Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The warmth of the fire falls cold against your skin—like an invisible barrier keeps it from reaching you, leaving you shivering in the stillness. You’ve run for miles. Your dress is torn to rags by the forest’s grasping branches, every snag and scratch a memory of your flight. You didn’t dare look back.

By the time the sun dips beneath the treeline, your legs have all but crumpled beneath you. Adrenaline alone carries you up the trunk of a wide old oak, where you perch for hours—watching, waiting—until you finally let yourself breathe. You’re certain now: you’ve outrun them.

You want to stay in the tree, to conjure a simple vine-wrap to anchor yourself to the branch. But the night brings an autumnal chill only fire can banish. Now, the wood glows in a low, dull ember—just enough to keep you warm, not enough to light up the clearing like a beacon.

But the warmth you desperately need never comes.

You huddle as close to the embers as you can, the flicker of orange light catching on your torn skirts and bruised hands. Hunger gnaws at your ribs like a trapped rat, but the fire’s low crackles lull you—body trembling, breath shallow—until the ache fades to nothing.

Exhaustion overwhelms you into a dreamless sleep.

And then—

Snap.

Your eyes fly open.

The fire has died to ash, the first rays of morning peeking through the trees.

You know that sound. A twig, brittle and sharp. Snapping in two beneath a foot.

You sit up slowly, holding your breath, heart slamming against your ribs. The forest around you is silent. Too silent. Not a single birdcall. Not even the whisper of wind through leaves.

Snap.

You roll on instinct.

A twang of string—a hiss through the air—and the arrow buries itself in the moss where your head just was. You scramble to your feet, ears ringing. Shadows dart between the trees. Three—no, four—men, maybe more.

Not the ones from before. These are different. Wild-eyed. Grinning. Rough-hewn leather in place of armour.

And you run. Like your life depends on it.

The forest blurs past you, underbrush tearing at your aching legs. Footsteps thunder behind—laughs and snarls and jeers.

“Where you runnin’, sweetheart?”

“Looks like we found ourselves a little lost rabbit!”

You burst through a thicket and skid to a stop.

Too late. They’ve outflanked you. A half-circle of filthy, ragged men closes in, weapons drawn, eyes gleaming like animals. One licks his teeth. Another holds your discarded satchel, inspecting it with mock interest.

“Ain’t much here,” he says. “But I reckon you’ve got other uses.”

Laughter. Ugly, loud.

You back away. Your hands tremble at your sides—but not with fear.

They don’t see it at first. The shift. The heat.

Not until the flames bloom.

Your fingers light like torches, fire curling up your forearms in golden ribbons, casting shadows that dance over their stunned faces.

The laughter stops.

“Witch—!” one shouts, stumbling back.

Arrows meet bowstrings, drawn tight and aimed at your heart.

But they’re too slow.

The fire surges from your hands in a roaring wave, devouring the clearing in a rush of smoke and screaming. The stench of burning cloth and flesh fills the air. One man tries to run. He doesn’t get far.

You stand in the center of it all—breathing hard, hair whipping in the updraft—surrounded by fire and ash and silence.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t look away.

You watch as they feel your fire burn away their lives.

And the forest is still burning when she arrives.

You hear her before you see her—branches parting, quick footsteps faltering at the scent of scorched flesh. She emerges into the edge of the clearing, skirts gathered in one hand, eyes wide with horror as she takes in the blackened corpses strewn across the moss.

She’s young, not much older than you. Pretty in a soft, farm-girl way. Her cloak is travel-worn but thick, and her leather satchel bounces at her hip as she freezes in place.

Then her gaze lands on you.

She blinks once. Then again, slower. Her eyes take in your charred sleeves, the fading glow at your fingertips, the firelight still reflected in your eyes.

“Oh gods,” she whispers. “What—? How—? D-Did you d-do this?”

You stare at her wordlessly, breath still heavy with adrenaline and fear.

She looks between the bodies and you again, stepping back, hand trembling toward the strap of her bag.

“I—I didn’t see anything, I swear—”

She turns to run.

Your head tilts sharply to the side.

With a faint crack, like the air itself shattering, her body seizes. Her eyes roll back as she crumples soundlessly to the ground.

You sigh.

She’s still breathing. Gently. Her pulse flutters at her throat like a trapped bird.

You crouch beside her, brushing a few curls from her face. Her bag slips from her shoulder easily. Inside: a wrapped apple, a needle and thread, and a letter sealed with wax.

You break the seal.

To the Royal Court of Camelot,
This is to certify that my daughter, Morwyn of Dunfold, is presented in thanks for her service and skill, and that of her family. She is of good standing and has been chosen to serve His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur, in attendance.
— Master Osric, Blacksmith of Dunfold

Your fingers curl tight around the parchment.

It’s an opportunity. A gift you hadn’t asked for, hadn’t expected—but now it’s here, burning in your hands like fate.

A way out.

A new life.

At the very least, an escape from them .

You look down at Morwyn, sighing again.

“I’m sorry.”

You set your palms over the letter. A whispered word. The ink shifts. Letters bend and straighten, forming your name where hers once was:

Aelith of Dunfold.

Another murmur, and a soft ripple of gold passes over Morwyn’s still body. Her memories—of fire, of fear, of you —drain like water from a cracked bowl. The first thing she’ll remember when she wakes is her decision to return home, to tell Master Osric the King had already appointed someone else to serve the Prince.

Happy. Ignorant.

You strip off your own tattered dress and pull on hers. It’s warm. Too clean. The cloak settles across your shoulders like something sacred. Softer than anything you’ve ever felt—you could spend hours stroking the curls of the fabric between your fingers.

Snap.

Another twig. The harsh reminder of reality crashes down.

Suppressing the flurry of guilt rising in your chest, you glance once more at the girl whose name and future you’ve stolen. Then you tuck the edited letter back into the satchel and turn toward the path from which she came.

Heart pounding, the illusion of her cloak concealing your burn marks, your bloodied and bruised skin. You hope your tangled hair and muddied face will be seen only as the signs of travel from this faraway Dunfold place.

