of a presence that doesn’t belong to just anyone. Her aura fills the room, surrounds me, consumes me. "I’ll be your stylist. You may call me Morgana."
The air thickens.
One of my mentors is the prince. And now I discover that his sister, Princess Morgana, will be my stylist.
Chapter 5: The Parade of the Contenders.
Chapter Text
It’s been about five minutes and through all of them I feel the weight of her gaze on me, fixed, incisive, as if every breath I take were being analyzed with surgical precision. Morgana doesn’t say anything at first, she just paces around me with soft, feline steps that make barely a sound on the floor. I see her bring her index finger and thumb to her chin again and again, evaluating me with a thoughtful gesture, as if searching for something in me that I don’t know if I have. My posture remains rigid, arms at my sides, back straight, but inside me my heart beats so hard I fear she might hear it. I try to control myself, trying to appear cold, but I can’t stop the slight tremor settling in my hands. I disguise it by clenching my fists tightly.
The room is wide and aseptic, lit by white lights that make everything look sterile. The walls are smooth, undecorated. There is nothing in this place to distract Morgana’s eyes; it’s just her and me, and the intensity with which she studies me makes me feel like I have nowhere to run.
I’m surprised to see her here. I’ve always seen Morgana in the parades, next to her parents, a perfect ornament of Pendragon power. Always in dresses that looked like works of art, jewels that told stories of generations, a regal, almost mythical presence I could only imagine on television. I never thought she would dirty her hands with something like this: preparing the Suitors, shaping them for the spectacle. I didn’t know she involved herself so directly in this part of the process, and that now, I would be her project.
She stops in front of me and crosses her arms with natural grace, as if the movement were calculated. She places both hands on her waist and smiles with unsettling calm.
"Do you miss your brother?" she asks suddenly, her voice soft, but so loaded with intention it pierces me like an arrow.
The question throws me off. It takes me a second to process it, and when I do, anger rises to my throat. I hadn’t expected her to mention him. My breathing quickens slightly and I clench my fists, squeezing them so hard I feel my nails digging into my palms. I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose control, but I can’t stop my eyes from glaring at her. Morgana doesn’t flinch; on the contrary, her smile widens slightly, as if my reaction were exactly what she wanted.
"What motivates you?" she presses, tilting her head with curiosity.
I take a deep breath. I understand what she’s doing. She wants me to break, to show my cards. I don’t know if it’s strategy, curiosity, or amusement. But I yield, because I know that if I don’t answer, she wins.
"I miss my brother every day," I finally say, feeling my voice betray me with the faintest tremor, though I keep my gaze fixed on her. "My parents motivate me… I want to see them again."
Morgana nods, just a slight dip of her head, without breaking her piercing stare on me.
"Interesting."
I don’t know what that means, but I don’t like the tone. I don’t like feeling like a puppet under her gaze.
Her interrogation continues. Each question is more uncomfortable than the last, and each seems designed to find my weaknesses.
"What would you do if your life depended on betraying someone?"
"It would depend on who it was. If it’s someone who wants me dead, I wouldn’t hesitate. But if it’s someone I care about…" I pause, looking into her dark eyes that seem to read me like an open book. "I would do whatever it takes to survive. Even betray. Even if I hated myself for the rest of my life."
Morgana tilts her head slightly when she hears my first response. Her index finger brushes her chin as she watches me, as if analyzing every word I say, every breath I take. Her smile is faint, but loaded with intention.
"Hm…" she murmurs. "So loyalty is relative to you." She leans forward slightly, with an elegance that seems rehearsed. "That makes you more dangerous than you appear."
Her words cut through me, but I don’t look away. Morgana smiles as if she has won something, as if that confession were exactly what she sought.
"Are you afraid of dying?"
"Yes."
I say it without hesitation, because denying it would be a useless lie.
"But more than fear of dying, I’m terrified of disappearing. Of being remembered only as a number on the list of the dead in these games. I don’t want to be another Suitor forgotten in Camelot’s history. If I’m going to die, it won’t be in silence."
When I tell her I’m afraid of dying, her eyebrows arch slightly, as if I’ve touched a sensitive nerve.
"Admitting fear is brave." Her tone is soft, but there’s something in it that makes my skin crawl. "Many Suitors think hiding it makes them stronger. They’re wrong. Fear is a tool. The difference is whether it will control you… or whether you will control it."
I swallow, feeling naked under her gaze. Her voice is almost hypnotic, as if she knows exactly what to say to keep me on edge.
"How long do you think you could survive alone?"
"Long enough to be remembered." I keep my voice low, but firm. "I don’t know if it would be days, weeks, or just hours, but I don’t intend to stop fighting until my last breath. My brother taught me never to give up, even when all is lost. And I will honor him."
When I tell her I would survive long enough to be remembered, Morgana doesn’t smile. Her eyes gleam with an interest I can’t decipher. She begins to walk around me, like a huntress measuring her prey.
"Memory is power," she says softly as she circles my chair. "Many Suitors want to live. You want to transcend." She stops behind me, so close I can feel her breath on my neck. "That makes you different. And difference is dangerous in these games."
