Chapter Text
The echo of boots against stone carried too loudly in the silence. Arthur strode at Merlin’s side, head high, the picture of casual disinterest, though his jaw was tight enough to crack a tooth. He didn’t have to look to know Merlin’s hands were balled into fists, pale knuckles stark against his dark sleeves.
“You shouldn’t have used your magic like that,” Arthur murmured, voice pitched low enough not to carry. His tone was sharp, but the words felt more like worry than reprimand.
Merlin winced, shoulders curling in ever so slightly. “I know. It was” He let out a breath through his nose, rough and short. “a moment of weakness.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched, not quite humor, not quite anger. He cut him a sidelong glance. “Summoning a fireball shaped like a dragon isn’t usually what I’d call a little weakness.”
Merlin scowled, cheeks heating. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just a little dragon.”
“A little” Arthur stopped walking for half a second, dragging his hand down his face. “You do realize most people would consider any dragon rather… significant?”
Merlin shrugged, chin ducked. “Depends on your definition of significant. I’ve seen bigger.”
Arthur’s voice came out strangled. “You’ve what?”
“Nothing.” Merlin cleared his throat, quickening his steps before Arthur could demand an explanation. “Doesn’t matter.”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and resumed walking, muttering under his breath about idiots who thought dragons came in sizes like tunics. “You say that as though it makes things better,” he managed finally.
Merlin managed the faintest smile, boyish and crooked, though it faltered quickly under the looming shadow of the hall doors ahead. The guards flanking them stiffened as they approached, and the weight of it pressed down, heavy as chainmail.
“Do you think he’s actually going to find anyone?” Merlin asked, tone softer now. His eyes flicked nervously to Arthur’s hand, close enough to his own that the brush of air between them felt charged.
Arthur’s mouth tightened. He could feel the shift already, tension crawling down the corridors, an invisible fog clinging to the stone. He glanced at Merlin, at the stubborn set of his jaw masking the fear in his eyes, and the truth of it burned in his chest.
“Doubtful,” Arthur said at last, each syllable bitten off with care. A pause stretched between them, thick as rope, and then he added, quieter still, just for Merlin’s ears: “But that doesn’t mean you get to stop being careful.”
Merlin swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I don’t think careful’s really in my nature.”
Arthur huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s the problem. You’re reckless, and infuriating, and one day you’re going to” He stopped himself, jaw clenching harder. “Just. Try. For once. Please.”
Merlin tilted his head, studying him with a flicker of amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re awfully bossy for someone who claims to be casually disinterested.”
Arthur shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Shut up, Merlin.”
Merlin’s smile returned, thinner this time, weighted with something he didn’t say. His fists unclenched, just slightly, the tension easing only because Arthur’s voice had grounded him.
The guards pushed the doors open, and the sound of the great hall rolled out to meet them like a tide, voices, suspicion, fear. Merlin inhaled once, deep, steadying. Arthur took the step first, but not before brushing the back of his hand, ever so subtly, against Merlin’s.
Merlin swallowed and nodded, following Arthur into the gathering crowd.
The hall was heavy with silence, every stone echoing with the hum of unease as Arthur and Merlin slipped inside. Court was assembled, nobles pressed into neat rows along the walls, their faces taut with expectation. The Witchfinder already stood in the center like a spider at the heart of its web, black robes falling in sharp lines, his eyes sweeping the chamber with unnerving certainty.
On the throne, Uther sat rigid, gaze cold and waiting. His presence pressed down on the room like a blade at the throat.
Arthur leaned close as they walked, his voice clipped and urgent. “Keep your head down. Let him rant. He won’t find anyone.”
Merlin nodded, though his throat was dry, every step heavier than the last. “I shouldn’t have”
“No,” Arthur cut in, quick, firm. “You shouldn’t have. Not even a little.” His mouth quirked despite the tension, unable to stop himself. “Especially not for something as insane as a dragon.”
Merlin tried for a crooked grin, the attempt thin and wobbly. “A tiny dragon.”
Arthur’s glare promised a lecture later, but before he could answer, the Witchfinder’s voice cracked across the chamber like a whip.
“My lord.” His tone was oily, practiced, meant for every ear in the hall. “I have gathered evidence enough. The sorcerer stands among us.”
The crowd stirred, whispers swelling like a tide. Merlin’s chest tightened. He forced himself to move with Arthur, each step dragging like lead, every eye on them.
“Then speak,” Uther commanded, voice cold as the stone beneath their feet. “Expose the traitor to Camelot.”
The Witchfinder pivoted, his gaze settling not at first on Merlin, but on the assembled court, milking the moment, letting the suspense grow until the silence rang like struck metal. His words dripped with relish. “Sorcery has thrived in the shadows of this kingdom. But shadows always betray themselves in the end.”
Arthur’s hand brushed Merlin’s arm, subtle, grounding. He muttered, “He’s bluffing. Stay still.”
But then, like a hawk diving, the Witchfinder’s finger shot out. “Here! The boy. Merlin.”
The crowd gasped, a sharp intake of collective breath. Heads turned like weathercocks in the wind.
Merlin froze mid-step. Guards surged forward before he could react, seizing his arms in iron grips. He stumbled, panic flashing in his eyes as whispers rippled through the gathered nobles.
Arthur’s hand went instantly to his sword. His voice rang out, hot with fury. “What is the meaning of this? Release him at once!”
Uther’s voice thundered from the throne. “If the Witchfinder has found the sorcerer, he will answer for his crimes.”
“Father, this is absurd!” Arthur snapped, striding forward, steel half-drawn. His voice cut across the whispers like a blade. “Merlin has served me faithfully for years. There is no proof”
“There is proof,” the Witchfinder hissed, striding up to Merlin with gleaming eyes. “Proof in my own investigations. Proof enough to condemn him.”