And before long, the forest begins to thin.

The trees part like a gate—opening onto a life you have no idea how to live, and no choice but to embrace.

And there it is.

Camelot.

Golden towers pierce the morning mist. Crimson banners flutter against the rising sun. The outer walls loom ahead, guards already beginning to rouse for the day.

You step out of the woods, chin raised, clutching the letter that now bears your name.

All hope of survival curled tightly in your palm.

Chapter Text

The city swells around you like a waking beast—towering walls, pennants flickering, streets already clattering with boots, hooves, and the bark of early tradesmen.

You clutch the satchel to your chest, the forged letter in your hand growing heavier with each step.

The guards at the gate barely glance at you before holding out a hand.

“Name?”

“A-Aelith,” you stutter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. “Of Dunfold.”

He squints at the parchment. His lips move silently as he reads, then he nods and passes it back.

“Head up to the castle gates once you're ready. Ask for Elric. He’ll know where to send you.”

You bob your head in thanks, barely remembering to breathe until you’re past them.

The streets beyond are a different kind of battleground—carts and crowds and smells both delicious and revolting. Everything moves too fast. Everyone looks hurried and stressed.

You are far from the forest now.

A crooked wooden sign catches your eye, swinging in the faint breeze that climbs over the high, engulfing city walls. The Stag’s Head —a tavern, judging by the aroma of stewed meat and sour ale spilling out from within.

You slip inside, heart pounding.

A barrage of noise strikes you almost dead in your tracks.

It’s dim and warm, thick with the kind of heat that settles in your throat. Full of clanking tankards and low voices and the creak of old wood. A fire roars in the hearth. Your legs ache just looking at it. Though you wish the beams above were branches. Instead, stone presses in where trees should be.

Swallowing your nerves, you approach the bar, wringing your hands, the letter now stuffed deep into the stolen satchel clutched tight to your chest.

“Excuse me,” you speak, barely heard over the crowd of raucous drunkards and shrill courtesans. “Please—I’ve just arrived. I don’t have any coin, but—would you let me eat? I’ll sweep, or wash dishes, or—”

The barkeep frowns, arms crossed over a flour-dusted apron. “No coin, no plate. Can’t feed every beggar with a sob-story.”

A stool scrapes back beside you, sharp and sudden.

You flinch.

“She’s not a beggar,” comes a voice behind you—rough, warm, with a thread of mischief. “She’s with me.”

You turn.

The man is tall, dark-haired, and scruff-jawed, with eyes too bright to belong to someone honest—or unfamiliar. A sword is strapped to his hip, though his clothes are plain, not a soldier’s. He gives the barkeep a grin that probably wins him free drinks often.

“She’ll have stew, two tankards, and—” he glances at you, smirking, “—something sweet, if the kitchen’s feeling generous.”

The barkeep snorts. “And who’s paying for all this, Gwaine?”

“Put it on my tab,” he sighs, rolling his eyes before adding under his breath, “unless you’ve finally found the bottom of it.”

The man—Gwaine, apparently—motions you toward a table by the fire, away from the crowd. You follow hesitantly, stomach growling in betrayal. Hunger and desperation drown your instincts. You might not be able to burn him here without earning a one-way ticket to the execution block.

But if he drags you upstairs… well, he’ll regret it.

What comes after, you’re not sure. You’re too starved and aching to care.

“You looked like you were about to faint,” he says, flopping into the chair opposite you. “Or murder someone. Hard to tell.”

“I—I didn’t know where else to go,” you admit, hands curling around the tankard the barkeep plunks down. It smells sharp and bitter. “Thank you. I mean it.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Would’ve been a crime to let someone as sad-eyed as you starve.” His smile softens just a touch. “First time in Camelot?”

You nod. “Is it that obvious?”

“You flinched when a man coughed.” He raises a brow. “City’s loud. You’ll get used to it,” he throws a wink out your way.

You’re not sure how to respond.

You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “I don’t think I belong here.”

“None of us did, at first,” he says, drinking deep.

You try the ale. Immediately regret it.

It burns your throat and fizzes behind your eyes. You cough, and he chuckles, tapping the rim of his own mug.

“Careful, love. That stuff sneaks up on you.”

You blink at the word love , cheeks warming, but he doesn’t seem to mean anything by it—just another part of his careless charm.

Food arrives, and you eat so quickly your jaw cramps. Gwaine doesn’t comment, just sips his drink and lets you have silence when you need it.

He is watchful. But you’re too hungry to care.

Eventually, when you’ve scraped the last scrap into your mouth, he leans back in his chair, eyeing you with mild curiosity.

“So? What’s your story?”

You pause, spoon hovering mid-air. “I—I’m Aelith. I’m here to serve the Prince. Arthur? M-my father is a blacksmith, and the King sent for me in thanks for a sword he made for him.”

It isn’t a perfect lie. But you’ve rehearsed it in your head ever since you stole from that girl in the woods.

Something flickers behind Gwaine’s eyes. Doubt?

But it’s gone in a flash, replaced by a smirk and a low whistle.

“Straight into the lion’s den, then!”

“What?”

“Arthur’s… not exactly the easiest to impress,” he grins. “But he’s not the worst man to serve, either.”

You look at him more closely now. There’s something familiar about the way he speaks of the Prince. No title. Not disrespect exactly but… no propriety either. Before you can ask, however, he stands, swinging his stowed sword over the bench.

“Come on. You’re half-asleep already, and if I don’t get you a room, you’ll pass out at the table and I’ll have to carry you upstairs.

You look away, flushing at the idea of this strange man trying to carry you unconscious. “But—I can’t pay—”

“I’ve got it.” He waves a hand. “Consider it a welcome to Camelot.”

You stare at him, suspicion winning out now that your stomach is at last full. “Why are you being so kind?”

His expression sobers just a little. “Because once, when I was worse off even than you… someone helped me. And I never forgot it.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, gaze dropping to your hands. Guilt pricks your chest as your eyes drift to the satchel at your hip. Stolen. Everything about you is.