Her words make my shoulders tense. I feel like every sentence she utters is designed to dismantle me.
"Do you have faith in yourself?"
"I don’t know…"
She forces me to look her in the eyes every time I answer, and I feel her dark pupils pierce through every word, searching for lies, detecting cracks. Many times I imagine telling her none of this is her business, that I don’t owe her anything, but I bite my tongue. I answer everything. Sometimes with short, calculated phrases, other times with words that slip out unintentionally, revealing more than I would like.
I feel like she’s drawing a map of my soul with every answer, dismantling my defenses effortlessly. I’m exposed. I feel like an unfinished work of art, naked, about to be shaped by her hands. And in that moment I think of Arthur. Of how different he is from his sister. He is arrogant, charming in a way that feels human, malleable. Morgana is not. She is precise, meticulous, like a sharpened blade. If Arthur is fire, Morgana is ice. And in that contrast, I start to see an advantage: Arthur can be molded. His sister, on the other hand, seems like someone who moves the pieces.
The door suddenly opens, and the sound startles me. Several people enter, all dressed in white, identical to those I’ve seen before, on the train and at the station. They move in silence, as if they were a single entity, following invisible orders. Morgana turns to them and gives cold, precise instructions, which they obey without hesitation. The efficiency with which they move makes me feel like I’m entering another stage of the game: the preparation, the transformation.
She turns back to me and smiles again, though this time there is something sharper in her eyes.
"Very well," she says in a tone that feels like a final test. "What are you willing to do then to survive?"
The air grows heavy. There it is. The question I feared since this conversation began. The question that admits no half measures.
I take a deep breath. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste the metallic tang of blood. But when I speak, my voice does not tremble.
"Whatsoever."
Morgana smiles. It is not a kind or warm smile. It is the smile of someone who has just confirmed a suspicion. The smile of a satisfied predator.
"Perfect," she finally says, as if that answer were all she needed to hear. "Then I will turn you into someone impossible to forget."
And for the first time since I came here, I feel that I have just sold more than my soul.
Morgana stays silent for a moment after her last words, motionless. Her gaze fixes on the wall at the back of the room, beyond where her assistants move like silent shadows, preparing everything for my transformation.
"You know," she murmurs at last, and her tone is so low I doubt if she was speaking to me or to herself. "Years ago, I too believed this was just a game. A competition... A tradition."
I stay still, watching her, trying to read her expression. But she still does not turn.
"But the Games are something much bigger than you, than me..." She breaks off, and in her voice I hear a strange weight, as if part of her were tired, broken. She turns around, pinning me with an intense gaze that makes me feel naked, disarmed. "There are things you wouldn’t understand yet. And perhaps it’s better that way."
I don’t know what to answer. I’ve never heard anyone from Camelot speak like this. Not even Arthur. And although her face regains its earlier calm, something in her eyes tells me that mask is cracking.
"You just focus on surviving, Merlin," she continues, her voice returning to being cold, precise, but with a shadow of emotion that wasn’t there before. "Because if you go far, if you reach the end..." She pauses and smiles with irony, a sad and bitter smile. "Then you’ll see what I see. And believe me, it’s nothing beautiful."
Her words hit me like a bucket of cold water. The idea that something worse than the arena awaits me at the end makes my hands tremble slightly, though I try to hide it. Morgana notices, of course. I think she always notices everything.
"Come now, don’t be frightened yet," she says, stepping closer to me and placing a light hand on my cheek, an unexpectedly gentle gesture. "You must learn to use fear to your advantage. That will keep you alive."
I remain speechless, trapped between the warmth of her hand and the cold of her words. There is something in Morgana that terrifies me more than any weapon I might find in the arena. And at the same time, I feel I need to listen to her, to learn from her. Because Morgana Pendragon is not just my stylist. She is someone who has seen more than she should. And that makes me think that, if I manage to win her trust, perhaps I’ll uncover the truth hidden behind this bloody spectacle.
She steps back and claps softly, ordering the assistants to begin. Her face recovers the perfect calm of before, as if nothing had happened, as if that moment of vulnerability had been nothing but an illusion.
But I saw it. And now I cannot stop thinking about it.
"Relax," says Morgana, though her tone is not reassuring but firm, almost an order. "I won’t let anyone ruin your face."
It sounds more like a threat than a promise.
A girl takes me by the arm with calculated gentleness, her fingers cold and thin, and guides me to the center of the room as if leading a valuable piece that must not break. In front of me, a metal table waits under the white light hanging from the ceiling. The glare of the lamp is so intense it seems to strip away any shadow from the room, leaving me completely exposed. The table gleams with a chilling reflection; its smooth, polished surface seems made not for a human being, but for a surgical tool.
They place me standing beside it. Another assistant, a boy with an expressionless face, approaches and begins to unbutton my shirt. He does it with slow, precise, almost ceremonial movements. He does not meet my eyes; his hands only follow the line of the buttons, undoing them one by one as the silence grows heavier. I feel vulnerable, as if each click of a button strips me more than the fabric itself. When the shirt falls, the cool air of the room caresses my skin.
