The halls of Camelot were quieter than usual. The storm that raged on the night of Sylva's birth had passed, leaving a tense stillness in its wake. The court bustled as always—servants tending to their duties, knights sharing boasts of their conquests—but Arthur barely heard it. His thoughts were consumed by the child sleeping in the cradle within his chambers.
It had been three weeks since Sylva's birth, and in that time, the balance of Arthur's emotions had shifted as unpredictably as the storm. The king who had conquered kingdoms now found himself staring at a fragile bundle of life, torn between awe and fear.
Guinevere sat by the window, her back to him, the faint light of dawn outlining her silhouette. She hadn't spoken much since the birth, her words to him curt and her tone guarded. Arthur knew the source of her bitterness, but knowing didn't make it easier to face.
He cleared his throat. "How is she this morning?"
Guinevere didn't turn. "Sleeping peacefully, as she always does."
Arthur stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. He stopped just short of her chair, his hand resting on the back of it. "You've hardly spoken to me since that night."
"Have I not?" she said, her tone cool. "I thought I said enough that evening."
"Guinevere," Arthur said, his voice softening. "I made a choice. I did what I believed was best for Camelot—for our people."
"You made a choice," she echoed bitterly, turning to face him. "But you never gave me one."
Arthur winced at the accusation, though he couldn't argue with it. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away, her gaze icy. "I had no time," he said. "The Lady of the Lake demanded an answer. The balance of the world was at stake."
Guinevere's laugh was sharp and humorless. "The balance of the world? Or your pride, Arthur? You could have planted that seed and let it grow in the earth, but you couldn't bear to wait centuries for its power to take root. No, you had to bind it to your bloodline. You had to bind it to her."
Arthur's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to make our child a part of something so much larger than any of us?"
Guinevere's expression softened slightly, though her eyes still held a glint of anger. "I think you are a king before you are a father. And that will always be the problem."
Her words struck harder than any blow Arthur had taken in battle. He turned away, his hand brushing over the hilt of Excalibur where it rested on the table. "I do not want to lose her," he said quietly. "Not as a daughter. Not as a symbol. But if I must choose between her and the world…"
Guinevere stood, her hand gripping the back of her chair. "You have already made your choice. What are you trying to convince me of now?"
Arthur's shoulders slumped, and for a moment, the mighty king seemed like an ordinary man, burdened by regrets he could not voice. "I am trying to convince myself," he admitted.
Their conversation was interrupted by a faint whimper from the cradle. Both turned toward it, their tension momentarily forgotten. Sylva stirred, her tiny hands grasping at the air, her glowing green eyes fluttering open. Arthur approached hesitantly, as if afraid his very presence might harm her.
Guinevere, seeing his hesitation, softened. "She won't break, Arthur."
The king knelt beside the cradle, his hand hovering uncertainly above Sylva's blanket. Slowly, he reached down, his fingers brushing against hers. Sylva's hand closed around his, her grip surprisingly strong. Arthur's breath caught as he stared into her eyes—so small, so fragile, yet filled with a light that seemed ancient and infinite.
"She is... incredible," Arthur whispered. "How can something so small carry the weight of so much?"
Guinevere stepped closer, her gaze fixed on their daughter. "She shouldn't have to."
Arthur looked up at her, his expression pained. "I will protect her, Guinevere. I will protect both of you."
Guinevere's eyes filled with tears, though she quickly blinked them away. "Then let her be a child while she still can. Let her feel love, not just duty."
Arthur nodded, though the words felt like a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. "I will try."
For a brief moment, the tension between them eased. Guinevere knelt beside Arthur, her hand resting gently on his arm as they both gazed at their daughter. Sylva's glow softened, and her eyes closed once more, her tiny breaths steady and calm.
"She looks so much like you," Guinevere said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur chuckled softly. "I was thinking she looks like you."
They exchanged a small smile, the first they had shared in weeks. For a moment, it was enough to let them forget the storm that brewed beyond their walls.
As the sun rose higher, its light spilled into the room, bathing the cradle in a warm, golden glow. Guinevere rested her head against Arthur's shoulder, and for the first time since Sylva's birth, they sat together in silence—not as a king and queen, but as parents.
Outside the chamber, Merlin stood in the shadows, his keen eyes watching the scene unfold through a crack in the door. He had not come to eavesdrop but to deliver news, though he now hesitated to interrupt.
He had seen Arthur's resolve before—on the battlefield, in the council chambers—but this was different. This was the resolve of a man determined to protect something he loved, even if it meant breaking himself in the process.
Merlin sighed quietly, his heart heavy. He knew what lay ahead for Arthur, for Guinevere, and for Sylva. He knew the sacrifices that would be demanded of all of them.
And yet, for now, he let them have their peace.
Turning away, Merlin disappeared down the corridor, his mind already turning toward the future and the choices that would soon need to be made.