“Lies!” Morgana’s voice rang from the side, clear and sharp. She had stepped forward, skirts swishing, her chin raised in defiance. “You condemn him with no more than shadows and whispers. He is a servant, nothing more!”
The Witchfinder’s smile curled like smoke. “And what better disguise for a sorcerer than the most humble of stations? No one would ever suspect, until now.”
“Not him,” Gaius burst out suddenly, voice shaking but resolute. He stepped from the crowd, his old frame straightened by determination. “It was me. I was the one who practiced magic. Take me, if you must.”
Uther’s eyes cut to him, sharp and merciless. “Do not insult me with your lies, Gaius. I know it was not you.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer to Merlin, positioning himself between the guards and his servant, sword now fully drawn. “You’ll not touch him.”
The Witchfinder’s voice turned smooth, coaxing, but laced with venom. “And yet you defend him so fervently, my lord. One wonders why. Unless…”
Arthur’s shoulders tightened, but his glare dared him to continue. Morgana stepped forward again, fire in her eyes, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “Because Arthur is loyal. Loyal to those who have earned his trust. Unlike you, sir, whose tricks and accusations bring only fear.”
A murmur ran through the court, tension building like a storm pressed tight against the walls. Merlin could barely breathe, his pulse thundering in his ears. The guards’ grip was bruising, but worse was the weight of Uther’s silence, the measure of his gaze, cold and calculating, as though already deciding whether his servant would burn.
Arthur’s voice, low but fierce, broke through. “This is nothing but theater, Father. Theater and false accusations.” His sword gleamed in the torchlight, his stance daring anyone to try and drag Merlin further.
Merlin swallowed hard, forcing himself not to speak, not to move. For once, silence was his only weapon.
“There is proof,” the Witchfinder hissed, circling closer. His gaze bored into Merlin like a knife point. “He has hidden his nature from you all. You have been deceived.”
The hall went utterly still. Even the torches seemed to waver as every breath in the chamber hung suspended. Slowly, deliberately, the Witchfinder reached forward, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s.
With a sudden, vicious jerk, he seized the scarf knotted at Merlin’s throat.
Merlin’s breath caught, his hands twitching uselessly against the guards’ grip. “Don’t!”
The Witchfinder yanked it free, the fabric tearing with a sound far too loud in the silence. And then…
The room shifted.
Invisible, undeniable, the Omega scent burst into the air. sweet, Sharp, rich, and inescapable, it cut through the incense and torch smoke, threading into every gasp that followed. Nobles recoiled. Servants clutched at one another. Gasps rose like a wave cresting toward panic.
Arthur’s stomach dropped clean away. No. Not here. Not like this.
On the throne, Uther’s face transformed into something black with fury. He surged to his feet, cloak snapping behind him, his voice booming like a blade drawn from steel.
“An Omega? A male Omega, concealed within my walls? Around my son?”
The hall erupted. Voices collided into one another, outrage, disgust, speculation, fear.
“Deceit!”
“Witchcraft!”
“Corruption in Camelot!”
Merlin trembled where he stood, eyes wide, pulse hammering so loud it drowned the cacophony. Every stare pierced him, each one a spear of accusation. His magic roiled beneath his skin, begging, pleading to be unleashed, fire, wind, anything to shove them all back, but panic locked him in place. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Arthur shoved through the swell of bodies and planted himself squarely in front of Merlin, his shoulders squared, his face set like iron. “Father, you must listen!”
“Silence!” Uther roared, the command cracking over the court like a whip. The crowd shrank at once, cowed by his wrath. “I will hear no excuses. This deceit is treachery. This filth will be dealt with as all sorcerers are dealt with!”
He stabbed a finger toward the guards, his voice shaking with righteous venom. “Take him to the dungeon!”
The guards’ grips tightened, dragging Merlin backward.
Merlin’s throat closed on a strangled sound. Cold iron pressed into his arms, the scrape of the floor beneath his boots jolting through his bones. He met Arthur’s frantic gaze for the barest fraction of a second. His lips moved before he could stop himself, the word barely audible, a breath swallowed by chaos.
“Oh, shit.”
Arthur’s chest seized. Rage, panic, something deeper than either of those flared hot behind his ribs. “Father!”
But Uther’s command thundered louder than everything else, scattering the hall into a storm of voices. The Witchfinder’s smirk carved through the noise, satisfied and hungry, while Merlin disappeared into the crush of guards, dragged toward the shadowed doors.
Arthur’s fists clenched. His every instinct screamed to fight, to tear Merlin free then and there. But Uther’s gaze bore down on him like a sword to his throat. One wrong move and Arthur knew, Merlin would not make it out alive.
The guards tightened their grips, hauling Merlin back across the stone floor. The scrape of his boots echoed in the vaulted chamber, each drag against stone a humiliating reminder of how little control he had. The crowd shifted to let him pass, nobles and courtiers recoiling as though his very skin carried contagion. Their whispers darted like arrows: sorcerer… deceiver… Omega… Every word stung sharper than the iron fingers biting into his arms.
Behind him, Arthur’s voice rang sharp with fury, the edge of command cutting through the din. “Father, you can’t just condemn him without trial! You don’t even understand what you’re saying!”
Morgana’s voice followed, clear and unyielding. She had risen from her place, her gown sweeping as she stepped into the open, defiance written in every line of her posture. “This is madness! He’s done nothing to deserve this! You would kill a boy because one man whispers poison in your ear?”
“Enough!” Uther’s roar cracked through the chamber, silencing all but the faintest murmurs. He surged forward on his throne, fists braced against the carved arms. “I will not be questioned! Not by my son, nor by you, Lady Morgana.” His voice thundered to every corner of the hall. “My word is law, and my law will be obeyed!”
