Sylva's hands still frozen mid-stitch, the tiny shadow she'd conjured fading into smoke as a sound echoed through her room—the voice she hadn't heard in years.
"Sylva," Merlin called, his tone soft but weighted. "It's me."
She blinked, her heart catching in her chest. Merlin? After all this time? Her sewing needle clattered to the floor as she stood, her hands trembling at her sides. The door, always thick and unyielding, seemed to mock her now. She couldn't decide if she wanted to throw herself against it in joy or slam her fists against it in anger.
"You finally remember I exist?" she said, her voice sharp but trembling.
There was a long pause. When Merlin replied, his voice was heavy with regret. "Sylva, I've never forgotten you. Not for a moment."
"Really?" she shot back, taking a step closer to the door, her tone cutting. "Because it feels like you have. You promised you'd teach me more, help me. Then you vanished."
"Arthur's orders," Merlin admitted, his voice quieter now. "It was not my choice."
"It never is, is it?" Her voice rose with emotion. "Always his orders, his rules. What about me? What about what I want?"
She pressed her hands against the door, her frustration bubbling over. "You know what it's like to be locked in here, Merlin? To hear the world outside and know I can never be part of it? I'm not a child anymore. I'm not dangerous."
Merlin sighed, the sound muffled but aching with guilt. "I know you aren't. But your father—he fears what he doesn't understand. He thinks this is the only way to protect you."
Sylva scoffed, bitter and tired. "Protect me from what? From myself?"
"From those who might use you," Merlin said gently. "From those who wouldn't understand your gifts."
She bit her lip, her shoulders sagging. The anger was still there, but it mingled now with the familiar ache of longing. "Why are you here now, Merlin? After all this time?"
"I brought someone to meet you," he said. There was a note of hesitation in his voice, as if he knew she wouldn't like what came next. "Someone who can help."
"Help?" Sylva repeated, frowning. "Help with what?"
A new voice, younger and unfamiliar, broke in. "Lady Sylva," it said, tentative but steady. "My name is Aodhán. I'm Merlin's squire."
Sylva blinked, startled. "A squire? What does that have to do with me?"
Aodhán hesitated. "I've been... appointed as your personal guard."
"Guard?" Sylva's voice sharpened, anger flaring again. "From what? I'm locked in a tower, remember? I don't need protection."
Merlin's voice returned, calm and measured. "Aodhán isn't just here to protect you, Sylva. He's here to be your companion. To give you someone to talk to."
Sylva narrowed her eyes at the door, even though she knew they couldn't see her. "I don't need a companion," she said tightly. "I need freedom."
"I know," Merlin said softly. "And one day, I hope you'll have it."
"You've been saying that for years," Sylva muttered, her voice low and bitter.
Merlin's sigh was barely audible, but she heard it nonetheless. "This is the best I can do for now."
There was a pause, the silence stretching heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, Aodhán spoke again, his voice kind but uncertain. "Lady Sylva, it's an honor to meet you. I hope... I hope we can be friends."
Sylva crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. "We'll see."
The walk back to Merlin's study was tense, the silence between him and Aodhán punctuated only by the soft echo of their footsteps. Aodhán finally spoke, his voice hesitant. "She's... not what I expected."
Merlin glanced at him. "What did you expect?"
Aodhán shrugged. "I don't know. Someone... quieter, maybe. More afraid."
Merlin gave a faint smile. "Sylva has always had a strong spirit. That's part of what makes her so extraordinary."
Aodhán frowned, his brows knitting together. "Extraordinary how?"
Merlin stopped, turning to face the young squire. His expression was serious, his voice low. "Sylva is no ordinary girl. She is tied to forces far greater than you or I. Her power is immense, and while she may not fully understand it yet, others would exploit it if they could."
Aodhán crossed his arms, still confused. "Then why keep her locked away? If she's so powerful, shouldn't she learn to control it?"
"That's what I wanted," Merlin admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. "But Arthur believes he's protecting her. He fears what she might become if she were allowed to roam free."
Aodhán shook his head, disbelief written across his face. "So he locks her in a tower and leaves her to fend for herself? That doesn't sound like protection to me."
Merlin's gaze softened. "Nor to me. That's why I've brought you into her life. She needs someone who can be her friend, someone she can trust."
"And someone who can spy on her," Aodhán said bluntly.
Merlin didn't deny it. "I need to know what she's thinking, what she's feeling. If her power grows unchecked, it could put her—and everyone else—in danger."
Aodhán hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I'll do my best."
"You'll do more than that," Merlin said firmly. "You'll listen to her. You'll be honest with her. And you'll earn her trust. But this must remain between us. No one—not even Arthur—can know."
Aodhán met Merlin's gaze, his expression resolute. "Understood."
In another part of the castle, Queen Guinevere sat by the fire, her hands idle in her lap. The warmth of the flames did little to chase away the cold knot of worry in her chest. A soft knock at the door drew her from her thoughts.
"Enter," she called.
The door opened, and Lancelot stepped inside. He bowed deeply, his expression both respectful and warm. "Your Grace."
Guinevere managed a small smile, gesturing for him to rise. "Lancelot. What brings you here?"
"I thought you might need some company," he said gently. "The king returns today, does he not?"
She nodded, her smile fading. "Yes. From the frontlines. Another battle against the Norse... another step closer to their extinction."
Lancelot hesitated, then took a step closer. "You sound troubled."
Guinevere looked away, her gaze distant. "It's not the war that troubles me, Lancelot. It's the cost. Arthur... he's changed. Every time he returns, he seems more distant."
Lancelot's brow furrowed. "He carries a heavy burden. But he fights for Camelot. For you."
"For Sylva," Guinevere added softly, her voice breaking slightly. She pressed a hand to her heart, tears glistening in her eyes. "I miss her, Lancelot. I miss holding her, hearing her laugh. But he's taken even that from me."
Lancelot hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sylva is stronger than you know, Your Grace. She'll endure this. And so will you."
Guinevere looked up at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you, Lancelot. You've always been a good friend."
He smiled faintly, bowing his head. "Always."
As he left the room, Guinevere turned back to the fire, her thoughts consumed by the family she felt slipping further and further from her grasp.