King Uther Pendragon was a man above other men, a warrior-king whose presence commanded respect. But in the end, he was still human. Flesh, blood, and mortality bound him as surely as the crown upon his head. He was not blind to the tides of war; the Picts loomed in the North, and the coming battle against Vortigern would bleed his forces dry. And beyond that, the Saxons gathered like carrion birds over a dying beast.
He knew his time was short.
That was why he sought a king who would not merely stand above men—but one who would transcend humanity itself. A ruler who would not falter, not break, not perish. A being forged in the mold of a human body but endowed with the power of a dragon. A king who was not a man.
Merlin, ever the mischievous visionary, had been delighted by the idea. Uther imagined the magus racing through the castle halls, hands raised in triumphant glee. It was the kind of madness magi thrived on—the new, the chaotic, the unimaginable.
Uther had expected Merlin to be exhilarated during the birth, and indeed, the magus observed the event with rapt attention. But then something happened that neither of them had foreseen.
The cries of a newborn filled the chamber, but not one. Two.
Silence.
Uther, clad in his armor despite the intimate nature of the moment, turned his sharp gaze to Merlin. "Why are there two?"
The question was delivered evenly, yet it carried weight. His voice did not waver, but there was an edge to it, a quiet demand for an explanation.
Merlin, standing over the two newborns, stared in equal parts wonder and bewilderment. His long silver hair framed his unreadable expression, but his usually impish demeanor had been stripped away, leaving only thoughtfulness.
He glanced down at the twins. One was a boy, his breath steady, his presence already commanding in its own way. The other, a girl, just as quiet, but different—there was something about her, something undefined yet unmistakable.
"This..." Merlin finally murmured, a flicker of genuine surprise in his voice. "This should not be possible."
"Then why is it?" Uther pressed, eyes narrowing.
Merlin did not answer immediately. He extended his hand over the twins, fingers moving through the air as though weaving unseen threads. The magic in the chamber thickened, and a faint glow traced his fingertips as he searched for an answer.
"The conceptual fertilization was a success," he said at last, though there was a hesitance to his words. "A great success, it seems. Both of them bear the functions of a dragon, as intended."
Uther did not relax. "Then why are there two?"
Merlin finally looked up, a rare flicker of unease in his violet eyes. "That," he admitted, "I do not know."
The tension in the room deepened. Uther was not a man who tolerated uncertainty. But before he could press the matter further, Merlin's gaze returned to the boy. A frown ghosted across the magus's lips.
"The boy..." he murmured, voice laced with something resembling reverence. "He is different. More than what we intended."
"What do you mean?"
Merlin's fingers hovered just above the child's small chest, sensing the unseen forces wrapped around him.
"He is blessed," the magus said, almost in awe. "Not just by the power of the dragon—but by the planet itself."
A pause. A moment where the world seemed to hold its breath.
Uther exhaled slowly, stepping forward, his gaze moving between the two infants. "And the girl?"
Merlin studied her for a moment longer before speaking. "She is... correct. As she should be. A perfect fusion of man and dragon, as we planned."
His gaze shifted back to the boy. "But he... he is something else entirely."
Uther was silent. He studied the children with an expression that betrayed no emotion, but his mind was sharp. He knew what this meant.
Two heirs. Two impossibilities.
And one of them had been touched by something greater than either of them had foreseen.
This was not merely the birth of a king.
This was something much, much more.
And Uther had no choice but to accept it.
Merlin, standing at the edge of the table, tilted his head slightly, his lips curving in amusement as he turned to face Uther. "What do you intend to do, Uther?" he asked, his tone light, as if he were discussing courtly gossip rather than the birth of something unprecedented.
Uther stood with arms crossed over his chest, his face cast in the same cold, unreadable mask that had made him a legend on the battlefield. His piercing gaze flickered between the two infants before settling on the boy—the one who unsettled even Merlin. "You say he is blessed by the planet. In what way? Can you identify it?"
Merlin exhaled, the smile fading slightly from his lips. Amusement had been his default response to the absurd, but this? This was something else.
"Identify it?" Merlin murmured, almost to himself. He raised a hand over the boy, the tips of his fingers glowing faintly with magical energy as he tested the unseen forces surrounding the child. The reaction was immediate.
It was not like normal magecraft, nor even like the power of a Phantasmal Beast. The magic did not resist him, nor did it bow to his will as most things did. No, it merely... was.