The only thing that is yours is forbidden on pain of death.

You suppress a sigh, glancing up to the man watching you with now unabashed curiosity.

“…Thank you,” you mutter, a small smile peeking through your crushing anxiety.

“Don’t mention it.” He holds out his hand, warm smile reaching his dark eyes, and helps you to your feet. “Come on, Aelith. Let’s get you somewhere warm to sleep.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Camelot feels no kinder.

You trail behind Gwaine through narrow, winding streets that slope ever upward, the castle looming like a watchful sentinel above the city. Its towers glint pale gold in the morning light, rising through a thin veil of early morning mist. Your stomach flutters, the stolen letter tucked once more against your chest like a loaded weapon.

You are clean now—sort of. The bath has helped, though the bruises on your knees still bloom like violets, and the taste of last night’s ale still lingers faintly at the back of your tongue.

“Keep up, love,” Gwaine calls over his shoulder, grinning as he ambles through the burgeoning crowds with enviable ease. “You’ll have to climb faster than that if you want to work for the Prince.”

You don’t reply, breath caught somewhere between exertion and nerves as the two of you approach a small side gate tucked into the lower courtyard wall. It is open, but guarded. Gwaine nods casually at the sentry, who lets you both pass without comment.

Who is this man? Who speaks of the Prince so casually, carries a sword without armour, and can pass into the city walls without question?

Curiosity swirls amongst your nerves as you follow his gently swaggering form, recalling his words from last night:

“Because once, when I was worse off even than you… someone helped me. And I never forgot it.”

It seems you’re not the only one with secrets. Though instinct tells you his are far more harmless than yours.

Inside the courtyard, the noise of the city falls blissfully away.

But the air here is somehow even tighter, more watchful—stone corridors echoing with the soft patter of servants’ feet and the occasional sharp command from unseen rooms.

You don’t belong here.

You’re starting to believe you never will.

But you have to pretend. Right now, it’s the only way you can hope to survive.

“Almost there,” Gwaine chirps cheerily as you round a corner and begin to climb another set of steps worn smooth by generations. “Elric should be up in the main service hall. Miserable old goat, but dependable. Don’t let him scare you, he’s not as in charge as he thinks he is.”

You’re about to ask who Elric is exactly when a door ahead bangs open and a young man steps into the corridor.

He has a stack of towels in his arms and a perpetually annoyed look on his face—sharp-cheeked, dark-haired, with startlingly blue eyes. The moment he sees Gwaine, his expression sours further.

“Don’t tell me,” he grimaces. “You’ve already lost your sword again.”

“Not today,” Gwaine says cheerfully, patting the weapon stowed at his hip. “Though now that you mention it…”

“Don’t you dare.” The man shoves the towels into a passing girl’s arms without even looking and folds his own across his chest. “I’m not covering for you again. Arthur had me in the stocks for two days last time!”

“You say that every time,” Gwaine sighs in mock exasperation, “but you always cover for me.”

“Your luck will run out eventually, Gwaine,” the young man pokes, a reluctant smirk twitching his lips.

“And yet here we are!” Gwaine chimes jovially, thumping the man hard on the back and making him stumble. “The sword remains found and my luck remains legendary.”

Their banter moves so fast it takes you a moment to catch up. The young man glances your way, and for the first time, you are caught in the full weight of his gaze.

It isn’t hostile. But it isn’t friendly, either.

“She yours?” he asks, nodding at you.

“She’s not mine,” Gwaine says, mock-offended. “You think every woman near me is mine? I’m flattered, but not that good.”

The man rolls his eyes before they land back on you. Narrowing slightly, not missing the way you hold your breath, nervous gaze flitting between Gwaine and the stranger with anxious trepidation. There’s something clinical about the way he looks at you. Not unkind, but watchful. Like he’s memorising you in pieces—voice, stance, eyes.

Gwaine on the other hand doesn’t seem to sense any tension at all. He turns to you with a wide smile. “This here is Aelith. Just arrived yesterday. She’s here to serve Arthur. Thought you should meet, given you’ll be working so closely together!”

Your stomach drops. What does Gwaine mean you’ll be working with him?

The man’s posture stiffens too. His eyes snap to yours. There’s a flicker of something you can’t name. It sets you on edge.

“Here to serve Arthur?” he repeats, tone even.

You nod, throat dry. “M-my father’s a blacksmith. From Dunfold. The King sent for me after… after a gift he made for His Highness.”

A pause.

“And you’ve a letter to prove it, I suppose?” he asks mildly. His bright blue gaze never leaves yours.

You hesitate.

Gwaine cuts in before you can speak. “She’s got one, yes. Elric’s expecting her. Don’t scowl so hard, Merlin, you’ll get wrinkles.”

Merlin.

You blink.

You’ve heard the name mentioned in the tavern last night. He’s the Prince’s manservant, supposedly, though from the way he’s talked about, everyone says he’s far more than that. Some call him Arthur’s shadow, others his leash.

And yet… this is not the man you’d imagined from those stolen snippets of talk.

He looks no older than you, with a frayed hem on his tunic and a permanent tension to his shoulders, like he never quite lets himself rest. Not tall, not broad. But there’s something sturdy in him. Like stone under pressure.

Merlin’s stare hasn’t left you.

“She doesn’t look like a servant,” he says finally.

“Neither do you,” Gwaine says with a grin. “And yet Arthur wouldn’t survive without you!”

Merlin doesn’t smile. He steps closer—just a half-step—and tilts his head, like trying to hear a sound only he can catch.

“Where’d you say you were from?”

“D-dunfold,” you say quickly.

Merlin nods once, slowly. Then turns to Gwaine. “Can I speak to you?” He leans into him slightly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “In private?”

Gwaine groans. “Come on. She’s not a threat. She’s—look at her! She wouldn’t be able to hurt a fly! No offense, love.”

You flush again, hands sweating slightly around the stolen parchment that is your only lifeline.

“I am looking,” Merlin mutters through gritted teeth, no longer looking at you. “That’s why I want a word.”