The court fell into cowed silence, broken only by the scuff of Merlin’s boots dragging across the floor. Arthur fought against the press of guards and nobles, his protests swallowed by the vast space. Morgana’s face was tight with fury, her glare pinned on Uther, but even her voice could not pierce the storm of his decree.
Merlin’s chest heaved, his heart pounding so violently it made his vision swim. His magic stirred restlessly, desperate to lash out, to burn, to fight. But the fear pressing in from every side left him trapped in his own skin, caged before the eyes of all Camelot.
The doors loomed ahead, dark and heavy. The closer he drew, the more Arthur’s voice blurred,
once sharp, now muffled, a thread of sound fraying at the edges. Desperate, furious, breaking against the immovable stone of Uther’s will.
Morgana shouted something, Merlin couldn’t catch the words, and then the iron-bound doors yawned wide. The hall’s noise rushed outward in a final swell, swallowed whole as the guards shoved him through.
The last thing he heard was the echo of Arthur’s voice, torn and raw, before the doors slammed shut behind him.
Merlin stumbled as the guards shifted their hold, boots sliding against the worn stone. Leon’s hand caught his elbow, steady but not cruel, pulling him upright before the others could drag him like a sack of grain.
“Damn it, Merlin,” Leon muttered under his breath, his voice pitched low enough that only Merlin could hear. There was no bite in it, only weariness, the kind born of too many battles and too many secrets. “You always find trouble.”
Merlin’s lips twitched, though it came out as more of a grimace than a smile. “Guilty as charged,” he rasped, the words thin and dry in his throat.
The guard on his right shoved him forward when he lagged, and Merlin’s foot slipped against the edge of the stair. He lurched, but Leon’s grip tightened, catching him before he could sprawl headlong down the steps.
“Steady,” Leon murmured, guiding him back onto solid footing. His voice softened even further, a thread of reassurance tucked beneath the rattle of armor. “Arthur will figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”
Merlin’s chest constricted, his breath sharp and shallow. He wanted, needed to believe that, to clutch Leon’s words like a talisman. Arthur always found a way. But the iron clink of the guards’ armor was a steady drumbeat in his ears, each clang a reminder of the noose tightening around him.
He swallowed hard, the burn in his throat spreading to his chest. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look at the guards flanking him, refusing to glance back toward the closed doors of the hall where Arthur’s protests had been swallowed whole.
The stairwell spiraled down, torches sputtering against damp stone walls. The air grew colder with each step, the smell of earth and mildew coiling in his lungs. Merlin forced his expression blank, even as panic pressed tight around his ribs, whispering of chains, of fire, of the gallows Uther would surely prepare.
Leon’s hand stayed steady at his elbow, the smallest mercy in a night unraveling too fast.
The dungeon stank of damp stone and rust, the torchlight guttering in the drafts that seeped through the cracks. Leon shoved the door open with his shoulder, guiding Merlin inside. The chains rattled as the guards locked him into place, cold iron snapping around his wrists with a bite that burned like fire. The smell of singed flesh rose faintly in the air, turning Merlin’s stomach.
“Enjoy your stay, sorcerer,” one of the men sneered, his face twisted in contempt. Before Leon could react, the guard drove a sharp kick into Merlin’s stomach.
The air whooshed out of him in a strangled gasp. Pain flared hot and brutal as he doubled over, the chains jerking against his wrists.
“Hey!” Leon’s voice cracked like a whip. His hand shot out, shoving the guard back a step. “Stop it.”
The man scowled, armor clattering as he squared himself. “What? He’s a sorcerer. Filthy little Omega. Doesn’t deserve better.”
Leon’s jaw tightened. His eyes burned as he stepped closer, his voice edged with fury. “He’s still a person. You want to throw your weight around? Do it somewhere else. Not here.”
For a heartbeat, the guard hesitated, his lip curling. Then he spat on the floor and turned on his heel, stalking toward the stairwell without another word. His boots clanged until the sound disappeared into the dark above.
Silence fell heavy in his wake.
Merlin sucked in a breath, shaky, pressing a hand to his middle. His face was pale, but he managed a rasp of humor. “I’m okay. That…” He winced, voice cracking. “that hurt like a bitch.”
Leon crouched down beside him, eyes searching. “Where did he get you?”
Merlin hissed as he shifted, tugging his tunic up with trembling fingers. The torchlight caught on angry, mottling bruises already blooming across his abdomen. Dark purples and reds spread like spilled ink over pale skin.
Leon swore under his breath, reaching out instinctively before pulling his hand back. “Gods, Merlin…”
Merlin gave a weak laugh, though his lips trembled around it. “I think he broke a rib. Maybe two.” His breath hitched again as he leaned back against the damp wall, forcing a crooked smile. “Lucky me, right?”
Leon dragged a hand over his face, every line of his expression torn between anger and helplessness. “You shouldn’t be down here. You shouldn’t” He cut himself off, voice lowering to a harsh whisper. “I’ll talk to Arthur. He’ll get you out.”
Merlin’s eyes snapped open at that, sharp despite the pain. “Make sure Arthur doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Leon huffed out a mirthless laugh, though his gaze softened. “No promises. He’s hot-headed.”
Merlin snorted weakly, letting his head thunk back against the stone. “Yeah. I know. He’s a giant clotpole.”
Leon shook his head, a breath of fond exasperation escaping him. “Get some rest, Merlin. You’ll need it.”
The iron door slammed shut behind him, echoing down the dungeon corridor until the last sound died. Then silence. Only the drip of water from the ceiling, Merlin’s ragged breathing, and the slow, relentless burn of shackles digging into his skin.
Merlin slumped back against the wall, teeth gritted. Anger sat heavy in his chest, not at Leon, not at Uther, but at himself. Always himself.
How could I have been so stupid?
The shadows shifted across the stone, flickering with the torchlight, and in them he saw echoes of another night. Another secret.
