It was perhaps a moment or two later that laughter echoed through the hall once more, my outburst forgotten. Yet, even more unease settled in my gut. It was a clawing, hungry thing gnawing at the bones of my once-bright convictions. I remembered a time when magic had felt like a gift—a weapon to wield, a bond between allies. I thought Merlin and I could build a better world with it.
But power intoxicates. And in its shadow, paranoia takes root.
I watched magic twist good men into monsters. I saw spells turn allies into threats, fire consume villages because one man believed himself a god. The cries of innocents echoed louder than any battle song ever could.
And still,I'd thought—if only I could control it.
But control slipped through my fingers, season by season, as the dragonmark took its toll, the dragon within me growing stronger whenever magic was near. That first edict—banning magic among commoners—felt like tearing off a bandage. Painful. But necessary. The silence it brought to the dragon was almost a comfort. The nobles praised my resolve. Lance pledged deeper loyalty. But it was the silence in my head—no more whisperings from the dragon—that made it worthwhile.
Silence that wouldn't last.
Because magic wasn't dead. And soon it rebirthed itself all over the land. It was at that point that I had to double my efforts, and I outlawed the practice of magic all across Logres. But every burned witch, every executed hedge mage, forced itself into my conscience. I told myself it was justice. Protection. But I knew—each law tightened the noose around something vital. Around unity. Around trust.
The turning point with Merlin came not from hatred, but necessity. As king, I swore an oath to protect my people. All of them. Not just the gifted. Not just those who could bend rivers or shape fire. And the dragon would destroy them all. Not just me. Not just Camelot. It lusted for the lives of all.
No one—not even Merlin—was above that.
When reports reached me of a child healer in the northern village of Hawthorn Glen, we found that the village elders had exploited the child. His power, raw and uncontrolled, had already killed several—bodies twisted by healing gone wrong.Worse, a faction of radical mages had gathered, treating the boy as a symbol of resistance against the crown.
When my knights attempted to take the child into custody, they were met with lethal force. Three good men died—burned and broken—before they could even draw their swords. Surrounded and outnumbered, the commander ordered immediate action to contain the threat.
I never ordered the destruction of Hawthorn Glen, even if I received all the credit. The truth was that one of the mages attempted a summoning far beyond his ability. The backlash tore open the fabric of the world, annihilating everything within half a mile, leaving the village a hollowed-out crater.
Merlin’s reaction was swift—and public.
He stormed into my court during an audience with foreign dignitaries, accused me of ordering a massacre, and called me a tyrant before the entire court. He never asked for the truth and he didn't care that the dragon grew stronger with every instance of magic. He never wanted to hear it.
Idealism was always Merlin’s gift—and his curse. He believed magic could govern itself. He believed power could be left unchecked. He was wrong.
Our argument turned to battle.
He shattered the throne room windows with a single incantation, sending courtiers fleeing as arcane energy tore through the hall. I defended myself—not just my crown, but the lives within these walls—with my own elemental magic, which had grown stronger with the force of the dragon. Our duel nearly razed Camelot. The kingdom we’d built together threatened to fall by our own hands.
In that moment—surrounded by broken stone, ancient magic surging—I saw it in his eyes: the same fanaticism that had ignited Hawthorn Glen. Power without restraint. Passion without control.
Only the intervention of the King’s Guard prevented catastrophe. Outnumbered, Merlin fled—but not before vowing to return and “free” Logres from my rule. Perhaps he wanted the dragon freed as well? Perhaps he thought he could control it? I didn't know. And I didn't want to find out.
Within weeks, Merlin had seized the unpopulated lands of Annwyn and turned them into a sanctuary for those who refused to accept my limits. He called it freedom. I saw it for what it was: a refusal to face hard truths.
The ban on common magic was never meant to be permanent. It was triage—a way to stop the dragon while we worked to find a better cage. Merlin could have helped. He chose defiance instead.
"My liege, have you considered what I said?"
Mordred’s voice cut clean through the chaos in my mind, slicing through memories like a blade through flesh.
I turned to him sharply. "What you said about what?"
"Taking a wife." He spoke with deliberate weight, each syllable placed like bait in a snare. Then he watched me with the patience of a spider.
"No," I said—too fast. I reached for my goblet with more force than I intended. The wine sloshed, dark as blood against silver.
The idea of marriage felt like yet another burden—one more chain laid across shoulders already bent with crown and kingdom. What was more, there was no way I could marry when the beast within me was threatening to expose itself.
Mordred's suggestion stirred memories I preferred buried.
There had been a time when I'd entertained such notions. Twice, in fact.
The first engagement had been pure strategy—with a woman whose fertile river valleys would have doubled Camelot's grain production. She wanted a crown. I wanted her land. Simple.But the arrangement collapsed when my bride-to-be decided she preferred her autonomy instead. Then she disappeared, and I never saw her again.
