Two years had passed since Sylva enchanted Sir Gawain's green sash and accidentally brought the board game to life. Now eight years old, she had grown more curious and vibrant, though the limits placed upon her had become more pronounced. Arthur had kept his word to protect her, but his protection came at a cost—Sylva's world was confined to her tower, with Merlin as her only frequent visitor.
Her magic had grown stronger in those years, though still unpredictable. Objects around her seemed to respond to her emotions, blooming with light when she was happy and dimming to shadows when she was upset. She had learned to contain herself somewhat, but there were days when the walls of her confinement felt suffocating.
Sylva pressed her face to the tower's single window, her golden hair catching the light of the setting sun. Below, she could hear the distant sounds of Camelot—children laughing, merchants shouting their wares, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. She longed to be part of it, to see the world beyond her narrow view.
Merlin entered the room quietly, as he always did. He carried a bundle of books under one arm and a plate of dried fruit in the other. "You'll ruin your eyes staring out that window so much," he said lightly.
Sylva turned, her expression a mixture of frustration and hope. "I want to go outside, Merlin. Just once. Why can't I?"
Merlin set the books and plate on the table, sighing as he sat across from her. "You know why, child."
"Because of my magic," Sylva said, her voice bitter. "Because Father thinks I'll hurt someone."
Merlin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Your father loves you, Sylva. He's just... afraid of what he doesn't understand."
Sylva crossed her arms. "Then why doesn't he try to understand?"
Merlin leaned forward, his expression softening. "He tries in his own way. But a king's mind is not like yours or mine. His thoughts are consumed with protecting his people. He sees danger where others see wonder."
Sylva frowned but said nothing, her gaze drifting back to the window. "I wish I could show him I'm not dangerous."
Merlin studied her for a moment before reaching out to pat her hand. "One day, perhaps you will. But for now, why don't we focus on what you can do here?"
Merlin pulled one of the books toward him, opening it to a page filled with illustrations of weapons and armor. "Your father has asked for more enchanted items," he said. "The knights are finding your magic quite useful."
Sylva's face brightened. "Really? They like them?"
"They do," Merlin said, smiling. "Sir Gawain, especially. He won't go anywhere without his sash."
Sylva giggled, her earlier frustration fading. "I'm glad. What are we making today?"
Merlin reached into the bundle beside him, pulling out a gleaming silver chalice. "Your father thought this might be of use. A goblet that purifies any drink poured into it."
Sylva's eyes widened with excitement. "That sounds wonderful! What do I do?"
Merlin handed her the goblet. "Close your eyes and focus on what you want it to do. Imagine it as clearly as you can. Magic is as much about belief as it is about power."
Sylva held the chalice in her small hands, her brow furrowing in concentration. A soft green light began to glow from her palms, spreading across the surface of the goblet. Merlin watched intently, noting the way the light pulsed, as if alive.
When Sylva opened her eyes, the glow faded, leaving the goblet shimmering faintly. "Did it work?" she asked.
Merlin took the goblet and poured a small amount of wine into it from a nearby flask. He muttered a spell and sipped the liquid, his eyes widening in surprise. "It worked," he said, smiling. "The wine is cleaner, crisper. Well done, Sylva."
Sylva beamed with pride, but her joy was short-lived as heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. a knock echoed from the door.
Merlin straightened, his expression cautious. "Wait here," he instructed, striding toward the door. "Keep working on the chalice."
Sylva nodded, though her curiosity was already piqued. As Merlin stepped out, the room grew quiet, save for the faint hum of magic still lingering in the air.
Moments later, the quiet was broken by the creak of the door behind her. Sylva turned, startled, to see a tall figure slip into the room. The man moved with the confidence of someone who knew he didn't belong but didn't care. He was dressed in dark armor, his sharp features framed by a faint smirk.
"Who are you?" Sylva asked, standing quickly. Her small hands curled into fists at her sides.
The man tilted his head, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over her. "I could ask the same of you, little one," he said, his voice low and smooth. "But I think I already know."
Sylva frowned, unsure whether to feel threatened or intrigued. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," he replied, his smirk widening. "Locked away like a treasure no one's allowed to see. Tell me, do you even know why?"
Sylva crossed her arms, trying to appear braver than she felt. "Father says it's for my own safety."
"Your father says a lot of things," the man said, his tone darkening slightly. "But is it really for your safety? Or his?"
Sylva hesitated, her heart racing. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crouched down to her level, his sharp eyes studying her intently. "Let's just say I know a little about what it's like to be hidden away, to have others decide your life for you. It doesn't end well, little one. Not for you, and not for them."
The door slammed open, and Merlin strode in, his robes billowing behind him. His expression darkened as his sharp eyes fell on the intruder. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice laced with anger.
The man rose slowly, unfazed. "Just visiting," he said, his tone casual. "I was curious about the girl everyone whispers about."
Merlin stepped between Sylva and the man, his hand glowing faintly with magic. "You have no business here. Leave, or I'll make you."
The man raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face. "Calm yourself, old wizard. I mean no harm."
Merlin's hand didn't waver. "This is your only warning. Leave."
The man sighed theatrically, turning toward the door. "Such hostility. I'd think you'd welcome someone who understands what you're hiding up here."
"Enough," Merlin snapped, his voice ringing with authority.
The man stopped in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. His piercing gaze flicked to Sylva, who watched him with a mix of confusion and unease. "Take care, little one. Your power is more dangerous than you think."
With that, he disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly as he left.
Merlin closed the door with a wave of his hand, sealing it with a soft glow of magic. He turned to Sylva, his expression softening. "Are you all right?"
Sylva nodded slowly, though her hands trembled. "Who was that?"
Merlin hesitated, then sighed. "A knight of the Round Table. His name is Mordred."
Sylva's brow furrowed. "Why was he here? What did he mean about my power?"
Merlin crouched before her, his expression thoughtful. "Mordred is... complicated. He speaks in riddles and half-truths. But you mustn't let his words trouble you. Your power is a gift, Sylva. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."
Sylva bit her lip, her green eyes searching his face. "Do you think Father's afraid of me?"
Merlin's heart ached at the question. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your father loves you, Sylva. But love is... complicated for a king. He has a kingdom to protect, and sometimes that means making difficult choices."
Sylva looked down at the chalice on the table, her expression uncertain. "I don't want to hurt anyone, Merlin. I just want to help."
Merlin smiled gently. "And you will. In time. For now, trust me to guide you."
As Sylva returned to her work, Merlin watched her with a mixture of pride and unease. Her magic was growing stronger, more instinctive. The goblet, the sash, the enchanted board game—each was a testament to her abilities, but also a reminder of how little they understood about the seed's true power.
His thoughts drifted to the Heart Tree and the legends of the Norse gods. If the stories were true, then Sylva's magic was not just a gift—it was a force tied to the very essence of imagination and hope. The Heart Tree had been a wellspring of creation, shaping the dreams of those who touched its roots. But that power was now bound to Sylva, a child too young to understand the weight of her destiny.
What happens when that hope falters? Merlin wondered, the question chilling him. Merlin rose and returned to his books, but his thoughts lingered on Mordred's visit. He had seen the look in the young knight's eyes—a mixture of envy and disdain. It was a look that boded ill for the future.
As Sylva returned to her work, her small hands glowing with light, Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that the balance they were trying so hard to maintain was beginning to tip.