Will.
The battlefield had smelled of smoke and blood. The bandits had come down like a tide, blades flashing. Merlin remembered the weight of magic thrumming through his veins, fire burning in his lungs, the desperate moment when there was no one left to protect Arthur but him. He had unleashed it, raw, uncontrolled, enough to scatter their enemies and save Arthur’s life.
But Will had seen.
Will had understood.
And when the end came, when Will lay broken in the grass with death already in his lungs, he had looked Arthur in the eye and said the words Merlin couldn’t. “It was me. I’m the sorcerer.”
Arthur hadn’t believed a single word.
“No, you’re not,” he’d said, voice sharp, almost angry with the denial. His gaze had slid, unrelenting, toward Merlin.
“Yes,” Will had wheezed, coughing blood, forcing the lie to his last breath. “Yes, I am.”
Merlin had nodded, choking on the taste of ash. “He is. He’s a sorcerer.”
And Arthur, so damned stubborn, so impossibly Arthur, hadn’t bought it for a moment. He had stayed with Will through his final breaths, his expression grim but unconvinced, and when Will’s eyes went still, Arthur hadn’t said a word.
But he’d been watching Merlin ever since.
Through the funeral pyre, through the silence that followed, Merlin had felt Arthur’s eyes on him. Weighing. Measuring. Waiting.
And then, after the smoke had cleared, Arthur had cornered him in the stables. The smell of hay and horses clung to the air, but there had been nothing comforting about the way Arthur loomed in the shadows, every inch the prince, every inch a man with the truth clenched in his fist.
“Tell me the truth, Merlin.”
Merlin had frozen, throat gone dry. “I already told you”
“Stop lying.” Arthur’s hand had slammed against the wooden post beside him, the crack reverberating through the rafters. Close enough to make Merlin flinch, to remind him that Arthur could end this, end him with a single word. “Will wasn’t the one. You were.”
Merlin’s pulse thundered in his ears. The world tilted, small and suffocating. He had been certain Arthur would kill him then and there. His magic stirred restlessly in his blood, useless, wild, desperate to save him, but it couldn’t shield him from this.
“It was me,” Merlin had whispered at last, his voice cracking in the stillness. “I did it.”
Arthur had stared at him, unblinking. Silence stretched taut as a bowstring, heavy with all the things Merlin feared. And then Arthur exhaled, sharp and rough, his shoulders dropping just slightly.
“Jesus, Merlin.” His voice was softer now, but no less intense. “I’m not going to kill you. Just-” he scrubbed a hand over his face, turning away for half a second before snapping back, “don’t ever do something that stupid again.”
Relief had buckled Merlin’s knees. His chest heaved, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. “But it’s not my fault”
Arthur frowned. “Merlin, I don’t”
“No, listen.” The words came out in a rush, tumbling over one another, desperate and raw. “I was born with it. I couldn’t make a choice. I’ve been moving things since I was a baby, before I even knew what I was doing. I never wanted to learn it. I’m not even a sorcerer.”
Arthur blinked. “You’re not…?”
“I’m a warlock.” Merlin’s voice cracked around the word, but he forced it out. “A warlock. Someone born with it. It’s not a spell I learned. It’s just… me. It’s who I am.”
Arthur stared at him like the ground had shifted beneath his feet. “You can be born with magic?”
Merlin nodded quickly, clutching the words like a shield. “Yeah. You can. I was.”
Arthur’s jaw worked, his expression a storm of disbelief and something else Merlin couldn’t name. Then, finally, Arthur dragged in a breath, shaking his head. “You’re going to drive me mad, Merlin.”
Merlin’s lips had twisted into the faintest, terrified smile. “That’s sort of my specialty.”
The memory bled and shifted, one bleeding into the next. Merlin could still feel the heat of Arthur’s anger in the stables, the slam of his palm against the post, the fear choking his throat, but what lingered more than that was what came after.
When Morgana and Gwen had long since drifted to sleep, Arthur nudged him, voice pitched low.
“So,” Arthur had said, too casually. “Do something.”
Merlin blinked. “Do something?”
“Yes, something.” Arthur waved a hand vaguely. “With magic. Make it… I don’t know, do something cool.”
“Cool?” Merlin echoed, incredulous.
Arthur’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Come on. You’ve been hiding it from me all this time. Don’t tell me all you can do is knock over buckets and trip people.”
Merlin huffed, torn between irritation and nerves. “That’s not all I can do.”
“Prove it, then,” Arthur challenged. His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes were serious, searching.
Merlin hesitated. Then, with a quiet breath, he turned toward the campfire. He reached out with that familiar pull inside him, twisting the flames until they rose, stretching higher, then splintered into tiny shapes. Butterflies. Their wings flickered orange before glowing, transforming into wisps of blue light. Dozens of them broke free, lifting into the night air.
Arthur’s head tilted back as the glowing wings drifted upward, scattering into the stars.
“Whoa,” he whispered, all mockery forgotten. “I never knew magic could be… beautiful.”
Merlin smiled faintly, though his voice was careful. “If it’s used well, yes. The problem is, the only people willing to break the law are the ones who want to do evil things with it. And those who are born with it.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed, still watching the butterflies fade. “But if they’re born with it… why do so many of them turn to evil?”
Merlin’s throat tightened. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire, voice quieter now. “Because they’re afraid. They hide, terrified of being burned. And when fear rules your life… it can twist you.”
Arthur was quiet for a long while, his profile lit by the flames. At last, he turned back, eyes sharp again. “And you?”
Merlin startled. “Me?”
Arthur nodded. “Why didn’t you turn evil, Merlin?”
Merlin hesitated. Then the truth slipped out, fragile and certain all at once. “Because of you. Because you’re meant to be the greatest king Albion will ever know. There’s a prophecy about you, that you’ll unite the land, bring magic and people together. My destiny is to help you.”
