The mid-morning sun streamed into Merlin's workshop, casting golden light across shelves crammed with ancient tomes, bubbling vials, and assorted artifacts of magical origin. At the center of the room, a makeshift forge crackled with magical flames, its heat radiating against the chill of stone walls. Sylva stood on a small stool by the table, her golden hair tied back as she peered at the array of armor and weapons laid out before her. Her bright green eyes glowed faintly as she focused, the faint hum of her magic filling the air.
"Concentrate, child," Merlin said, his tone both encouraging and cautious. "The magic flows from within you, not from the objects themselves. Focus on what you want them to do."
Sylva bit her lip in concentration, her small hands hovering over a gleaming breastplate. A soft light emanated from her palms, swirling and settling over the armor. Merlin watched intently as the light faded, leaving a faint shimmer across the steel.
"Did it work?" Sylva asked, her voice filled with hope.
Merlin picked up the breastplate and examined it closely. He muttered an incantation, testing its resistance, but the armor remained ordinary. He sighed and set it down gently. "Not quite, my dear. The enchantment didn't take."
Sylva's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm trying my best."
Merlin crouched beside her, his expression softening. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Sylva. Magic isn't about perfection; it's about understanding. And you're still learning."
As Sylva busied herself with another attempt, Merlin stepped back and folded his arms, his mind drifting. His thoughts returned to the Norse legends he had studied after the fall of the Heart Tree. Stories spoke of gods who wielded unimaginable power—Thor's hammer, Odin's spear, Freyja's cloak—and how those artifacts seemed to draw their strength from the tree's divine roots.
Did those gods truly exist? Merlin wondered. Or were they mortals who, like Sylva, bore the essence of the tree?
He had no answers, only questions that gnawed at him. If Sylva's powers were indeed a fragment of what the tree once offered, then the potential within her was boundless. But that power was untamed, and Merlin feared what could happen if Arthur's ambitions pressed her too far.
"Merlin?" Sylva's voice broke through his thoughts.
He blinked, shaking off his reverie. "Yes, child?"
"I think I did it this time," she said, holding up a dagger. Its blade shimmered faintly, the magic within it pulsing like a heartbeat.
Merlin took it from her and tested it with a small spell. This time, the enchantment held. The blade glowed faintly in response to his touch, as if eager to prove its worth.
"Well done, Sylva," Merlin said, his voice warm. "You're getting the hang of it."
Sylva beamed, her earlier frustration forgotten. "Does this mean I can try something bigger?"
Merlin chuckled. "Not just yet. Let's take a break first."
With a flick of his hand, Merlin conjured a simple wooden plate. On it appeared slices of bread, soft cheese, and dried fruit. "Here," he said, setting it on the table. "A wizard's feast."
Sylva giggled as she hopped off the stool and sat at the table. "That doesn't look like a feast."
"Well, it's a modest feast," Merlin said, feigning indignation. He sat across from her, watching with a faint smile as she picked at the food. For all her power, she was still just a child, innocent and unburdened by the weight of her destiny—at least for now.
"You're like a coughing father," Sylva said between bites, grinning up at him.
Merlin raised an eyebrow. "A coughing father?"
"You always fuss over me and tell me to take breaks, like you're worried I'll sneeze magic all over the place," Sylva teased.
Merlin laughed, a sound that echoed warmly in the workshop. "Well, someone has to keep you from setting the castle on fire."
Their lighthearted moment was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. Guinevere entered, her presence filling the room with a quiet grace. Sylva immediately perked up, her eyes brightening.
"Mother!" she exclaimed, running to her.
Guinevere knelt down, wrapping her daughter in a tight embrace. "There you are, my little star. I wanted to check on you."
Sylva squirmed in her mother's arms, her face red with embarrassment. "Mother, stop. Merlin's watching."
Guinevere smiled and pressed her chin against the top of Sylva's head. "Let him watch. You're my daughter, and I'll hug you as much as I like."