Gwaine hesitates, then glances at you. “Wait here a minute, alright?”

You nod quickly, heart hammering.

The two disappear into a side corridor, voices muffled by stone.

You stand alone in the passage, servants brushing past, too busy to glance your way. For a moment, you consider running. Down the stairs. Back into the streets. Back to the forest. Full of other dangers but at least familiar.

Yet your feet won’t move.

There’s nowhere to go now.

And if Merlin has already seen through you… well, better to face it than worry.

You take a slow breath, fingers twitching slightly at your sides.

Then you reach.

Not far. Just enough. A whisper of power that curls beneath your ribs and slips out into the air like smoke. You feel it drift through the corridor, unseen and feather-light, brushing along the stones like fog. And then—

Sound.

“…I’m telling you, she’s harmless,” Gwaine is whispering, tone flippant.

“She flinched,” comes Merlin’s low voice. “Before I even moved.”

“So? She’s new. Nervous.”

“Not just nervous. Alert. Like she was braced for something I hadn’t done yet.”

A pause. Then: “There’s something off about her.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine sighs. “Not everyone with shadows under their eyes is hiding dark secrets. She’s young, exhausted, alone. Maybe show a bit of mercy?”

Another beat. Then Merlin again, quieter now. “I’m not saying she’s dangerous. But… if she’s lying about who she is, I need to know. Arthur doesn’t need more risk in the middle of everything else.”

Your stomach clenches.

The magic falters for a moment—then steadies. It takes effort to keep the thread light, not let it swell or spark. Magic is instinct—but hiding it takes discipline.

You reel your thread of power back in slowly, careful not to disturb the air around it.

He doesn’t know what you are.

Not yet.

But he’s close enough to be dangerous.

You press your back to the cool stone wall behind you, heart thudding painfully in your chest. Merlin might not wear a crown or command armies, but already you see what the others must miss—how the servants part around him without thinking, how even Gwaine—clearly more important than his casual demeanor suggests—softens his jesting in his presence.

He has power. Even if no one speaks of it.

And worse—instinct.

You’ll have to be careful. Very careful.

Because if Merlin ever looks too closely…

You won’t just lose your place in Camelot.

You’ll lose your life. Perhaps worse. End up in the same place you’ve just escaped from… with those—

You shake your head. You can’t spiral now. You have to keep your head.

Barely a moment later, their footsteps return.

You straighten instinctively, schooling your features into something calm, grateful. Gwaine gives you a little wink as they approach, all easy smiles and charm.

But Merlin’s eyes…

Still bright. Still polite.

But measuring. Constantly suspicious.

“Well,” he says, voice light now, almost amused. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“Arthur’s out at training—his usual morning routine. If you’re here to help him, you might as well start by helping me help him.”

He gestures for you to follow and turns without waiting for a reply.

You glance once at Gwaine. He gives you a shrug and an encouraging nod before disappearing down a different hallway with a wave and a warm Good luck! thrown over his shoulder.

You hurry to catch up with Merlin’s pace.

He doesn’t speak as he leads you through the maze of Camelot’s upper halls with the ease of someone who has walked them a thousand times before. Wider corridors here, grand tapestries brushing the air, polished stone worn smooth beneath your boots. Servants flit around you like ghosts. No one pays attention. But you feel eyes anyway.

Not from them.

From him.

He glances back once, expression unreadable. “You walk lightly,” he remarks.

“Sorry,” you mutter automatically.

“Don’t be.” He smiles—slight, effortless. “Just means you’ll do well here. Castle folk aren’t known for grace.”

You don’t know how to answer that, so you say nothing.

Eventually, he comes to a halt before a large set of double doors with lion crests carved into the wood.

“Arthur’s chambers,” he says simply. “You’ll be helping keep this place in order. That means dusting, cleaning his linen, setting out his armour, making sure the fireplace doesn’t go cold, that sort of thing.”

You nod, letting your eyes drift over the massive doors, the gilt fittings, the weight of it all. You’ve never seen a room like it. It’s nothing short of luxurious.

“Will I… be presented to the King?” you ask, heart stuttering, throat running dry. Merlin is already leaving. “I—my letter was meant for him. To explain who I am.”

Merlin stops at the door and turns slightly, just enough for you to see his profile.

“You wouldn’t want that,” he says, gently. “Trust me.”

A chill skates down your spine.

The warmth in his voice is unchanged, but something beneath it flickers cold. He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just pushes the door open and steps outside, disappearing down the corridor.

You linger a breath too long, staring at the back of his head, the tension coiled behind his words.

He knows. Or at least suspects.

He was warning you.

And you can’t even risk asking what he meant.

You force your legs to move.

Whatever comes next, you’re in the lion’s den now.

And Merlin is watching your every step.

Chapter Text

You are left in the Prince’s bedroom, Merlin’s cryptic warning still ringing in your ears.

Your chest constricts. Each breath comes short and sharp, a cool sweat trickling from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet, as though you’ve been doused in icy water.

Black spots spark at the edges of your vision. Your knees buckle. You gasp—lungs gulping like you’ve been drowning on dry land.

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Drawing closer. Heading straight for the door.

Panic grips you again. It feels like another lifetime since you were limping through the forest, cloaked in blood and rags, with no plan, no allies, and no hope. And now you’re an intruder in Camelot’s beating heart. A fugitive. A sorcerer.

And someone’s about to walk in.

You fight the haze. Force your expression into something still. Controlled. Just in time for the door to open.

You brace yourself for confrontation—for chains, swords, accusation.

But instead, a woman enters.

She’s dark-skinned, curly hair tucked into a loose bun, wearing the plain robes of a servant. Her wide, doe-like eyes land on you in surprise.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she blurts, raising her hands as if in surrender. “I was just looking for—” She stops, blush blooming faintly across her cheeks, then flashes a shy smile. “Never mind. Are you all right? May I ask what you’re doing here?”

Her voice is warm, unthreatening. Curious, not accusatory.