Arthur stared at him as though he’d grown another head. “Seriously?”
Merlin’s lips quirked. “Yep.”
“Yeah, the great dragon loves to tell prophecies,” Merlin said with a sigh, picking at the firewood with a stick.
Arthur dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Damn. Wait, hold on. Why were you talking to a dragon?”
Merlin winced, eyes darting sidelong. “…Kilgharrah is… kind of a mentor.”
Arthur froze. His head snapped toward him. “A dragon is your mentor?” His voice pitched somewhere between outrage and incredulity.
Merlin shrugged, aiming for casual though his grin tugged crooked. “He gives good advice. Sometimes.”
Arthur leaned closer, elbows braced against his knees, eyes narrowed as if trying to see through Merlin’s skin. “Can you take me to him?”
Merlin barked out a laugh, startled by how genuinely horrified the idea made him. “Absolutely not.”
Arthur drew back, affronted, throwing his hands up in mock offense. “Unbelievable. I’m your prince. I command you to”
“Nope,” Merlin cut in cheerfully, shaking his head. “Not happening.”
Arthur huffed, sitting back against the cart with a clatter of mail. His expression was all exaggerated sulk, but his eyes still glimmered with disbelief. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”
Merlin grinned, shoulders loosening just a little. “And yet, you’d be lost without me.”
Arthur muttered something into his hand, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest smirk.
The memories blurred together, flashes of battlefields, fire, steel.
He’d been fifteen when Will died, and that had been the first thread Arthur tugged loose. After that… everything unraveled.
Sixteen came like a storm. Bandits in the forest, wild beasts set loose by sorcery, assassins in the dark, Arthur was always at the front, blade in hand, Merlin at his side. Merlin had learned to move quickly, to fling magic behind Arthur’s back when no one could see, to let Arthur take the credit when men fell or monsters vanished. And Arthur, damn him… had helped. Distracted guards, covered slip-ups, pretended not to notice when arrows bent mid-flight or when lightning struck just so.
They’d made a rhythm of it, the two of them, secrets threaded into swordplay and laughter. Merlin had been happy, truly happy, in a way he hadn’t thought possible after leaving home. For a little while, it felt like maybe he could have both: his magic, and Arthur’s trust.
But then came seventeen.
Seventeen had been really bad.
Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, breath ragged against the dungeon wall. He could still feel it, the feverish ache, the burning under his skin that no water could cool. He’d thought at first he was ill, fever-sick from exhaustion, until the scents had come sharp and dizzying, until his body was clawing at itself in a storm he didn’t understand.
His first heat.
He had figured, foolishly, he’d be a Beta. Ordinary, invisible. Fate, of course, had been crueler. Fate had made him an Omega.
He’d been in Arthur’s chambers, nothing more than a servant boy making the bed. One moment tucking sheets into corners, the next moment collapsing to the floor, his body trembling, fire licking every nerve. Panic drove him under the bed, curling small, trying to swallow down the scent pouring off his skin.
Hours blurred. The ache never stopped. He stayed there, shivering, biting his hand to keep quiet. By the time the door swung open, the sun had set.
Arthur’s boots clattered across the floor. His voice carried, annoyed but expectant. “Damn it, where is-” He cut off mid-sentence. A sharp inhale. “What is that smell?”
Merlin pressed harder against the floorboards, wishing he could disappear.
Arthur’s footsteps stopped near the bed. There was a pause, then the scrape of mail as he crouched. “Merlin?”
A pair of blue eyes blinked at him from the shadow. And then the realization hit like a thunderclap.
“Oh my god,” Arthur breathed. “You’re an Omega.”
Merlin’s face burned. His whole body shook with fever and shame. “Help me,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what’s happening. It hurts.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, panic flickering there for the first time Merlin had ever seen. He reached a hand under the bed, trying to coax him out, his voice softer than Merlin had expected. “Okay. Okay. It’s all right. We’ll figure this out. Just, don’t stay down there. Come here.”
Merlin whimpered, torn between fear and relief. He reached for Arthur’s hand.
Arthur had carried him through the empty halls, his cloak wrapped tight around Merlin’s trembling frame, his own scent pressed over him in a desperate bid to shield. Merlin’s memory of it came in flashes, the sway of Arthur’s stride, the clink of armor, the fever gnawing at his bones.
Gaius’s chambers had swum into view, and then Gaius himself, who nearly dropped his mortar when he caught sight of them. “Oh, poor boy,” Gaius had breathed, hurrying forward, all color draining from his face. “How long have you been like this?”
“I think a day,” Merlin had managed, voice breaking on the words. His eyes blurred with tears he hated showing. “It hurts, Gaius.”
Arthur had shifted his grip, tightening his hold as if Merlin weighed nothing. His jaw was locked, fury sparking in his eyes at Merlin’s confession, not anger at Merlin, but at the fact that he had been suffering alone.
After that, everything fractured into disjointed shards. Gaius bustling frantically. Bitter herbs crushed into a paste. The clink of glass vials. Arthur’s hand, steady at the back of his neck, grounding him through the fever haze. The cool press of damp cloth against his brow.
And through it all, Arthur’s voice, low, unshakable, swearing against Merlin’s hair: “No one will ever know. We’ll hide it. I’ll make sure of it.”
The next morning, the fever broke like a storm passing. Merlin woke sore, weak, but the gnawing heat had gone. Gaius had stood over him, grim-faced, pressing a bottle into his hand.
“Suppressants,” he had instructed firmly. “Once a month. Every month. And the poultices will help hide your scent. You’ll wear a scarf at all times. Do not give anyone reason to suspect.”
Merlin had nodded numbly, cheeks burning with humiliation. He’d been sure Arthur would hate him now, would treat him with disgust, would never look at him the same way again.