I lift my gaze, and there is Morgana. Sitting just a few steps away, with her back straight and her legs crossed. Her stare is so piercing it immobilizes me. Her dark eyes, deep and calculating, run over me from head to toe as if evaluating every inch of me. Her chin slightly tilted and the way she interlaces her fingers on her lap turn her into an implacable spectator. There is no compassion in her face, nor mockery: only cold, unshakable patience.
The assistant kneels at my side and gently pulls down my pants. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moving away. I feel the fabric sliding slowly down my legs until it reaches my ankles. Morgana does not avert her eyes. Her gaze is so firm it feels as though she is stripping away layers of my skin. When the pants are neatly folded and placed aside, the boy moves on to my underwear.
The air seems to thicken. My breathing quickens. The garment descends slowly and my whole body tenses. I force myself to look straight ahead, toward the white, undecorated wall. I cannot allow them to see my shame. I cannot show weakness, even though my cheeks burn and every muscle in my body screams for me to cover myself.
When I am completely naked, the same girl as before reappears with a wooden stool. She places it in front of me and gestures for me to step up. My hands tremble as I support myself. I use the stool and, with clumsy movements, lie down on the table. The icy metal steals my breath. I feel the cold seep through my skin and nest in my bones. I hold back the shiver and close my eyes for a moment, trying not to think of what’s to come.
Several hands arrange me with forced gentleness. They hold my shoulders, my arms, my legs. There is no violence, but neither is there space to resist. I am an object being placed on display. My fingers clutch the edge of the table. I begin to count them silently: one, two, three, four… over and over again. It is the only thing I can control.
A damp, warm cloth touches my neck. The scent of soft spices, mixed with disinfectant, fills the air. Another cloth slides across my chest, my abdomen, my arms. Several pairs of hands work on me, cleaning me with surgical precision. Their movements are firm but careful, as if polishing a marble statue. The warm water they pour on my body runs slowly down my skin, and for an instant the heat contrasts with the cold of the metal beneath me, creating an unbearable sensation.
"Again," Morgana orders with a soft voice, but one loaded with authority.
The assistants obey without question. They pass the cloths again, cleaning every corner of my body. They turn me on my side to scrub my back, my legs, even the soles of my feet. I feel as though they want to erase every trace of who I am. Shame and bewilderment mix with a strange sense of unreality. I no longer feel this body is mine.
The metallic sound of trays, the dripping of water hitting the floor, and the rubbing of cloths against my skin blend into a constant murmur that envelops me. There are no words. No one speaks, except Morgana when she gives precise instructions. Her voice drifts across the room with calm firmness, like someone shaping something important.
Finally, she approaches. Her heels echo against the floor, each step resonating in my ears. She leans over me and examines my face with unsettling concentration. Her cold fingers lift my chin gently, forcing me to look at her. Our eyes meet, and in hers I see something I did not expect: interest. Not superficial interest, but a dangerous curiosity.
"You’re not ready yet," she murmurs. "You need more. Much more."
Her tone is so soft it gives me chills. I feel that with each of her words, a part of me disappears. I am no longer Merlin. I am a piece, a project.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I want it to end. But I know we are only just beginning.
After three times of being cleaned and when Morgana nods, one of the assistants takes me by the chin, turning my face toward the intense light hanging above me. I feel his cold, professional fingers slide across my skin. Another begins working on my hands, filing my nails with surgical precision. The buzzing of a small machine fills the room as someone begins removing the hair from my arms and legs.
Every touch is gentle, but mechanical, stripped of humanity.
I am no longer Merlin, I am no longer a person: I am a project.
I try not to flinch when I feel someone else pour a hot liquid on my eyebrows, then pull out the hair with precise tugs. I press my lips together. I don’t want them to see me tremble. I don’t want to give Morgana the satisfaction.
She, meanwhile, watches me from her place, standing with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze evaluating every movement of her assistants. She doesn’t need to speak much: a single gesture of her hand is enough for them to adjust the light, change position, or focus more effort on some part of me that, apparently, isn’t perfect.
"The skin needs more work on the cheekbones," she suddenly says, and someone else comes closer with a brush and a liquid that smells of herbs. "Not a single imperfection must remain."
The way she says it sends shivers down my spine.
I am a canvas.
And she is the artist.
The process feels endless. I feel fingers tangling in my hair, pulling it, applying strong-smelling products, massaging my scalp with quick movements. Every second, something else in me feels foreign. As if they were slowly erasing Merlin, the boy from District Seven, the one who climbed trees and worked at the sawmill, and in his place molding something that is not me.
Morgana approaches and takes my face in her hands. Her touch is warm, but her gaze is ice.
"We need them to see you as something they can’t have," she whispers, her words heavy with intention. "You must be unattainable. A trophy. A desire."
I shudder, not because of her closeness, but because in her voice there is a mix of coldness and compassion that I cannot decipher.