It existed, passive yet absolute, like the turning of the stars or the breath of the earth itself.
Merlin's fingers twitched as he pulled his hand away, the ghost of a shiver running down his spine. For the first time in a long while, something unknown stood before him, something that even his foresight could not fully unravel.
"He is not merely blessed," Merlin admitted, his voice quieter now. "It is more fundamental than that. He is recognized by the world itself, acknowledged in a way that no mortal should be."
Uther frowned. "Explain."
Merlin let out a slow breath, collecting his thoughts. "The world—Alaya, the collective will of humanity, and Gaia, the will of the planet—both operate on principles that no man should be able to influence, let alone be recognized by." His violet eyes flickered as he turned back to the infant. "Yet this boy... he exists outside of that limitation."
Uther remained silent, his jaw tightening.
Merlin continued. "There are heroes and kings who are beloved by their people, legends who rise above the masses. But even they are still bound by the natural order. This is different." His gaze darkened. "It is as if the world itself has taken an interest in him—not as a protector, not as a pawn, but as something closer to its own being. It will not work against him. No, it may even move for him."
Uther's expression hardened. "Are you saying the planet serves him?"
Merlin scoffed at the idea, but the truth was far stranger. "Not serves," he corrected. "But it will not deny him. Where others must fight against fate itself to carve their path, he... he will not face such resistance. It is as if the world has already accepted his existence as natural, even inevitable."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.
Uther turned his gaze to the sleeping infant. His son.
A king not just above men, not just beyond men, but something that should not be, yet was. A being whom the world itself acknowledged, an existence beyond comprehension.
A ruler who would never be rejected by fate itself.
"Then," Uther said, his voice slow and deliberate, "he is truly fit to be king."
Merlin hesitated for the first time that night.
"Perhaps," he said, though his mind was already drifting to other thoughts—thoughts of what this meant for the future, for the girl, for the balance of the world itself.
Because if the boy was accepted by the world...
Then what was his sister?
The air in the chamber was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep in the bones and refused to be shaken. The torches flickered low, casting elongated shadows of the two figures standing over the newborns. Uther's gaze remained locked on them, the weight of kingship pressing on his shoulders heavier than any suit of armor he had ever worn.
Merlin, leaning against the table with his arms crossed, studied Uther with an unreadable expression. "But she was the perfect child you wanted—your ideal plan," the magus noted, his voice edged with something between curiosity and amusement. "You believe we should shift objectives? That could cause... uncertainties."
Uther was silent for a long moment. His fingers curled slightly, then relaxed, as if weighing his next words carefully.
"You're right," he admitted at last. His sharp eyes, once clouded with thought, cleared as resolve took hold. "We will go with the original plan."
Merlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in Uther's tone. "Oh?"
"The girl will become King." Uther's voice was firm, unwavering. "She will take up the sword and rule as I have intended. That will not change."
Merlin tilted his head slightly, glancing at the sleeping girl, then back to her brother. "And the boy?"
Uther exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on the infant for just a beat too long. "He will stay near her. He will make sure she never strays from the path, that she becomes the King she is meant to be."
Merlin's expression shifted—no longer amused, but contemplative. "You believe the boy will keep her on the right track?"
Uther's stare hardened, his conviction absolute. "Yes. The boy will make her a better King." Then, after a pause, his voice dropped slightly. "And you, Merlin... you will make sure the boy never falls to jealousy."
Merlin let out a soft hum. "Jealousy? An interesting concern. You fear he will resent her?"
"I will not allow resentment to take root," Uther stated plainly. "Teach him everything you will teach the girl. No less. No shortcuts. He will be her shadow, her mirror, her equal in all but name."
Merlin's smile returned, faint but knowing. "Ah... so you will forge not just a King, but her counterbalance."
Uther nodded once.
Merlin tapped a finger against his chin. "And yet, despite wanting them to grow together... you wish for them to be raised apart?"
"Yes."
Merlin's eyes glowed faintly with magical insight. "You fear what they will become together?"
Uther shook his head. "No. I fear what they will become if raised wrong." His voice was grave. "If they grow up together, there is a risk. The girl may come to rely on him too much. The boy may come to see her as lesser. If that happens, the balance will break before it has even formed."
Merlin chuckled softly. "You do think ahead, Uther. That is a rare trait in a man who built his legend through war."