But Arthur hadn’t.
If anything, Arthur had acted exactly the same. He’d teased him mercilessly, called him an idiot, shoved him into chores. But there had been… other things too. Things Merlin, in his obliviousness, hadn’t thought much about at the time.
Arthur snapping at knights who crowded him too close during training.
Arthur insisting Merlin ride near him when they traveled, rather than at the back of the column.
Arthur thrusting his cloak into Merlin’s hands whenever the wind bit cold, grumbling something about “useless servants catching ill.”
Arthur glaring daggers at strangers in taverns when their gazes lingered too long on Merlin.
Merlin hadn’t understood it then. He’d just thought Arthur was being Arthur, bossy, overbearing, impossible. Protective, maybe, but that was just what Arthur did with everyone he cared about.
It never once occurred to him that Arthur’s protectiveness might mean more.
Merlin’s lips twisted faintly at the memory, equal parts warmth and embarrassment. He’d been so pathetic that night, so small and helpless, and Arthur had stayed anyway. Arthur had kept his secret. Arthur had kept him.
And they had. Arthur and Gaius, working in quiet partnership to shield him from Uther’s scrutiny, had formed the first fragile thread of safety.
But not the last.
Morgana had come next. She’d been unraveling for weeks, plagued by nightmares she couldn’t control, visions that left her screaming awake in the dark, trembling with fear. She’d cornered Merlin one night in the corridors, eyes wide, hands shaking, magic sparking at her fingertips like live embers.
“Oh God,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do. He’s going to kill me, Merlin, he’s going to burn me”
Merlin had grabbed her wrists, holding her steady, his own magic humming instinctively to meet hers. “Morgana. Morgana. Look at me.”
Her breath hitched, tears glinting in her eyes.
“He’s not going to kill you,” Merlin said fiercely, steadying her hands with his own. “Because I’m going to help you. Just like I hide my magic, you’ll hide yours.”
Her gaze sharpened, trembling confusion breaking through her panic. “What? You have-”
“Yes.” His voice was firm, certain now. “I was born with it. Just like you.”
Morgana’s lips parted, her terror shifting into stunned relief. And for the first time in weeks, her shoulders uncurled just slightly, as if she could finally breathe.
From then on, the nights changed. Merlin showed her what he knew, small tricks at first: coaxing flame into her palm, moving a goblet an inch across the table, breathing through the rush of power instead of fearing it. She lit up with every success, eyes bright, laughter spilling out like she’d never believed it was possible to feel joy in her magic.
“You see?” Merlin would tell her, grinning despite himself. “You can control it. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”
And when her nightmares came, she no longer woke screaming. With practice, Merlin helped her face them, taught her to ground herself in the storm. She was still afraid, but not alone.
Then Gwen found out.
It had been almost comically anticlimactic, a slip of Merlin’s tongue, or maybe the way Morgana’s candle had flared too brightly when Gwen was near. Gwen had blinked once, then set down her sewing with calm certainty.
“I always thought you were keeping something,” she’d said, matter-of-fact. “Magic suits you, Merlin. And you, Morgana.”
Neither of them had known whether to laugh or cry at her utter lack of surprise.
Leon had been the last.
That one hadn’t been deliberate at all. Merlin had been exhausted, distracted, and the fire simply… lit itself. Leon, sitting by the flames sharpening his sword, didn’t even flinch. He just gave Merlin a long look.
Arthur swore loudly, nearly choking on his drink. “Shit, Merlin! Crap!”
Leon arched a brow. “What?”
“You- he” Arthur stammered, pointing at Merlin, who looked like he’d just swallowed his own tongue.
Leon’s lips twitched. “I already knew you had magic.”
Merlin gaped. “What? You did?”
“Yeah.” Leon sheathed his blade with an easy motion. “It’s pretty obvious, Merlin. You suck at lying.”
Merlin dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “Ugh.”
Arthur muttered something about “idiots, all of you” under his breath, but Leon only smiled faintly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
Three people in all of Camelot had become four. Then five. Then six.
And Merlin had thought that was enough. Thought that was safe.
And now here he was. Shackled, exposed, the scent of his second nature filling the great hall, Uther’s voice booming accusations that would haunt him even here in the damp quiet.
Merlin dropped his head into his hands, fingers clenching tight against his hair. “How could I have been so bloody stupid?”
The question echoed off the stone and came back to him with no answer at all.
The chains weighed heavy, biting into his wrists every time he shifted. Cold iron thrummed against his veins, dulling the edge of his magic until it felt like something inside him had gone numb. But worse than the burn, worse than the silence, was the knowledge of what came next.
Male Omegas didn’t last long when they were exposed. He’d heard the stories whispered in taverns, the rumors traded like grim currency in the lower town. They were dragged into chains, just like this, paraded as prizes. Sold to the highest bidder like prized horses, stripped of choice and dignity. Rare. Exotic. Valuable. The words still echoed in his mind like poison.
Merlin’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want a stranger. He didn’t want to be bound, caged, bred like some commodity for nobles to squabble over. The thought of a random Alpha’s hands on him made his skin crawl.
A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless. Because deep down, he knew there was only one Alpha he’d ever wanted.
Arthur.
The thought came unbidden, traitorous, curling hot and aching through his chest. The only one he trusted, the only one he’d ever let close. Arthur, who knew his secrets and never turned away. Arthur, who stood in front of him in the hall like a shield even when Uther’s fury was boiling over. Arthur, who looked at him like he was more than just a servant, more than just a sorcerer or an Omega.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, shaking his head against the thought. Stupid. Dangerous. Because Arthur was a prince, soon to be king, and Merlin… Merlin was chained to a dungeon wall, little better than a slave.
Their destinies might be tangled together, he’d always felt it, a thread humming between them, pulling tighter with every step they took side by side, but destiny was not the same as desire.