I feel them lift me and place me standing in front of a full-length mirror. For a second, I don’t recognize myself. I am still undressed, my skin now smooth, perfect, without a single visible scar. My hair shines, my hands look delicate.
It is not me. I am a mannequin.
"Breathe," says Morgana, positioning herself behind me. "We’re not finished yet."
She makes a sign and another assistant approaches with a hanger covered by a black cloth. What lies beneath is clearly my outfit for the parade. Morgana removes the cloth with an elegant movement, and my reflection lights up with colors and textures that look as though they were torn from an ancient painting. It is beautiful. And terrifying.
"This will scream power," Morgana murmurs, her fingers brushing the fabric. "It will make everyone see you as a fallen prince, a jewel that only Camelot can possess."
I swallow hard. Every word makes me feel emptier. More consumed by the character they want to build.
As they begin to dress me, with quick and precise movements, I feel that I stop being a person and become something else: a spectacle, an object of desire. Each layer of fabric, each tightened belt, each ornament they place on me takes a little more air from me. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t know who I am. I only see the suitor they want the public to love.
"Perfect," says Morgana when they finish, stepping back to admire her work. Her eyes shine with a strange pride, one that doesn’t seem directed at me, but at her own creation. "You are exactly what they need to see."
I try to speak, but the words don’t come out. I don’t know if I want to cry or scream.
Morgana leans in and whispers in my ear:
"And remember, Merlin... you are not you. You are what I say you are."
I force myself to stand firm, but inside I feel that I have just stripped away everything that was left of me as human.
When they finally finish, I feel there is nothing left of me. They have removed every trace of my rough skin, every mark that told my story. They shaved me with surgical precision, combed my hair with expert hands, cut and filed my nails until they looked like porcelain. I have been bathed in oils and sweet scents I do not recognize, wrapped in expensive fabrics that feel like a soft prison. When I glance at myself in the mirror in front of me, I barely recognize myself: my cheeks look more angular, my lips more defined, and the glow of my skin makes me look like a statue.
I am not a boy from District Seven.
I am an exhibition piece.
Morgana, to the side, watches with the satisfaction of a sculptor who has just finished their masterpiece. Her expression is almost unreadable, but there is pride in her gaze. She approaches with slow steps, her perfume surrounding me, and with a single finger she corrects a rebellious lock of my hair.
"Let’s go," she orders, and her assistants hurry to open the doors of the room.
An assistant dressed in white guides me through a long, silent corridor, illuminated by white lights that make me feel as if I were in a hospital. The echo of my steps resounds in my ears as I try to control my breathing. Morgana walks ahead of me, upright, elegant, as if this were just another runway. I, on the other hand, feel as though I am being led to the slaughterhouse.
When we turn the last corner, voices begin to be heard: laughter, murmurs, quick orders from the technicians. The murmur of the crowd outside reaches me like a constant buzz, reminding me that millions of eyes are waiting to see us. My heart beats harder with each step.
We enter a wide room where the Suitors and their teams gather before the parade. The light is warmer here, though no less oppressive. And then, I see them: Gwaine and Arthur, standing together, arms crossed. Their faces turn toward me at the same time. Mithian is nearby, next to Heather, Dylan, and a man I assume is her stylist. They all look at me.
For a moment, the silence is so heavy it could be cut. Their eyes travel over every inch of me. No one blinks. I feel a shiver run through my body. It is not admiration, it is something worse: surprise. Fascination.
"Oh Gods..." Heather whispers, covering her lips with a hand.
Dylan leans a little toward Mithian, and although I can’t hear his words, I know he is talking about me. Mithian looks at me with wide eyes, as if she had never seen me before. I feel naked again, despite the expensive clothes I wear.
Arthur is the first to break the silence. He walks forward calmly, his steps echoing with confidence, and smiles with that arrogant air that seems part of him. He stops by my side and, without taking his eyes off Morgana, murmurs:
"Good work, sister."
"Thank you," she replies with a proud smile, her dark eyes shining with pride. "I had good material to work with."
I snort, more out of discomfort than anything else. Arthur raises an eyebrow at my gesture and smiles sideways, amused.
"What’s the matter, Merlin?" he asks, leaning slightly to whisper in my ear. "Don’t you like drawing attention?"
"Not when I feel like they’ve turned me into a walking display case," I reply in a low voice, crossing my arms.
Arthur lets out a soft chuckle, almost mocking, but his eyes study me closely, as if trying to see beyond the spectacle Morgana has created.
Then Gwaine approaches, slowly, his green eyes shining with a mix of surprise and concern. He stops in front of me and places a hand on my shoulder.
"Merls..." he says in a low tone, as if he couldn’t find the words. "You... you don’t look like yourself."
"I know," I reply, and I feel the bitterness slip out in a whisper.
Gwaine tightens his grip on my shoulder, as if he wanted to anchor me to something real. Arthur glances at him sideways, but says nothing. Morgana, for her part, seems to enjoy the moment: her eyes wander over everyone present, measuring their reactions as if they were her reward.