Sylva groaned but didn't pull away, her protests half-hearted. "You're embarrassing me."
Guinevere kissed her forehead before letting her go. "I brought you something," she said, holding up a wooden board game. "I thought you might enjoy this while you take a break."
Sylva's eyes widened with excitement as she took the game. "Thank you! I'll set it up right now."
As Sylva busied herself with the game, Guinevere turned to Merlin, her expression sobering. "How is she?" she asked softly.
Merlin glanced at Sylva before answering. "She's remarkable. Her magic grows stronger every day."
Guinevere's face tightened, a mixture of pride and sorrow in her eyes. "And yet, every day brings her closer to..."
Merlin placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "She has time, Guinevere. And she has you. That is what matters most."
Guinevere sighed, her gaze distant. "Arthur loves her, you know. In his own way. But he's a king before he's a father. I see the wall he's built between them. It's like he's trying to protect himself from loving her too much."
Merlin nodded, his expression thoughtful. "A king's burden is heavy, and Arthur carries it as best he can. But he does love her. I can see it in his eyes, even when he tries to hide it."
Guinevere looked at him, her voice trembling. "Do you think he'll change? Do you think he'll ever truly embrace her?"
Merlin hesitated. "I cannot say. But you must stay close to him, Guinevere. Be the voice of reason he cannot ignore. Sylva needs both of you."
Guinevere nodded, her resolve hardening. "I will."
As their conversation ended, Guinevere turned back to Sylva. "How's the game, my star?"
"It's fun!" Sylva said, moving the wooden pieces across the board. "I'm playing against myself."
Guinevere smiled and sat beside her. But as Sylva moved a white piece, something strange happened. One of the red pieces moved on its own, sliding across the board to counter her move. The movement was smooth, deliberate, and utterly impossible.
Sylva gasped, her hands covering her mouth. "Did you see that?"
Guinevere's eyes widened, and she turned toward Merlin. "What is this? Did you enchant it?"
Merlin stepped closer, his brows furrowing. "No, I didn't."
The red pieces continued to move with each of Sylva's turns, the game playing itself as if guided by an unseen force. Sylva's initial shock gave way to delighted laughter, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Look, Mother! It's alive!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with childlike excitement.
Guinevere exchanged a glance with Merlin, her expression a mixture of amazement and unease. "How did she do that?" she whispered. "She didn't even try."
Merlin knelt by the board, his keen eyes studying the pieces as they moved. "It wasn't a spell," he murmured. "It was something deeper... instinctive."
Guinevere's hand rested on Sylva's shoulder, her grip tightening slightly. "Is this how her magic works now? Without effort?"
Merlin shook his head, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Not effort. Intention. Sylva wasn't trying to enchant the board, but she believed it could move. That belief, that hope—it's the heart of her magic."
Guinevere frowned, her fingers brushing over one of the game pieces. "So, her powers come from... imagination?"
"In part," Merlin replied, his voice quiet yet thoughtful. "Imagination, hope, belief—these are the seeds of creation. The Heart Tree wasn't merely a source of magic; it was a wellspring of potential. And now, that potential lives within her."
Sylva looked up from the board, her green eyes glowing faintly. "I didn't mean to enchant it," she said, her voice tinged with guilt. "It just... happened."
Merlin reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "And that's what makes it remarkable, Sylva. Magic isn't always about control. Sometimes, it's about possibility."
Sylva's smile returned, and she turned back to the board, watching the pieces move with fascination. Guinevere's gaze lingered on her daughter, the weight of her destiny pressing against the joy of the moment.
Merlin straightened, his expression thoughtful as he watched the red and white pieces glide across the board in perfect harmony. Imagination and hope, he thought. If this is the power of the tree, then Sylva's potential is greater than any of us can comprehend.
As the pieces danced across the enchanted board, Merlin felt a spark of wonder—and unease—stir within him. For with such power came the question: What happens when hope falters?