The night Sylva was born, the heavens churned with a storm unlike any Arthur had seen. The winds howled across Camelot, rattling the castle's stone walls and tearing at the banners hanging above the ramparts. The storm had rolled in swiftly, as though summoned by some unseen force, its fury refusing to relent.
Arthur stood outside the chamber where Guinevere labored, Excalibur clutched tightly in his hands. The sword's radiant glow illuminated the narrow corridor, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. He paced back and forth, the soles of his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Every few moments, his gaze drifted to the heavy wooden door, his expression a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Inside the chamber, the muffled cries of midwives mixed with Guinevere's labored screams. Arthur had faced countless battles and stared death in the eye more times than he could count, but nothing had shaken him as deeply as this moment. He had made his choice a year prior at the Lake, swallowing the golden seed that now bound his child to a destiny far beyond mortal understanding.
Merlin appeared at the end of the corridor, his robes flowing like a shadow caught in the storm's gusts. His arrival was silent, but Arthur felt his presence before he saw him. The king stopped pacing, turning to face his trusted advisor.
"Has the storm unsettled you, Arthur?" Merlin asked, his voice calm despite the tempest raging outside.
Arthur tightened his grip on Excalibur. "The storm has nothing to do with it, Merlin. You know that as well as I."
Merlin nodded, his keen eyes studying the king. "The seed's essence stirs. It senses her arrival, just as the balance of the world does. This is no ordinary birth, Arthur."
Arthur turned away, his jaw tightening. "I know that. I've known it since the day I swallowed the seed. But knowing does not make it easier."
"Few things worth doing are easy," Merlin replied. "But this—this is necessary."
Arthur closed his eyes, the weight of the past year pressing down on him. The seed had been a choice, but it had not felt like one. To plant it in the earth and wait centuries for balance to be restored would have left Camelot vulnerable, its people suffering in the meantime. Swallowing it, binding it to his bloodline, had seemed the only path forward.
Now, as his child's cries approached, Arthur felt the enormity of that choice closing in around him.
A shrill cry broke through the storm's roar, clear and piercing as a bell. Arthur's head snapped toward the door as it creaked open. A midwife stepped out, her face pale and her hands trembling.
"My king," she said, bowing low. "The queen… she is weak, but she lives. And your child…" She hesitated, glancing nervously at Merlin. "She is healthy. But—"
Arthur pushed past her without waiting for her to finish. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Guinevere lay back on the bed, her face pale but her eyes sharp as they met Arthur's. In her arms, wrapped in a soft, white blanket, was their child.
Arthur approached slowly, the world narrowing until only the three of them existed. He knelt beside the bed, his gaze fixed on the tiny figure in Guinevere's arms.
"She is beautiful," Guinevere whispered, her voice barely audible. "Arthur, look at her."
Arthur leaned closer, and his breath caught in his throat. The child's eyes, wide and unblinking, glowed faintly with a green light, their depths shimmering like the forest after rain. Her hair, though sparse, gleamed golden even in the dim candlelight. She did not cry or squirm but gazed at him with an intensity that felt far beyond her infant years.
"She…" Arthur began, his voice faltering. "She is not…"
"Not what?" Guinevere asked, her brow furrowing.
Arthur tore his gaze away from the child, his expression darkening. "She is not a child. She is… something else."
Guinevere's arms tightened protectively around the infant. "She is our daughter, Arthur. Do not speak of her as if she is a thing."
Merlin stepped into the room, his presence drawing both their attention. "She is both," he said carefully. "She is your daughter, born of your love. But she is also the seed's essence made flesh, destined to become something far greater than any of us."
Guinevere's eyes widened, and she looked down at the child in her arms. "What are you saying?"
Arthur stood abruptly, his hand resting on the hilt of Excalibur. "He is saying that she is not ours to keep. The Lady of the Lake made that clear."
Guinevere's voice rose, weak but defiant. "She is mine. She is ours."
Merlin's gaze softened as he approached the bed. "She is all of those things, my queen. And yet, she is more. The child's destiny is entwined with the balance of the world. She will grow, but when the time comes, she will no longer belong to this realm."
Guinevere's grip on the child tightened, her lips trembling. "What kind of life is that for her? Locked away, destined to leave everything behind? She is innocent."
"She is," Merlin agreed. "And that is why you must protect her, love her, for as long as she is with you."
Arthur turned back toward the bed, his expression hard. "She will be named Sylva," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "For the forest we have lost and for the roots she will one day restore."
Guinevere looked up at him, her eyes filled with sorrow and something darker. "You name her for what she must become, not for who she is."
"She is both," Arthur replied, his voice low. "Do not forget that."
The storm outside began to fade, the howling winds softening to a whisper. Sylva's glowing eyes flickered, and for a moment, she looked at each of them in turn—her mother, her father, and the wizard who would guide her fate.
The balance had shifted, and with it, the world turned toward an uncertain future.