"If you’ve all finished staring at him as if he were a work of art," Morgana finally says, her voice cutting through the silence with elegance, "we’d better get ready. The parade begins in ten minutes."
"Let’s go," Arthur orders, with that voice that mixes confidence and arrogance.
Mithian throws me a look of solidarity, as if she too feels trapped in this circus. Heather and Dylan position themselves at her side, ready to escort her. Arthur walks to my left and Gwaine to my right. Morgana stays behind, like a queen supervising her masterpiece.
As we walk toward the starting area, I hear the roar of the crowd outside. The shouts and cheers seep through the walls, enveloping me. I straighten instinctively, as Morgana taught me, though inside I feel that each step drags me further toward a trap from which I will not escape.
"Smile," Arthur whispers at my side. "Make them adore you, Merlin. That’s what will keep you alive."
"And what if I don’t want them to adore me?" I ask, without looking at him.
Arthur smiles, that arrogant smile that seems carved into his face.
"Then die beautiful," he replies coldly, before winking at me and turning toward the door that leads to the stage, alongside Morgana.
The sound of the crowd grows even louder as the doors open. I draw in a breath, inhaling deeply. And though I wear the most expensive suit I have ever seen, though my hair shines under the light, inside I feel empty.
I am not Merlin.
I am the Suitor from District Seven.
The black carriage, long and heavy, remains stopped in front of us. The horses neighing fiercely, their black manes flowing in the wind, tense every muscle with the same anxiety we share inside the vehicle. Mithian climbs first, her movements elegant despite the nervousness I can sense; I place myself at her side and can almost feel the heat of her breath mixing with mine. Every time I look at her, I notice how her eyes shine with a mix of fear and determination, and a shiver runs down my spine: we are companions, rivals, and at the same time the only company we have before facing the parade.
The air inside the carriage is dense, heavy with nerves, sweat, and anticipation. My hands, stained with the black ink Morgana placed to give me a rustic touch, tremble slightly. The strips of handmade paper over my torso cling to my skin, covering me just enough not to be completely vulnerable, but enough to hint at every movement of my muscles. The folds on my back, the small wings Morgana designed, seem to throb with every breath; they are delicate, bright, fragile, and dangerous, exactly how I want to be perceived.
The pants, fitted tightly to every curve of my leg, resemble polished tree bark. The shining veins catch the light naturally and elegantly, and I feel that every glance cast at me during the parade will latch onto me, relentless. The dark bracelet engraved with the rings of a tree reminds me of where I come from and, at the same time, gives me strength: I am small, fragile, but resilient. Even if all this feels like costume and spectacle, there is truth in that symbol Morgana has placed on me.
Mithian, at my side, looks like the very essence of the forest: her dress of braided fibers falls naturally, the beige and moss-green tones playing subtly with the light. Her braids, adorned with tiny golden leaves, and her belt of painted paper strips like vines, make her whole ensemble breathe elegance without stealing my spotlight. I can sense her nervousness, and at the same time the serenity with which she holds her posture; she is a mirror of strength and beauty that highlights my own role: mysterious, fragile, and deadly at once.
The carriage remains motionless, waiting for our turn. The street leading to the Queen’s podium seems endless, longer than any ordinary street could be, and the roar of the crowd surrounds us like a human ocean. Names, cheers, applause, whistles: everything pounds against my chest and makes me feel small, exposed, judged. My heart beats hard, my hands clench over my ink-stained legs. I know every movement will be observed, every breath interpreted.
"It’s almost our turn," Mithian whispers, her voice trembling but contained. "Are you ready?"
"Ready," I answer, though I know I am lying. "Somehow… we must be."
The horses tense, the parade assistants correct small details in our clothing and in the carriage. The roar of the crowd intensifies; I can see the carriages of the other districts moving forward one after another, each participant showing off their district with pride and theatricality. Finally, it is the turn of the seventh district. I take a breath, look at Mithian, and barely nod, feeling the overwhelming pressure in my chest. Inside, a whirlwind of fear, desire, rage, and survival. Outside, I must be a god of the forest: fragile, sensual, desirable, deadly.
The carriage begins to move slowly, and the sun falls directly on me. I feel every gaze, every camera, every scream from the crowd. The street seems to double before my eyes as we advance, each step of the carriage a reminder that we are in the most important show of our lives. And as the carriage rolls onto the street, I feel Camelot devouring me completely. I am ready… though I know I am not.
The open carriage moves slowly, advancing along the endless street that separates us from the Queen’s podium. Mithian at my side maintains her composure, though I can see how her fingers clutch slightly at the edge of the carriage, revealing her own nervousness. The street is flanked by gigantic stands, rising as if to touch the sky, and the crowd stretches like a human sea roaring with overwhelming energy.
The cheers are deafening. Each district that passed before us has received applause and shouts, but the tension inside the carriage is unique. I can hear the screams mixing with whistles and the metallic sound of cameras capturing every movement. Flowers are thrown from the stands, falling like rain upon the suitors. Some spectators wave handkerchiefs, others raise improvised signs, all with the intention of being seen and of making the suitors know they are there for them.