Uther ignored the comment. "Make sure they grow up separate, Merlin."
The magus let out a slow breath, glancing once more at the two children. "Very well," he said at last, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "It shall be done."
His eyes lingered on the boy for a fraction longer.
"A child blessed by the world itself... a boy who will walk beside the King but never bear the crown. What sort of fate will that lead to, I wonder?"
Merlin smiled to himself, though the expression was not as carefree as before. Fate had a way of twisting even the best-laid plans. And Uther... Uther had just set something in motion that could not be undone.
—-
"Arthur."
A woman's voice drifted across the endless stretch of green, carried by a gentle breeze. It was soft, warm, and steady—like water cascading over smooth stones. The endless grassy plain swayed under the sky's vast expanse, the golden light of the sun painting long, delicate shadows on the earth.
In the distance, a lone figure stood motionless, his gaze lifted toward the heavens. His blonde hair, short and neatly kept, caught the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow. His piercingly calm yet resolute eyes reflected the sky above—deep, unwavering, endless. He carried himself with a noble poise far beyond his years, and the gleaming white and silver plates of his finely crafted armor only reinforced the regal air that clung to him. The gold filigree lining the edges of the metal connected each segment with masterful precision, seamlessly blending elegance with function. Beneath it, a dark blue undersuit clung tightly to his frame, offering both mobility and refinement.
The woman—Vivian—smiled softly as she approached, her steps light upon the earth. The boy, sensing her presence, shifted his gaze toward her.
"Vivian," he greeted, his voice smooth yet distant, carrying a sense of quiet certainty. A faint smile—so subtle it could almost be missed—graced his lips. "Have you called me to continue our training?"
It was a simple question, spoken with casual detachment. His tone neither eager nor reluctant, merely accepting. As if training was not a task, but a truth of his existence.
Vivian studied him for a moment before responding. His demeanor was always the same—measured, composed, serene. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him lash out in anger, nor weep in sorrow. Even the most difficult lessons, the most grueling trials, never drew a flicker of frustration from him. It was a remarkable quality, one that made him seem unshakable.
Yet Vivian wondered.
"Was this truly his nature? Or was it the work of the world's blessing?"
Among all the fae, among even the greatest magi, she understood his blessing best. It was not simply power granted by the world—it was an acknowledgment, a claim. The land, the sky, the very essence of Britain itself had embraced him, shaped him, made him its own. He was not merely chosen. He was woven into the fabric of the world, a piece of its will given form.
Perhaps that was why he did not falter.
Perhaps that was why he never seemed to struggle against the weight of what he was meant to become.
"Yes," Vivian finally answered, her voice carrying the weight of something more. "However, you must know—it is almost time."
Arthur regarded her in silence for a long moment.
"I see." His voice betrayed no hesitation, no uncertainty.
He was ready. He had always been ready.
And yet, as she looked upon him, the thought crept into her mind once more.
"Does he understand what it means to truly struggle? To truly feel?"
For the first time, she was uncertain if she wanted to know the answer.
Just as the thought crossed Vivian's mind, another presence made itself known. It was not that he had suddenly arrived—no, she knew better. He had been there the entire time, concealed in the way only a true knight of his caliber could manage. A shadow among the light, unseen yet ever present.
"Arthur. There you are."
The voice was steady, carrying a quiet intensity. The speaker, a young man of Arthur's age, possessed a noble bearing—a refined handsomeness accentuated by his dark purplish-black hair and piercing eyes. His expression was calm, but there was an unmistakable weight behind it, a seriousness that never truly left him.
The moment their gazes met, the young man spoke again, this time directed at Vivian.
"Mother."
Vivian smiled faintly at the title. It was not one born of blood, but of something more sacred. To the knights, to the land, to those whom she had chosen to guide—she was the mother.
"It is well that you are both here," she said simply, her tone leaving no room for question. "Come. Follow me."
Without another word, she turned, her footsteps light upon the grassy plain.
The two young knights exchanged brief glances before moving to follow. Though confusion flickered in their expressions, neither voiced their curiosity just yet. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the distant sea, and in the stillness of the moment, Arthur turned his head slightly toward the man beside him.
"Lancelot."
The name was spoken in acknowledgment, steady and unhurried.
Lancelot met his gaze, studying him carefully before speaking. "I was looking for you."
Arthur raised a brow slightly. "And?"