“I…” you stammer, one hand pressed tight to your chest, trying to cage your thundering heart. With the other, you fumble for the forged parchment. “M–Merlin brought me. I’m here to serve the Prince.”

“Oh!” Her smile brightens. She steps forward slowly, like you’re a frightened animal she doesn’t want to spook. There’s kindness in her eyes. Maybe even trust.

You feel the iron grip in your shoulders loosen just a little as she takes the parchment from your trembling fingers and skims it.

“Well, if Merlin brought you, then I see no issue.”

She groans, rolling her eyes. “That boy. Head in the clouds.”

You almost laugh. That wasn’t how you’d describe him at all. Suspicious, intense, maybe dangerous—but certainly not absentminded.

“Come on,” Gwen says, waving you toward the corridor. “I’ll take you to the laundry room. You can start there. And don’t be afraid to ask the Prince what he needs once he’s back from training. He’s not nearly as scary as the rest of the kingdom makes him out to be.”

You follow her, grateful not to be alone. She stays beside you rather than forging ahead, and the gesture catches you off guard. Almost like she sees you as an equal. But then again—if she serves a Lady, and you serve the Prince—you might technically outrank her.

The thought is so absurd, it pulls a startled laugh from your lips.

Gwen glances at you, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” you murmur, composing yourself. “It just surprised me… hearing you say Merlin has his head in the clouds. When I met him, he seemed… cautious.”

Gwen’s smile softens. “Oh, he is. With strangers, especially. He’s very protective of the Prince. Would lay down his life to keep him safe.” She hesitates. “In fact, that’s exactly what he did.”

You hang on her words like a lifeline.

If Merlin is the greatest threat to your survival, then knowing more about him—his mind, his loyalties—could mean the difference between concealment and exposure.

“Before he was Arthur’s servant,” Gwen continues, leading you through a winding corridor, “the Prince was nearly assassinated. A witch disguised herself to get close to the royal family. She was after revenge—the King had executed her son for practicing magic.”

Your breath catches. Skin prickling.

You know that kind of story far too well.

“She got close. Too close. The court didn’t even realise who she was until it was too late. But Merlin—he didn’t fall under her spell. When she revealed herself and threw the dagger, he pulled Arthur out of its path just in time. Saved his life in front of the whole court. The King made him Arthur’s servant after that.”

You descend a final staircase, the sharp tang of soap and mildew curling into your nose.

You pause at the bottom. “How come Merlin wasn’t affected by her magic?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

Her eyes go distant, glazed with memory and admiration.

You spend the next few hours elbow-deep in suds, sweating through your borrowed tunic as Gwen teaches you the intricacies of laundry duty. The work is hard—somehow more exhausting than sprinting through a dark forest with hounds at your heels.

By the time you’ve finished scrubbing and drying what Gwen tells you is all the Prince’s clothing, your arms ache and your nails are soft and raw.

Together, you carry the clean linen back to his chambers. Gwen chatters cheerfully the whole way, about everything from court gossip to Morgana’s latest disappearing comb, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

On the dagger.

On the spell.

On the way no one else remembers.

And on Merlin—just a servant—who saw through the lie of an accomplished sorcerer seemingly like it was nothing.

Just like he might see through yours.

You return to the Prince’s chambers. Gwen shows you where everything belongs, and helps you make the wide four-poster bed. Now that your panic has ebbed, you let yourself look around properly.

It’s grand, of course, but not cold or distant. There’s a lived-in feel to the space—maps and papers scattered across a table near the hearth, a sword belt slung over the back of a chair, a window cracked open to the sounds of birdsong and the earthy breath of autumn.

Then the door creaks open.

He enters.

Loose-limbed. Golden in the sun. Face flushed from training. Blonde hair tousled and damp with sweat. He’s laughing at something behind him

You freeze.

He is not what you expected.

No crown. No guards. No brocade. Just a plain crimson tunic clinging to his chest and worn trousers tucked into scuffed boots. A training sword still in his hand.

His gaze slides to Gwen, then to you.

You stiffen, instinct kicking up your spine. But Gwen steps forward without hesitation, her voice bright with the ease of someone who’s known him for years.

“My Lord, this is Aelith,” she smiles, nodding toward you. “She’s here to help you. Merlin was meant to explain but—well, you know Merlin.”

Arthur snorts, tossing the sword carelessly onto the table. “Of course he didn’t. Typical.”

Then he looks at you properly. His eyes—light blue and gentle—settle on yours. And for a moment, it feels like he sees straight through your skin to the secrets clawing beneath it.

“Welcome,” he says, voice warm. Genuine. A crooked smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “Just don’t call me ‘my lord,’ like Gwen insists on doing despite all my best efforts. It’s Arthur. Please. I get enough bowing from Merlin, and he’s only doing it to be annoying.”

You blink.

You hadn’t expected charm. You hadn’t expected kindness.
And you certainly hadn’t expected to be invited to speak a Prince’s name like it was nothing.

Gwen laughs softly beside you, but your lips stay still.

You nod, slow and careful. “Arthur,” you say, tasting the name.

But inside, your thoughts are screaming:

Don’t get comfortable.

Chapter Text

Gwen excuses herself with a kind smile and a promise to check in later.

You are alone.

Not alone like in the forest—watching shadows move between trees, heart pounding at every snapped twig. Not alone like in the tavern last night, where the silence pressed down like stone.

This is worse.

Because Arthur is looking straight at you.

Your limbs tense as if braced for a pounce. He’s only leaning against the table’s edge, arms folded, head tilted, studying you like a puzzle. A faint crease between his brows. Not suspicion—curiosity.

You’re not sure which is more dangerous.

“So,” he says at last, “Aelith. Where are you from?”

You freeze a half-second too long.

Then recover. “North of here. Near the forests.”

Vague enough to be safe. Specific enough to sound true.

He nods, as though filing that away. “Not much of an accent.”

You shrug. “My mother insisted I speak properly.”

One brow lifts. “And your father?”

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t care either way.”

He chuckles—though his eyes don’t soften. “Sounds like someone I know.”