When our eyes meet, Mithian and I try to stay calm. I attempt to smile and raise my hand to wave at the cameras, hoping my parents are watching me, though I feel a lump in my throat and a bitter taste rising in my mouth, a mix of nausea and disgust at the superficiality of the situation. Every movement is carefully calculated: my fingers stretch, my shoulders stay straight, my torso adorned with paper strips moves with precision, as if I were a living work of art and yet, inside, I wish to disappear.
I can notice how some scream louder when they see me. Their voices rise above the rest: names, praises, cheers mixed with an almost animal enthusiasm. The feeling is strange, unpleasant, and thrilling all at once. I feel their gazes piercing me, some filled with admiration, others with desire. I try to keep the smile, though I feel my jaw tighten and my hands tremble slightly on my legs. Every wave is an act of survival, every gesture a silent contract with the crowd that judges me as if I were an object, and in a way, I am.
At my side, Mithian moves gracefully, waving gently, her dress of braided fibers glowing under the light. Her braids with golden leaves sway in the wind, and though her elegance is impressive, I know she too feels the weight of every gaze, every shout, the endless applause. Our hands brush accidentally as I adjust my posture the way Morgana taught me, and for an instant I wonder if she notices the tension running through my body.
The street seems endless. Every meter traveled is a reminder of the spectacle, of the exposure, of the distance that separates us from the podium. The noise of the crowd is deafening, almost tangible, a tidal wave beating against my chest and making me feel that each heartbeat is being watched. Despite it all, I try to keep the smile, to raise my hand, to tilt my head slightly; the façade Morgana created for me must hold, even if I want to vomit at the artificiality of the moment.
Finally, at the end of the street, the Queen’s podium rises. It is imposing, a golden, gleaming stage that towers above us all, a reference point that indicates the show is about to culminate. There, Ygraine Pendragon appears every year to give her speech at the end of the parade, and this year will be no different. I can see how the cameras focus on the podium, how the assistants lean in to capture every word, every gesture.
I feel a shiver run down my back. The sunlight gleams over my skin, over the strips of paper, over the folds on my back. The screams of the crowd seem to fade, but the memory of every gaze remains stuck in my mind. I breathe deeply, trying to draw strength from Mithian’s presence at my side, and I prepare for the carriage to stop, to face the eyes of Camelot and sustain, if only for a few more seconds, the illusion Morgana and I have built.
When the carriage arrives at its destination, right next to the Suitors of District Six, the vehicle stops with a screech of wheels over the flawless pavement. The horses, majestic and dark as the night, snort heavily, their muscles tense beneath sweat-slick skin. Their black manes, perfectly braided with golden ribbons, ripple gently in the wind. Meanwhile, I try to remain motionless, with my back straight and my face serene, though inside my heart is pounding so hard I fear Mithian might hear it.
Now all we can do is wait for the other districts to arrive at this point. The idea should give me relief, but the only thing I feel is that I am on display, like a caged animal while the stands around us roar with cheers and applause. I focus on counting the fingers of my right hand with the thumb of the same hand: one, two, three, four… and I start over again. It is the only anchor I have to avoid succumbing to this dizziness of lights and noise.
Barely ten minutes pass, but every second drags as if time itself had decided to punish us. Finally, the twelve carriages line up in their positions, forming a perfect scene: the suitors of each district, two per carriage, all motionless, beautiful, almost unreal. I feel relief that this spectacle is about to end, but at the same time, a new wave of anxiety courses through me. Something inside tells me that the worst is only just beginning.
Suddenly, the roar of the crowd fades. The silence is so abrupt it startles me. The stands fall into an expectant hush, and I know there is only one reason for it: the Queen has risen from her throne. I lift my gaze. In front of us, the podium is so tall it seems to challenge the sky. The giant screens that flank it light up, and the image of Ygraine Pendragon fills my vision. Her smile is perfect, sharp, lethal. At her side is King Uther, watching her with a devotion so unsettling it seems like a worshiper before a goddess. Behind them, Arthur and Morgana remain rigid, their expressions controlled, as if even their breathing had been rehearsed.
I feel Mithian move closer to me, by pure instinct. Her fingers clutch slightly at the folds of her dress, and her shoulders brush against mine. That faint contact gives me some strength, a reminder that I am not completely alone, even if everything here is designed to make me feel so.
The Queen raises a hand, and her velvety voice, as sweet as poison, floods the air.
"Welcome" she says, and every syllable seems to glide like a dagger caressing the skin. "Be welcome, Suitors of the Crown."
I do not dare look away. I turn my head slightly toward the screen on my left, the one closest to me, and for a second I feel she is looking directly at me. As if she could see me through the camera, strip my soul bare just as Morgana did before.
"We are here to celebrate your courage" she continues, smiling to all of Camelot. "And your sacrifice."
The crowd roars again. The noise is deafening, vibrating, like a wave crashing into my chest. I feel the air tremble around the carriage. I glance at Mithian; her green eyes look darker under the lights shining on the street, but in her gaze I find the same fear burning inside me.