"I was going to ask for a spar," Lancelot admitted, his tone measured but carrying a faint hint of anticipation. "But it seems we won't get the chance today."
Arthur let out a soft chuckle, one of quiet amusement rather than disappointment.
"It seems so."
Lancelot glanced ahead toward Vivian, the curiosity in his gaze deepening. If she was calling them both together, then it was something of importance. And though Arthur's expression remained unreadable, Lancelot knew that he too was wondering the same thing.
When they finally stopped walking, they found themselves inside an ancient structure, a place untouched by time yet deeply intertwined with the fabric of Avalon. The air was thick with the scent of old magic, something vast and unshakable, woven into the very foundation of the place. The walls shimmered faintly, as if reflecting the heartbeat of the world itself.
Arthur's gaze moved across the chamber, his expression betraying only the faintest flicker of intrigue. Though he had spent his entire life in Avalon—the hidden sanctuary known as the Inner Sea of the Planet—he had never once set foot in this place. And from the way Lancelot's sharp eyes flickered warily across the surroundings, he too was unfamiliar with it.
Arthur stepped forward, peering down at the platform below them. There, embedded within a pedestal of polished stone, a sword rested, its form obscured by a golden radiance so pure that it seemed untouched by the concept of rust or decay. The light hummed faintly, resonating with something deep within him.
His voice was calm as he spoke, yet there was an undeniable weight behind his words.
"What is this place?"
Vivian took a step ahead, her long robes gliding soundlessly against the stone. There was a softness to her expression, though it was tinged with something else—something almost sorrowful.
"This is the heart of Avalon," she said, her voice carrying across the chamber like a gentle current. "The sanctum where the world forges its chosen guardians. And this—" she gestured toward the radiant blade, "—is where you will receive your sword."
Arthur's piercing blue eyes remained steady, though Lancelot, standing beside him, stiffened slightly at the words. His gaze flickered toward the sword, then to Vivian.
"A sacred blade..." Lancelot murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Vivian nodded. "A blade that is not merely a weapon, but a covenant. A bond between you and the world itself." She turned toward Arthur fully now, the weight of her next words pressing upon the space between them.
"This will be my farewell gift to you, Arthur. For today... you will leave Avalon."
For the first time, Lancelot's composure cracked. His dark eyes sharpened, and his voice, though measured, carried an unmistakable edge.
"Leave?"
Arthur, however, remained still. His gaze did not waver, though the fingers at his side curled ever so slightly.
"I see," he said simply.
Vivian studied his reaction carefully. She had expected as much. Arthur had always been this way—accepting, unwavering, a being too calm for his years. But was it his nature, or was it the blessing that tethered him so closely to the planet? Even she, who understood this blessing better than any fairy or magus, could not say for certain.
Lancelot, however, was not so composed.
"You're sending him away?" he asked, his tone unreadable. It was neither outrage nor defiance, but something quieter. Something far more dangerous.
Arthur turned to him, his expression unreadable. "It was always meant to be."
Lancelot's fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing more.
Vivian exhaled softly, stepping forward until she stood before Arthur. "The world has made its decision," she said. "And so have I."
Arthur held her gaze for a long moment before finally nodding.
"Then let us not delay."
Vivian gave him a small, wistful smile. "Yes. It is time."
The light from the sword pulsed, as if responding to the inevitability of what was to come.
Arthur stepped forward, his armored boots making no sound against the smooth stone floor. His movements were steady, devoid of hesitation, yet there was no arrogance in his stride—only the quiet acceptance of inevitability. He had known, perhaps all along, that this moment would come.
Vivian merely watched, her pale green eyes following his approach toward the sword.
The blade had been there since Arthur's arrival in Avalon, materializing as if the land itself had laid it in wait for him. It had remained untouched, unwielded, yet its presence had been undeniable—an unspoken truth, a promise yet to be fulfilled.
Even now, as Arthur neared, the sword remained shrouded in its golden radiance, its form resisting the clarity of human sight. But Vivian saw it for what it was.
A sword not of men, nor of kings. A weapon that bore no prayers, no wishes, no ideals.
It was forged from the framework of the Last Phantasm, yet it lacked the essence that defined other such weapons. Where sacred swords were shaped by humanity's hopes and legends, this one was different. It had not been sculpted by the hands of man, nor by the weight of human desire. It was a sword of Gaia—pure, absolute, untainted.