You don’t ask who. You keep your raw, laundry-creased hands neatly folded. His gaze flicks to them.

“You know,” he says, voice light but watchful, “I don’t actually need anyone to serve me. Merlin manages fine—when he remembers. And I can dress myself.”

You look up, startled. “Then… why am I here?”

He hesitates. “Honestly? I don’t know. Merlin said we were getting a new maid. I assumed it was a royal favour or a noble’s request.” His eyes crinkle. “But now I wonder if he did it just to make me uncomfortable.”

You smile before you can stop yourself. That seems to please him.

“I suppose if you’re here, we might as well make the most of it,” he says, moving to the window. Even in casual motion, there’s a princely precision to him—the easy balance of someone raised with both wealth and weapons.

He throws the window wider. A rush of air smells of sun-warmed leaves and woodsmoke. “Do you ride?”

The question catches you off guard. “Ride?”

“Horses.”

“I… I can, yes.”

“Good. Camelot runs on its horses. Even the servants know the basics. If you don’t, Merlin can teach you. Or Gwen.”

Not him, you notice. You wonder if that’s caution—or courtesy. His laid-back manner unsettles you more than open hostility. When royals are cruel, you know exactly where you stand.

Arthur glances back, catching you lost in thought.

“Do you know how to fight?”

This has your shoulders stiffening. What is he expecting you to do? 

“I’m a maid,” you answer carefully, clutching your hands tighter together.

He shrugs. “So’s Gwen. She once broke a man’s nose for trying to steal her basket.”

You don’t answer. Your pulse thuds high in your throat.

Arthur studies you again, the playfulness dimming.

“I’m not testing you,” he smiles, almost gently. “Just… trying to understand you.”

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

“Because something tells me you’ve been through worse than laundry.” He takes a slow, deliberate step closer—

The door opens.

Merlin steps in.

His eyes go to you first. Then Arthur. You pray he can’t feel the tension curling thickly between you. A quick calculation flickers across his face before settling into something unreadable.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, without an ounce of apology. “Gaius needs you, Arthur.”

Arthur groans, releasing you from his gaze. You let out a held breath. 

“What now?”

“Something about a dislocated shoulder and a pig.”

“Why is it always pigs?” Arthur mutters, heading for the door. He pauses beside you. “Don’t let Merlin intimidate you. He only gets like this when he’s worried.”

“Worried?” Merlin repeats, too casual.

Arthur grins. “Every time someone new comes within ten feet of me, you’re practically breathing fire.”

Merlin opens his mouth. Closes it. Smiles thinly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Arthur winks at you. “Try not to run away. I’m starting to like you.”

You’re left blinking. Like you? Or just like what little he’s found out? 

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut.

And suddenly the room feels colder.

Merlin doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Then: “He shouldn’t like you.”

Your stomach knots, but you keep your ground, lips pursing tight. “I didn’t ask him to.”

He crosses the room with quiet purpose, eyes never leaving yours. “I know what you are,” he says—not a threat, but not soft. “And I know you’re not the girl on that parchment.”

Not even his wildest guesses could touch the truth. You lift your chin, Arthur’s words echoing: Don’t let Merlin intimidate you.

“You’re clearly deluded,” you smile grimly.

Merlin’s blue gaze narrows, closing the distance between you with a small, deliberate step. Your breath comes tight in your chest, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.

You had faced far worse than him. 

Finally, he utters, “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”

“Then don’t talk to me like I’m a threat.”

The air feels tight, waiting.

Merlin exhales—a short, dry laugh. His gaze takes in the neat bed and the pressed tunic waiting on the chair.

“Well,” he says, “at least you do good work.”

At the door, he pauses. “You’ll slip up eventually.”

“So will you,” you reply.

And then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Gwen returns not long after Merlin leaves, cheerful as though she hasn’t noticed the frost still clinging to the air. She links her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on. You’ve hidden away in here long enough. Best get you used to the rest of the castle before the Prince thinks you’ve vanished already.”

You follow her through spiraling staircases and vaulted corridors that feel more like traps than halls. Every turn leads to more stone, more banners, more eyes. Guards in red cloaks. Nobles in trailing sleeves. Pages carrying platters heavy with fruit and wine.

The castle hums like a hive, and you’re the intruder bee.

When you reach the Great Hall, the noise doubles—laughter, shouts, the scrape of cutlery against wood. Gwen presses a jug into your hands before you can protest.

“Keep it steady,” she whispers. “If you spill on Sir Leon, he’ll laugh. If you spill on Sir Kay, he’ll curse. And if you spill on the King…”

Her eyes widen for emphasis.

Your fingers tighten around the handle.

It’s a blur after that—passing goblets, avoiding elbows, ducking under serving trays. The knights are loud and careless, shouting across the tables, slamming fists for more ale. The air is thick with roasted meat and candle smoke that has your head swimming.

And at the head of it all sits Uther Pendragon. His presence crackles like a storm waiting to break.

Arthur is at his right hand, golden even in the gloom, laughing at something Leon mutters. His eyes sweep the hall lazily—and catch on you.

The smile he throws you is quick, crooked, almost conspiratorial.

It makes your stomach twist.

You duck your head at once, nearly tripping over a hound skulking beneath the tables. Your cheeks burn. Gwen nudges you gently. “Careful,” she whispers, though she’s smiling.

But then Uther’s voice cuts through the din.

“You there. Girl.”

The hall quiets in a ripple, as though the air itself bows to him.

Your feet root to the flagstones. Slowly, you look up. His piercing gaze pins you like an insect.

“You’re new.” His tone makes it sound like an accusation.

Your throat goes dry. “Yes, my—my lord.”

Uther leans back in his chair, studying you. “Your face is unfamiliar. What family do you serve?”

The parchment burns like a brand against your chest. You force your voice steady. “My father, sire. A blacksmith of Dunfold. He sent a gift to His Highness, the Prince. You—” a careful swallow—“you saw fit to reward him by granting me this position.”

The lie tastes like iron.