"And we wish you happy Crown Games… and may fate choose the victor."
The square erupts in cheers. To my right, I see Arthur and Morgana standing firm at their father’s side, as if every muscle in their bodies had been carved from stone. Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on the crowd, but I cannot help feeling his gaze flicker toward me, if only for an instant. Morgana, on the other hand, maintains a perfect expression, an indecipherable enigma.
The Queen goes on speaking. Her speech is filled with empty praise and poisoned promises: she calls us brave, speaks of riches and privileges awaiting the single Suitor who manages to conquer the Crown. She speaks of Camelot as a generous kingdom, magnanimous toward the districts that once dared to defy it, as if all this were a gift and not a sentence. Every word from her mouth is lethal poetry, wrapped in velvet, crafted to make the crowd adore her and us feel honored to be pieces in her game.
When she finishes, the carriages begin to move again. The cheers intensify and flowers fly from the stands, falling all around us. Some petals brush my hands, still stained with black ink. I force myself to smile, to raise a hand in greeting, though inside I feel like vomiting. I feel filthy, turned into a spectacle, a trophy.
Our carriage takes us away from the podium, toward a quieter area behind the stage. The crowd is left behind, but the echo of their cries still vibrates in my ears. When we finally stop, I see Heather, Dylan, and Gwaine waiting for us. My eyes immediately search for Arthur, but he is not there. I only see Gwaine, my childhood friend, and his presence is a relief amid so much noise.
"You did well, Merls" Gwaine says as he extends a hand to help me down.
His fingers close around mine, firm, warm. I cling to him as if he were a lifeline.
"I feel like I’m going to throw up, G" I reply softly, my words barely a whisper amid the distant cheers.
Gwaine smiles, but there is a trace of worry in his eyes.
"I know. You’re pale" he says, keeping his tone light so as not to worry me further.
Heather smiles when she sees me. Her eyes are kind, maternal, but I sense pity in them as well. Dylan, always more practical, comments on how impressive I look and how smart it would have been to dress Mithian and me as a matching pair. I smile faintly, but inside I know Morgana did the right thing. This is not a parade to look good; it is a war to attract sponsors who could save my life. Mithian is beautiful, but I needed to stand out. And I did. Perhaps too much.
I walk behind them as we cross an area where other suitors are gathering. I feel their eyes on me. I don’t need to ask what they mean: I know. My appearance has earned me attention, but also hatred. I have marked a target on my chest, and I know the rivals already see me as a threat.
We approach an imposing building, with walls of glass and steel reflecting the city lights. The Tower of Challengers. George is waiting at the entrance. His smile is broad, excessive, almost fake.
"You did fantastic" he says as he joins our group. "People were talking about you."
I would be lying if I said I believed him. His words are smooth, but his eyes fix on me with a strange brightness, analytical, as if he were assessing me. There is something calculating in his expression that makes me uneasy.
George turns and leads us toward the entrance.
"Welcome to the Tower of Challengers" he announces with rehearsed enthusiasm. "There are twelve floors in total, each one assigned to your district. Here you will spend the next three weeks training."
We step into a huge metallic cylinder embedded in the wall. I freeze, not understanding what it is. Its smooth, gleaming walls reflect our group, distorting us into ghostly images. George presses the button with the number seven on a panel with thirteen glowing symbols.
The cylinder vibrates with a low hum, and I feel my feet lift slightly off the floor. I grab onto the railing. My stomach flips.
"What is this?" I murmur, staring at the metal surrounding us.
"An elevator" Gwaine replies with a half-smile. "It goes up and down. Relax, Merls."
The cylinder stops with a faint sound, and the doors slide open with a whisper. In front of us stretches a space so vast it leaves me speechless.
The place is enormous, almost unimaginable. I feel my eyes don’t know where to look first. The room seems the size of two houses put together, maybe more. The sofas are so big and soft they look as though they could swallow you just by sitting on them. There are velvet rugs so thick they could smother any sound, and chandeliers that look like crystal sculptures, gleaming as if each piece had been cut with millimetric precision. To one side, a dining table stretches with arrogance: long, sturdy, covered in dark polished wood, with enough space to seat twenty people comfortably. Upon it are perfectly symmetrical flower arrangements, white candles that seem never to melt, and plates so delicate I would be afraid to touch them.
The kitchen is a spectacle on its own. It contains more stoves, ovens, and utensils than I had ever seen in my entire district. The smell of spices I had never encountered before surrounds me, making me feel out of place. Everything shines. There isn’t a single trace of dust or anything out of order; every object seems designed to impress and remind you that you don’t belong here. The walls are decorated with polished wood and golden mirrors that double the space, making the room seem endless. And the windows… huge windows that stretch from floor to ceiling show a panoramic view of Camelot: the entire city spreads out like a swarm of living stars, flickering lights that seem to mock my bewilderment.