A blade that recognized no mortal virtues, no thrones or crowns.
A blade that humanity itself could never claim.
The weight of that truth settled in Vivian's chest as she observed Arthur, the boy who had never faltered, the boy she had never seen waver between rage or sorrow. He was steady, as he always was. Even now, standing before a weapon that even she, a being born of Avalon, might struggle against.
Lancelot, standing behind her, said nothing. But she could sense his unease, the tension woven into the very way he held himself. His dark eyes flickered between Arthur and the sword, and for the first time since they entered, his composure seemed to crack, however minutely.
The sword before them rejected humanity's influence.
It did not answer to kings. It did not heed the call of ideals. It refused the weight of justice or destiny.
Only one who existed beyond Alaya's domain—beyond the will of mankind—could be acknowledged.
And yet, Arthur stepped forward.
Vivian could not deny the thought that flickered in her mind.
Is he even human anymore?
The world had chosen him, but in what way? Was he merely blessed? Or had he become something beyond the reach of men?
She did not know.
She doubted even Arthur himself knew.
Still, the golden radiance surrounding the sword pulsed softly as he approached, as if it had long been waiting for this very moment.
Arthur came to a stop before it.
Vivian held her breath.
Would it accept him? Or would it reject him as it had rejected all others?
Arthur's fingers curled around the hilt of the sword, the smooth grip cool against his palm. The moment his hand closed around it, a pulse of energy resonated through the chamber, a silent acknowledgment from the weapon itself.
With a single, fluid motion, he pulled the blade free.
The sound it made was not the harsh scrape of metal against stone, but something far more ethereal—like the whisper of wind through trees or the distant chime of a bell echoing across an endless horizon. Golden light flared briefly as the weapon fully emerged, its brilliance illuminating the chamber for but a moment before settling into a steady glow.
Arthur gazed at the blade in his hand.
It was unlike any sword he had wielded before. There was no weight of history, no echo of past wielders, no lingering remnants of human craftsmanship. It was pristine, unburdened by the touch of man—pure in a way that no other weapon had ever been. He turned it slightly, watching how the light refracted along its flawless edge.
Behind him, Vivian observed silently, her expression unreadable. She had expected this outcome. There was never any doubt in her mind that the sword would accept him, just as there had never been any doubt that the world itself had chosen Arthur long ago.
Arthur turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder.
"Vivian," he said, his voice as calm as ever, though there was a quiet curiosity beneath his usual composure. "Do you have a sheath for this blade?"
Vivian nodded, a small smile forming on her lips as she stepped forward.
As if responding to her will, a sheath materialized in her hands—a masterpiece in its own right.
Its base was a flawless, pristine white, polished to a mirror-like sheen that shimmered faintly in the dim chamber. Golden filigree traced intricate patterns across its surface, winding like flowing flames or intertwining vines, their elegant design both symmetrical and organic. Near the top, where the blade would rest, the golden ornamentation took the form of a dragon's open maw, its craftsmanship so lifelike that one could almost imagine it breathing.
Arthur took it from her hands, examining it with the same quiet scrutiny he had given the sword. Then, with practiced ease, he slid the blade into its sheath. The fit was perfect, the weapon settling into place as though it had always belonged there.
"Thank you, Vivian," he said, offering her a rare, genuine smile.
Vivian returned the expression, though her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual. There was something about this moment—about him—that felt more final than she had expected.
Arthur turned and began walking toward the exit.
Lancelot, who had remained quiet until now, finally spoke.
"I suppose this is goodbye, then?" His tone was even, but there was something restrained beneath it, something left unsaid.
Arthur came to a stop just outside, his golden hair catching the soft Avalon light as he glanced back over his shoulder.
"I wouldn't call it a goodbye," he said, a faint trace of amusement in his voice. "Rather, a 'see you later.'"
Vivian stepped beside him then, her delicate hand reaching for his. The moment their fingers touched, the air around them shimmered. A gentle light enveloped them both, the magic of Avalon responding to the departure of its chosen knight.
Lancelot gave a slow nod, his dark eyes studying Arthur one last time before his expression softened. "Then... see you later, Arthur."
Arthur offered him a small, knowing smile. "See you later, Lancelot."
And with that, the light surrounding them intensified—brilliant, yet warm—before the two figures vanished, leaving Avalon behind.