Uther narrows his eyes, gaze lingering cold and searching, as though he might peel the truth straight from your skin. Silence stretches. Then he grunts, almost a scoff. “Yes. I recall. The sword was serviceable enough. Better than most these days.”

Your knees nearly buckle in relief.

But then: “Step forward.”

The jug feels like it weighs a hundred stones as you obey. His gaze rakes over you, impersonal, measuring. Hunting weakness.

“You will serve my son faithfully,” Uther says at last. “Loyalty is valued in this court above all else. Betrayal is met with death.”

The words hang in the air like a noose.

You bow your head, forcing a calm you don’t feel. “Of course, sire.”

When you dare a glance sideways, Merlin is watching like a hawk. His blue eyes sharp, unblinking, as if he can see the falsehood trembling in your bones.

And further down the table, Morgana’s gaze is cool, sharp as glass. Unlike the king, she isn’t measuring your worth—she’s peeling back layers.

Her lips curve faintly, the kind of smile that says she’s noticed something. 

Your hand trembles. Wine splashes over the rim of the goblet and onto Sir Kay’s sleeve.

He curses, jerking back. You stammer an apology, mopping at the stain with your apron. The laughter that erupts from the table stings hotter than the spilt wine.

“Leave it,” Kay snaps, shaking his arm out. “Go before you make more of a mess.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat as you retreat, gripping the jug so hard your knuckles ache. When you glance up, Morgana is still watching—her smile gone now, but her eyes intent.

Arthur distracts the table with some jibe at Kay’s expense. Merlin says nothing, though his gaze follows you, thoughtful and heavy.

You breathe again only when Gwen tugs you toward the kitchens, out of the heat and clamor. The doors shut behind you, muffling the noise.

Gwen presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Spilling wine on Sir Kay—if that’s the worst you do today, you’ll have done well.”

Her laughter is kind, not mocking, but you can’t summon a smile. Your hands still tremble, and your heart feels trapped between your ribs.

Gwen softens, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “Don’t let Uther frighten you. He frightens everyone. You did fine.”

But the king’s warning echoes in your head.

Betrayal is met with death.

And the way Morgana looked at you—like she already knows. Under all these glares, you can’t see yourself lasting the week. But what was your alternative? Fleeing through the wilderness until your past catches you and throws you back in that cage…

Gwen slips away to fetch you a clean apron, leaving you alone in the shadowed corridor. The hum of the feast is a dull roar behind the doors, muffled by stone. For the first time all day, you let your shoulders sag, your breath shuddering out in a rush.

That’s when you hear it: footsteps, unsteady, and a low whistle echoing faintly through the hall. The tension snaps back into your muscles in an instant. 

Then Sir Gwaine rounds the corner, a tankard sloshing in one hand and a half-empty flask in the other. His dark hair is tousled, his grin lopsided. 

“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning a little too casually against the wall as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Good to see you again! Seems you’ve caused quite the stir already—even for a maid! Everyone’s been whispering.”

Your spine stiffens. “Whispering?”

“Mm.” He swigs from the flask, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That Uther’s glaring at you like you’re hiding a dagger. That Morgana’s watching like you’re hiding something prettier. That Arthur—” He smirks. “—is already smiling at you. Dangerous trifecta, that.”

Your throat feels dry. You force a neutral tone, remembering how he helped you when you first arrived—that you should try to keep as many friends as you could before everything comes crashing down. 

“And what do you think?”

Gwaine tilts his head, studying you far too openly. Then, to your surprise, his grin softens into something warmer, kind.

“I think you look like someone who could use a drink.” He thrusts the flask toward you. Ale sloshes dangerously close to the rim.

You don’t move to take it. His gaze sharpens just a fraction, enough to tell you he’s not as drunk as he pretends.

“Relax,” he says easily. “Not here to make trouble. Just checking you’ve survived the lion’s den.” He nods toward the Great Hall. “First feast is always the worst.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice tight.

He chuckles low. “Fine usually means the opposite.”

Your hands clench in your skirts. He watches, waiting for more—but you say nothing.

At last, he shrugs, pushing off the wall. “Suit yourself. But if you ever get tired of staring daggers at goblets, find me. I’ve got better stories than Uther’s speeches.”

He raises the flask in a mock toast, gives you a wink that’s more knowing than drunk, and saunters off down the corridor, whistling again.

You let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Chapter Text

You wake before the bells.

For a moment, you don’t remember where you are—the stone ceiling, the smell of tallow and linen, the faint hum of voices beyond the door are all unfamiliar. Then the memories rush back like cold water: Uther’s warning, Morgana’s stare, the jeering when you spilled the wine.

You lie still, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling as the castle stirs awake around you. Footsteps in the corridor. The creak of shutters. A faraway clang of armour being lifted from racks.

You could run.

It crosses your mind like a shadow—slipping out before dawn, taking the narrow servant’s stair down to the kitchens, vanishing through the postern gate before anyone notices. But where would you go?

The woods are full of ghosts.

Camelot’s walls may be stone, but they keep worse things out.

A soft knock pulls you back.

“Up already?” Gwen’s voice, bright and kind through the door. She steps inside with a basket on her hip, her curls still damp from washing. “Knew you’d be an early one. I brought breakfast.”

The bread is warm; the cheese soft and salty. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, yet it falls into your stomach like ash.

You thank her, trying to hide the tremor in your hands.

“You did well last night,” Gwen smiles, folding a cloth and pressing it into your palm. “Arthur’s expecting you this morning. He’s got training with the knights—best not keep him waiting.”

You nod, though your innards twist at the thought of seeing them both again—Arthur, all easy smiles and sunlight, and Merlin, with that look that says he knows.

Arthur’s chambers are already alive when you arrive.

The fire’s been stoked, and light spills through the tall window, gilding the room in gold.

Arthur stands near the bed, halfway into his armour, brow furrowed as he hunts for something. Merlin is beside him, arms crossed, wearing the kind of patience that isn’t really patience at all.

“If you’d put your gauntlets in the same place twice,” Merlin mutters, “you might actually find them.”