For the first time since I arrived, I feel small. So small I can barely breathe. I am an intruder in this world of luxury and perfection. Everything in this place seems designed to intimidate, to remind me of how insignificant I am, to make me feel like a speck of dust in the midst of so much grandeur. And I know, with crushing certainty, that this is exactly what they want me to feel.
"Well" Dylan says, his voice relaxed but loaded with authority, as he walks toward the table overflowing with trays of food, "eat something and then go to your rooms."
The trays contain appetizers that look like sculptures. Everything is perfectly arranged: fruits carved like flowers, small bites with perfect geometric shapes, crystal glasses filled with brightly colored liquids. Just looking at the food makes me afraid, as if touching it would ruin the balance of this world.
But I cannot eat. My stomach has been in knots for hours, as if carrying a stone inside. Gwaine knows it; he knows me too well to insist. Without saying a word, he comes closer and takes me by the arm, guiding me toward a hallway on the right. His touch is firm, steady, an anchor keeping me from being lost in this sea of luxury and falsehood. We walk in silence until we reach a tall, thick door. When we enter, I find myself in a room almost the size of my entire house put together.
The air here is fresher, but the luxury does not disappear. The room is decorated in soft tones: beige, cream, and gold, with red details that constantly remind me to whom this kingdom belongs. There are thick curtains, so heavy they seem capable of blocking out the sunlight. A huge bed takes up the center, covered with silk sheets so soft that just looking at them makes me feel they could make me forget where I am. There are lamps projecting a warm glow, furniture shining with varnish, and a wardrobe so big it could hold all my belongings and still have space left over.
Inside the room stands a young man dressed in white. His expression is neutral, his movements silent. Before I can say anything, Gwaine gestures with his hand to dismiss him. The boy bows his head and leaves without uttering a word.
"Sometimes it bothers me that they’re so quiet" I say, breaking the silence as I walk toward the bed. I let myself fall onto it, sinking into its softness. I can’t help a purr of satisfaction escaping my lips. "It’s… uncomfortable."
"That’s because they can’t speak" Gwaine replies, his voice carrying a weight I didn’t expect. He sits beside me, and I notice a shade of sadness in his words. "The Pendrix don’t have tongues, Merls… they were punished that way for disobeying the Queen’s orders."
I look at him, searching for some sign in his face that tells me he’s joking. I wait for a mocking smile. But there’s nothing. Only the truth, harsh and cold, reflected in his tired eyes.
Now I understand. The young man who followed Arthur on the train, Morgana’s attendants, the servants I saw in the hall when leaving the elevator… all of them. The Pendrix are not just servants. They are slaves mutilated by Camelot, turned into silent shadows so no one forgets what it means to defy the kingdom.
"But…" I try to speak, but my voice cracks. I swallow, trying to catch my breath. "At home… in the district… if you disobey, they kill you."
Gwaine sighs and looks away, as if already weary of carrying Camelot’s cruelty.
"The Pendrix are citizens here, of Camelot" he says, as if that were explanation enough. And in a way, it is. Here they don’t kill them. They break them.
An uncomfortable silence settles between us. Gwaine stands from the bed and walks to the door. Before leaving, he gives me a look filled with concern.
"Take a shower and get that off" he says, pointing at my outfit, still covered in black ink and strips of paper stuck to my skin. "I’ll be back in a while and we’ll have some dinner. I hope Arthur and Morgana are here by then."
I nod, wanting to ask where he’s going, but I don’t dare. His expression tells me everything: he is tired, as tired as I am, but he is trying to keep calm. He leaves the room, and for the first time since we arrived, I find myself completely alone.
Loneliness is a dagger piercing my chest. There are no more cries from the crowd, no sound of the carriage wheels, no constant murmur of others. There is only me, my quickened breath, and the echo of my own thoughts. It is in this suffocating silence that I allow myself to break. Tears flow uncontrollably, hot, burning down my cheeks as I hug myself. All the weight of humiliation, dehumanization, and fear I’ve felt throughout this day crushes me as if someone had placed a stone on my heart.
I sink into the bed, crying silently, afraid that even the walls could hear me. I cry for my home, for my mother, for my father, for everything I’ve left behind. I cry because I know that here I am an object, just another piece in this cruel game called spectacle.
I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes, hours. When I finally get up, my eyes are red and my body weary. I approach a door I assume leads to the bathroom. I open it and find a huge mirror covering the entire wall. I look into it. The black ink covering my hands and arms looks like filth. The paper wings on my back hang messy, broken. I am a disaster. But there is something in my eyes, behind the exhaustion and fear: a spark.
I place my hands on the sink, take a deep breath, and force myself to speak, though my voice is barely a whisper:
"I will go home."
The reflection stares back at me, as if daring me to believe my own words.
"I will go home" I repeat, more firmly, as if saying it twice could make it real.
In that instant, I convince myself that no matter how cruel this place is, no matter how great or perfect Camelot may seem.
I will not let them break me.
Mimisplantszzzzzz on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 03:12PM UTC
Last Edited Sat 23 Aug 2025 03:13PM UTC
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Botkabularia on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Aug 2025 02:54PM UTC
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