—-
Arthur's gaze swept across his surroundings. The familiar serenity of Avalon was gone. In its place stood an ancient forest, its towering trees stretching high into the sky, their dense canopies casting shifting patterns of light and shadow upon the moss-covered ground. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh foliage, and the faint rustling of leaves was the only sound that disturbed the quiet.
This was not Avalon.
Beside him, Vivian observed their new surroundings with the composed ease of someone who already understood exactly where they were.
Then, a voice—lighthearted and laced with amusement.
"Hey there."
Arthur's gaze shifted instantly to the source.
A man stood before them, a smirk playing at his lips as he leaned against a tree with casual ease. His long, flowing hair shimmered in the dappled sunlight—a mesmerizing blend of pale white and lilac, the strands shifting subtly as if they reflected the light itself. His violet eyes held an unmistakable glint of mischief, and his robes, intricate and regal, bore the unmistakable hues of pink, purple, and soft blue, embroidered with delicate golden trim.
There was no mistaking him.
"Merlin," Arthur said, his tone steady, acknowledging the man before him without a hint of surprise.
Vivian, standing beside Arthur, let out a soft chuckle, her lips curling into a small smile. "It's been some time, Merlin," she said, her voice warm but carrying the weight of someone who knew precisely what to expect from the man before her.
Merlin pushed himself off the tree, his smirk widening slightly as he took a slow step forward. "And here I was, thinking you'd sound more excited to see me. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur... is that any way to greet an old friend?" He placed a hand over his chest in feigned offense before letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Honestly, you wound me."
Arthur, as ever, remained unfazed. "You were expecting me," he stated simply, seeing through Merlin's antics as easily as one might see through a pane of glass.
Merlin chuckled. "Naturally. How could I not be?." He gestured around them. "Right on schedule."
Arthur didn't respond immediately, his gaze lingering on Merlin for a moment longer before turning back to survey the forest once more. "Where are we?" he asked, though he had a suspicion he already knew the answer.
Merlin's expression, usually unreadable beneath layers of mischief and amusement, grew just a shade more serious—barely noticeable, but present. For those who truly knew him, it was a rare shift, a sign that something of real importance was about to be spoken.
"Britain," he answered simply, folding his arms as he looked at Arthur.
Arthur's eyes brightened slightly, realization dawning. "Has the King been chosen yet?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Merlin shook his head, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "We'll talk about this on the way."
That, of course, was Merlin's way of saying, It's complicated.
Arthur glanced at him but did not press the matter further. He knew Merlin well enough to recognize when the mage was deliberately withholding information. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Vivian.
Merlin, however, waved lazily in her direction. "Goodbye, Great Lady of the Lake," he called, his tone teasing.
Vivian simply smiled gently, unfazed by his antics, as she always was. She shifted her focus to Arthur instead, stepping closer.
"I will see you later, Arthur," she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the cool, timeless air of Avalon.
Before he could respond, she wrapped her slender arms around him, holding him in an almost motherly embrace. There was no hesitation in her touch—only quiet certainty, as if she were trying to preserve this moment, as if she knew that once he left Avalon, his path would be one of trials, hardship, and destiny.
Arthur did not reject her.
Instead, after a brief moment, he returned the gesture, his arms wrapping around her in kind. His movements were not hesitant, nor were they overly sentimental—just firm, steady, and accepting. For all his knightly discipline and composure, Arthur understood the significance of this farewell.
After a moment, they both pulled away, though Vivian's hands lingered briefly at his shoulders before slipping away.
"See you later, Vivian," Arthur said, his voice quiet but resolute.
A loud, exaggerated groan came from behind them.
"Enough of that sappy stuff," Merlin complained, rubbing the back of his head. "We have places to be, a country to save, and I have no patience for heartfelt goodbyes. Let's go already."
However, as he turned, something made him pause.
Vivian had shot him a look—calm, knowing, and yet piercing in a way that made the ever-flippant mage hesitate for just a fraction of a second. It was not a warning, nor was it outright disapproval. But it was something that made Merlin wary.
For once, he did not have a teasing remark to throw back at her.
Instead, with only a slight frown and a quiet sigh, he turned back to Arthur. "Come on then, Saint-to-be. The world won't wait for you forever."
Arthur nodded once before giving Vivian one final glance. She simply smiled.
And with that, Arthur and Merlin stepped forward, leaving Vivian behind.