Arthur could never be his. Not in the way Merlin wanted. Not in the way that filled his chest now, raw and aching.
Merlin exhaled a shudder, forcing the thought down, burying it deep where it belonged. He’d pined long enough to know better. Dreams didn’t keep you alive. They didn’t stop the pyre, or the chains, or Uther’s wrath.
He dropped his head back against the wall, staring into the dark until his eyes burned. Don’t be stupid, Merlin. Don’t be stupid.
But even in the silence, the truth throbbed in him like a wound: the only Alpha he wanted was the one he could never have.
The dungeon was quiet, the torches guttering low, when a voice slithered out of the shadows.
“Aw… little Omega. Why so sad?”
Merlin jerked upright, heart lurching painfully against his ribs. His head snapped toward the sound. The Witchfinder stood just beyond the bars, his silhouette warped by the flickering torchlight. His smile was thin and wolfish, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that made Merlin’s stomach turn.
Merlin scrambled back instinctively, the heavy shackles dragging across the floor. Iron scraped against stone as he pulled until the chains bit cruelly into his wrists, forcing him to stop. His spine hit the wall, cold seeping into his bones, but it was still better than being near the door.
The Witchfinder chuckled, low and pleased, stepping close enough that his shadow stretched long and crooked across the cell floor. “You know,” he murmured, voice dripping with oily amusement, “I’m not entirely sure you’re a sorcerer.”
Merlin’s pulse spiked. He couldn’t speak, could barely breathe.
The Witchfinder tilted his head, smiling wider. “But the moment I caught a whiff of your little Omega scent…” His eyes half-lidded, greedy, savoring the way Merlin flinched. “Gods, boy. I knew I had to have you.”
Merlin’s breath stuttered out, harsh and ragged. “What?” The word cracked, more rasp than voice, disbelief and terror knotted tight in his chest.
With deliberate slowness, the Witchfinder drew a key from his robes. The sound of iron sliding into iron echoed like a death knell. Click. The lock gave, and the door groaned open. The noise scraped down Merlin’s spine like nails.
“Don’t worry,” the Witchfinder whispered, stepping inside with measured grace, savoring every inch of Merlin’s panic. “I’ll take very good care of you.”
He crouched, close enough that Merlin could smell the sour wine on his breath. Fingers reached out, slow and deliberate, hovering before brushing along Merlin’s cheek. Merlin flinched violently, twisting his head away so hard it made his neck ache, breath coming too fast. The chains rattled with the frantic rise and fall of his chest.
“Don’t touch me,” Merlin spat, though his voice trembled.
The Witchfinder’s chuckle was soft, indulgent. “Oh, I think you’ll beg for me to, eventually. A little prize like you, so pretty, so rare. You’d look very fine on my lap.”
Merlin’s stomach heaved. He bared his teeth, forcing venom into his voice even as fear hollowed him out. “I’d rather die.”
The Witchfinder’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened, cruel amusement glittering in his eyes. “Defiant. Good. The wild ones always are. But you’d be very good to tame.”
The Witchfinder leaned closer, voice dropping into a silken purr. “Such pretty eyes. Such a waste, rotting in chains when you could be… useful.”
Merlin jerked his head away, shoulders pressed flat to the wall, the cold stone digging into his back. He could feel the man’s presence like oil in the air, slick and suffocating. Fingers dragged across his sleeve, his shoulder, too casual, too lingering.
“Don’t touch me,” Merlin spat, twisting away.
The Witchfinder only smiled, a predator savoring the chase. He reached again, trailing his hand down Merlin’s arm. With a burst of fury, Merlin snapped his hand up to slap him away, but the Witchfinder caught his wrist mid-swing. The chains rattled violently as he twisted Merlin’s arm back and slammed it into the wall, pinning him there with cruel force.
Merlin’s cry echoed harsh in the narrow cell.
Then the air shifted. Heavy, oppressive, like an invisible weight pressing down on him. The Witchfinder’s scent grew thick, cloying, alpha pheromones flooding the space. Merlin’s chest seized as the pressure curled tight around his throat, choking him. His body stuttered with heat that wasn’t his, panic sparking white-hot.
The Witchfinder’s smile widened, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Yes. That’s it. So responsive. Almost like you’re” He inhaled sharply, then scowled. “Damn suppressants.”
Merlin gasped, dragging in a shuddering breath as the pressure loosened only slightly.
“No worries.” The Witchfinder’s eyes gleamed with promise. “I’ll find a way around that.”
He leaned in, too close, breath sour against Merlin’s lips. Merlin turned his face, shoving against him with everything the chains would allow, but the Witchfinder pressed forward anyway, stealing Merlin's lips.
Revulsion surged. Fury snapped through the haze of fear. Merlin jerked his head violently, teeth sinking down.
The Witchfinder yelped, staggering back, a hand flying to his mouth. Blood welled bright against his pale fingers.
The Witchfinder’s lip bled where Merlin’s teeth had caught, but he only laughed, low and dangerous. With a sudden crack of his hand, he struck Merlin across the face. The blow sent Merlin’s head snapping sideways, his cheek burning, the taste of copper blooming on his tongue.
Before he could recover, the Witchfinder seized his chin, forcing Merlin’s head back, and pressed close again. Merlin turned his face away, straining against the shackles, his whole body writhing with frantic refusal, but the man’s grip was iron.
The cell door groaned open.
The heavy creak sliced through the suffocating silence, sharp as a blade.
“I brought food for the prisoner!”
Guinevere’s voice faltered. The tray of bread and broth trembled in her hands as she froze on the threshold. Her eyes widened, horror flashing bright and raw across her face.
The Witchfinder was crouched over Merlin, one hand clamped on his jaw, the other braced against the wall. Merlin’s chest heaved, his eyes wide and panicked, locked on hers with silent desperation.