Arthur shoots him a look. “If you’d stop moving them, I might not need to look.”

“You’re the one who—”

He breaks off when he notices you in the doorway. The argument dissolves into something lighter.

“Ah,” Arthur says, grinning. “Our fearless wine-pourer returns.”

You bow your head, heat creeping up your neck. “My apologies, sire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says easily. “Kay needed humbling. You probably did him a favour.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “If you’re done terrorising the staff, perhaps you’d like these?”

He holds out the missing gauntlets, but instead of giving them to Arthur, he passes them to you. “You’ll need to learn where everything belongs.”

You take them carefully, avoiding Merlin’s piercing gaze, and place them where the rest of the armour waits. The simple task steadies your hands.

Arthur watches, faint amusement in his voice. “Efficient. I might keep you after all.”

“Try not to scare her off,” Merlin says dryly.

“I’m not that bad,” Arthur protests.

Merlin hums under his breath, clearly unconvinced.

The banter feels too normal, too easy. You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want to stay here long enough to get used to it.

“Fetch some water?” Arthur asks, nodding toward the basin near the window.

You obey. The jug is heavy, cold with condensation. As you pour, it slips in your grip—and your reflex flares before you can stop it.
For half a heartbeat, the stream of water freezes mid-air. Suspended. Weightless.

Then it splashes harmlessly into the basin.

You go still.

No one should have seen.

But Merlin’s head tilts just slightly. His eyes find yours—clear, unblinking, sharp. 

He says nothing.

“Careful,” Arthur chuckles lightly, oblivious. “We don’t need another incident with Sir Kay.

You murmur an apology, heart thundering. Merlin is still watching.

By midmorning, you find yourself at the edge of the training yard. Gwen stands beside you, arms folded, squinting into the sunlight. The clang of swords and the shouts of knights ring out across the courtyard.

Arthur moves among them with a kind of practiced grace, the prince and the soldier bleeding into one. Merlin stands at the edge of the ring, a bucket of water at his feet, his eyes flicking between you and his master with quiet calculation.

“He’s kind, you know,” Gwen murmurs beside you. “For all his pride. You could do worse for a master.”

You force a smile, though the thought only tightens the fear in your chest. Kindness is dangerous. It makes you forget what you are.

Training ends when the sun crests high. Arthur calls for water, and before Merlin can move, you’re already stepping forward with the bucket.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, taking it from you. His fingers brush yours—warm, calloused, thoughtless—but your pulse jumps all the same. Shame rolls up your spine like an icy talon.

He drinks deeply, then grins. “You survived another morning. Impressive.”

You find your voice. “Thank you, sire.”

Merlin’s gaze flicks between you again, unreadable—but softer this time, the sharp edge dulled. His expression isn’t hateful now; it’s thoughtful, troubled. As if he’s caught between suspicion and something gentler he doesn’t quite trust. You can almost see the choice forming behind his eyes, the one he hasn’t decided to make yet.

You bow slightly and step back, retreating into the edges of the courtyard as Arthur turns to bark an order at his men. His laughter follows you as you walk with Gwen toward the kitchens—low, bright, unguarded.

You think, he shouldn’t be this kind.

Because kindness, in your experience, always comes before the fire.

You manage to avoid the hall that evening, scrubbing plates in the kitchens until your knuckles ache—just to keep your thoughts from spiralling in all directions. The heat from the ovens fogs your mind, blurs the edges of everything that happened that day.

You can’t stop replaying the moment with the jug—the water hanging, caught in the air. Surely he hadn’t seen. If Merlin had noticed, really noticed, he would have confronted you by now. Or worse—told Arthur. But he hasn’t. That silence is almost worse than being found out.

When you finally step out for air, the courtyard is quiet—washed in the soft blue of twilight.

And Gwaine is there, sitting on a low wall, one leg dangling, a flask resting loosely in his hands.

“Twice in two days,” he calls as you approach, voice easy. “Careful, people will think you’re starting to like me.”

You huff a small laugh despite yourself. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He grins. “I’d settle for you not looking like you’re about to bolt every time someone says your name.”

The air between you stills. He isn’t drunk this time. His eyes are sharp, clear, studying you the way a gambler studies a hand of cards before deciding whether to bet or fold.

“So,” he says lightly, swirling the flask. “A blacksmith’s daughter from Dunfold, was it?”

Your heart trips. You keep your tone even. “That’s right.”

“Hmm.” He leans back, pretending to think. “Can’t say I’ve met many who got rewarded with court service. Uther’s not known for generosity. More for… heads on spikes.”

You force a small smile. “Perhaps he was in a good mood.”

“Perhaps,” he echoes. But his gaze doesn’t waver. “Still—funny thing about stories. Tell enough of them, and people start asking for proof.”

Your fingers twist in your apron. “Are you asking for proof?”

Gwaine shakes his head, laughing quietly. “No, love. I’m asking for sense. Camelot’s a nest of snakes. Lie if you have to, but lie clean. Not even Arthur can fix what happens if Uther thinks you’re playing him false.”

You meet his eyes, searching for mockery—but find none. Just the faint glint of something like concern.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” you say softly.

“I didn’t say you were.” He caps his flask and pushes off the wall, the motion loose and effortless. “Just—” He hesitates, then adds, a hand landing on your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Be careful who you trust. Even the good ones bite.”

The words hang between you, carried on the cool night air.

Then he smiles again, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze—easy, careless, as if he hasn’t just peeled the edge off your composure—and strolls away toward the barracks, humming under his breath.

“Gwaine,” you call after him.

He turns, one brow raised.

“Why did you help me?” you ask. “Back at the tavern. You didn’t even know me.”

He pauses, then smiles faintly—smaller this time, almost rueful. “Didn’t need to. You looked like someone who’d already fought her way out of one fire. Figured you deserved a breath before the next.”

And with that, he tips an invisible hat, turns, and disappears into the dark.

You stand there long after he’s gone, heart drumming in your chest, wondering which of Camelot’s good ones he meant.