The marketplace hummed with life, a stark contrast to the simmering tension that seemed to grip Camelot in recent years. Children darted through the crowded streets, their laughter rising above the calls of merchants hawking their wares. Amid the bustling square, a small puppet theater had drawn a crowd, its colorful facade and animated gestures captivating onlookers young and old.
Squire Aodhán lingered at the edge of the gathering, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His bright green eyes scanned the performance, narrowing as the tale unfolded. The puppets, though crude in construction, danced with exaggerated flair, each movement drawing laughter from the children pressed close to the stage.
"Behold!" the puppeteer proclaimed, his voice theatrical and booming. A wooden puppet dressed in dark armor and wielding a familiar blade strode onto the stage. "Sir Mordred, the fearless knight, slays the black dragon!"
The crowd erupted into cheers as the puppet dragon collapsed in an exaggerated tumble, its wooden limbs flailing dramatically. Mordred's puppet raised its sword high, victorious and gleaming under the painted torchlight of the set.
Aodhán's jaw tightened. His hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side.
"And where was King Arthur during this great battle?" the puppeteer continued, his tone dripping with mockery. Another puppet, bearing a crooked crown and trembling visibly, appeared on stage. "Hiding in his castle, clutching his daughter while the kingdom burned!"
The laughter that followed was shrill, cutting through the square like a blade. Aodhán's face darkened, his heart pounding in his chest. The words stung not because they were lies—he knew the truth of that night—but because they were spoken so freely, so brazenly, in defiance of the king who had built this kingdom with his own hands.
He stepped forward, ready to shout down the performer, to remind the crowd of Arthur's sacrifices. But before he could speak, the clinking of metal armor echoed through the square.
Two knights of Camelot's city guard pushed through the crowd, their faces set with grim purpose. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, their movements quick and deliberate.
The puppeteer froze, his exaggerated gestures halting mid-air. His wide, darting eyes betrayed his panic. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice wavering, "surely, this is just—"
"Treason," one of the knights barked, cutting him off. "Spreading lies about the king is treason."
Before the puppeteer could argue, the knights seized him by the arms, dragging him from the stage. The children in the crowd gasped, their excitement replaced by wide-eyed fear. One of the knights turned to the remaining onlookers, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Clear out!" he bellowed. "Go home, all of you!"
The children began to scatter, but their fear only grew as the knights shouted again, their stern expressions and heavy boots sending them running.
"Enough!" Aodhán stepped forward, his voice carrying above the chaos. The knights turned to him, their gazes narrowing.
"And who are you to speak?" one of them demanded, his tone biting.
"A squire of Camelot," Aodhán replied, lifting his chin. His small frame was dwarfed by the armored men, but his voice held steady. "These children have done nothing wrong. Let them go."
The knights exchanged a glance before nodding reluctantly. "See to it," one said, his voice gruff. "And stay out of our way."
Aodhán turned to the frightened children, his expression softening. "It's all right," he said gently. "Go home to your families. You're safe now."
One boy, no older than seven, hesitated. His small hands clutched the edge of his tunic, his wide eyes filled with fear. "Is the king really... a coward?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Aodhán knelt to meet his gaze, his expression firm but kind. "No," he said simply. "The king is the bravest man I know. Don't believe anyone who says otherwise."
The boy nodded slowly, a small spark of courage returning to his eyes. Aodhán watched as the children disappeared into the crowd, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had witnessed.
From a nearby balcony, concealed by a simple spell, Merlin observed the scene below with sharp, calculating eyes. His staff rested against the stone railing, its faint glow reflecting the tension in his heart. His gaze lingered on Aodhán, the young squire's resolute stance and calm demeanor stirring memories long buried.
"Arthur," Merlin murmured to himself, his voice low. "How I wish you could see this boy. He reminds me so much of you."
Aodhán's actions had been bold, even reckless, but they carried the same unshakable sense of justice that had once defined a young Arthur. Merlin's lips curved into a faint smile, but it was fleeting. His thoughts drifted inevitably to darker concerns.
His sharp eyes shifted to the remnants of the puppet stage, the scattered wood and fabric a stark reminder of the unrest brewing in Camelot. Mordred's name was on every tongue, hailed as a hero while Arthur's reputation faltered. It was a tide that Merlin had warned Arthur of long ago, but the king had dismissed his concerns.
"Mordred is dangerous," Merlin had said after the black dragon's defeat. "The blade he wields is tainted, and so is his soul."
Arthur had waved him off, his trust in Mordred unwavering. But the seeds of doubt Merlin had planted had grown into something far worse—paranoia. It had driven Arthur to lock Sylva away completely, barring even Merlin from seeing her.
Merlin sighed, his gaze falling to the city below. "And now, we are all paying the price."
In the dim light of her room, Sylva sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. Her golden hair framed her face, her green eyes focused intently on the small, writhing tendrils of shadow before her. She whispered softly, her voice steady as she shaped the darkness with her will.
"Almost there," she murmured.
The tendrils coalesced into a tiny, bird-like creature. Its form flickered slightly, unstable, but with a final burst of energy, it solidified. The bird chirped—a high, eerie sound that echoed faintly in the confined space. Sylva smiled, her face lighting up with triumph.
"There you are," she said softly, extending a finger. The bird hopped onto it, its shadowy wings fluttering. "My little friend."
She tilted her head, watching the creature with a mix of pride and loneliness. Over the years, her powers had grown stronger, more controlled. But her world had shrunk to the size of her room, the barred windows and locked door a constant reminder of her isolation.
The knock at the door startled her, and the bird dissipated into tendrils of smoke.