The tray rattled faintly in Guinevere’s hands, but her voice was steady as she dipped her head. “I… I was told to bring food for the prisoner. Under Prince Arthur’s orders.”
The Witchfinder’s hand stilled, his expression curdling into irritation. Slowly, he drew back, straightening to his full height with a sharp tsk.
“You interrupted my questioning.” His eyes narrowed at her, but his voice was silk. “No matter. The prince wants him fed, so fed he shall be.”
Merlin shrank against the wall as the Witchfinder leaned down once more, mockery curling his mouth. “Very well. I’ll be back, little Omega.”
Before stepping out, he ruffled Merlin’s hair with a patronizing swipe of his hand. Merlin flinched, jerking his head away, bile rising in his throat.
The Witchfinder’s laugh was soft, cruel, and then he swept from the cell, the iron gate clanging shut behind him. His footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving only silence and the sharp sound of Merlin’s breathing.
Guinevere hurried forward, setting the tray down with a clatter before crouching at his side. “Merlin, are you okay?”
Merlin let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head against the wall. “Gods, Gwen. Thank you. If you hadn’t come in when you did-” His voice broke, raw. “I don’t know if I’d have made it out of that unscathed.”
Her eyes softened, sorrow and fury mixing in her gaze. She didn’t need him to say more. She understood exactly what the Witchfinder had been about to do.
She reached for his shoulder, steady but gentle. “Arthur’s already coming up with a plan. He’s working with Morgana and Gaius. They’ll get you out.”
Merlin exhaled hard, relief flooding through him until he slumped against the wall. “Thank fuck.”
Guinevere sank onto the cold stone floor beside him, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. The torchlight threw shadows across her face, but her voice was steady, careful, as if she knew Merlin needed calm more than anything else.
“Uther will understand once Arthur figures out a plan,” Gwen said gently, setting the tray down on the floor beside him. Her voice was steady, meant to anchor him, though her eyes still flicked warily toward the dungeon door. “You remember how mad he was when he found out Morgana marked me?”
Merlin let out a shaky laugh, though it hitched in his throat and came out ragged. He pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth to cover it. “Yeah. He didn’t like that she’d marked a girl.”
Gwen’s mouth curved wryly at the memory, though her eyes carried the shadow of old hurt. “He thought it was improper. Thought I wasn’t good enough for her. Said it was a disgrace to the Pendragon name.” She shook her head, lips tightening. “As if love cares about what’s proper.”
She settled into a crouch so they were eye level, her voice dipping lower, more confidential. “After all… two females can’t have children. Not the way Uther thinks is acceptable. Morgana being an Alpha, me being an Omega, to him, that wasn’t the ‘right parts.’ It didn’t matter how fiercely she loved me.” Gwen’s throat bobbed, but she held Merlin’s gaze, steady. “It didn’t matter that I loved her back.”
Merlin blinked, swallowing hard against the tightness in his chest. He knew what it was to be deemed wrong by nature, to be born something Camelot decided wasn’t fit to live.
Gwen’s expression softened, the corners of her mouth lifting, bittersweet. “But Arthur…” Her voice warmed, rich with quiet loyalty. “Arthur stood up for me. For us. He argued until his voice broke, until even Uther had to relent and stop speaking of it. He always does, in the end. He’ll stand up for you too, Merlin. You’ll see.”
Merlin closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose, willing himself to believe her. The iron cuffs burned, the stone bit into his back, but for the first time that night, the terror eased its grip.
“It’s gonna be okay, right?” he whispered, voice barely audible.
Gwen reached out, brushing his hair gently from his face, her touch soft as a promise. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Merlin swallowed hard, clinging to her words like a lifeline. He nodded, even if doubt still coiled in his chest. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the food tray forgotten between them, two friends clinging to fragile hope in the shadows of the dungeon.
The stairwell creaked with armored steps, and Merlin stiffened instinctively. Gwen froze, eyes flicking to the door just as it swung open.
“Merlin” Leon’s voice started, but then he caught sight of Guinevere crouched beside him. His brows shot up, his whole frame going taut. “Gwen? What are you doing down here?”
She rose to her feet, chin lifted despite the tremor in her hands. “The Witchfinder was in here. He was going to…” Her voice broke, and she forced the words out like steel. “He was going to rape him. Somebody has to stay.”
Leon’s face drained of color. Shock flickered to horror, and then to anger that settled like iron across his features. He glanced at Merlin, then back to Gwen. “Gods above.”
Merlin shook his head quickly, eyes wide. “Don’t. Don’t tell Arthur. I don’t want him to..”
Gwen turned to him sharply, her eyes glistening. “He needs to know, Merlin. He needs to understand what you’re facing. Maybe then he can help get you out of here.”
Merlin’s chains rattled as he shifted, his voice harsh with desperation. “He doesn’t even think I’m actually a sorcerer! He just, he just figured out I was an Omega. That’s all.”
Leon’s jaw dropped, the words hitting him like a blow. “What?” His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. “gods, Merlin…”
Merlin’s laugh was bitter, short. “Yeah. Not exactly the secret I wanted exposed.”
For a long beat, the three of them stood in the flickering dark, the truth hanging heavy in the air. Then Leon squared his shoulders, stepping fully into the cell.
“I’ll stay watch over him,” Leon said firmly, his voice the kind of low command that brooked no argument. His eyes fixed on Gwen, steady. “Go. Find Arthur. Help him.”
Gwen hesitated, glancing back at Merlin. He looked at her with weary eyes, some mix of gratitude and resignation shining through the panic. She nodded once, quick and determined.
“I’ll find him,” she whispered. “Hold on, Merlin.”
And then she slipped past Leon, skirts brushing the stone, footsteps fading up the stair.