Section I — The Festival of Pentecost
The Festival of Pentecost was in full bloom, and Camelot pulsed like a living heart.
Trumpets blared from the high walls, banners rippled in the summer breeze, and laughter rolled through the courtyards like distant thunder. The air smelled of roasted meats, crushed flowers, and wine that flowed too freely. From the parapets to the gardens, the kingdom celebrated its golden age—yet beneath the chorus of revelry, Merlin heard a dissonant note only he could perceive.
He walked among the crowds, the hem of his indigo robes brushing against cobblestones still warm from the sun. To the people, he was the king's counselor and their guardian of wisdom. But today his eyes—sharp, tired, too knowing—saw not joy but cracks forming in the dream. Every cheer felt a little too loud, every smile a little too strained, as if the realm were trying to convince itself that peace could last forever.
Merchants from across the seas displayed their wares beneath awnings of scarlet and gold—silks that shimmered like moonlight, glass trinkets from Constantinople, spices that stung the air with sweetness. Children chased one another between the stalls, their laughter as bright as bells. On the tilting field beyond the square, knights clashed in friendly combat, lances splintering as the crowd roared. It was Camelot at its most radiant, and yet…
Merlin felt it—the weight of the future pressing against the present.
From his place beside the royal dais, he watched Sir Lancelot unhorse yet another challenger. The cheers were deafening, the adoration unrestrained, but the champion's eyes were troubled. Merlin sensed the shadow that clung to him: doubt, pride, love unspoken—all seeds of the storm to come.
"The people rejoice in the peace and prosperity you have brought," Merlin said quietly, turning toward the king.
Arthur, his crown gleaming beneath the sunlight, gave a modest smile. "Thanks to your counsel, my friend."
Merlin inclined his head but did not answer immediately. His gaze swept across the court: Sir Gawain, alert even in celebration; Sir Percival, eyes searching the horizon; Sir Bors, ever cautious, hand resting near his sword. They felt it too, though none would name it—the subtle tremor in the air, the whisper beneath the music.
"Indeed," Merlin murmured at last. "Yet peace is a fragile glass, my king. One tremor, and it shatters."
Arthur laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We have weathered storms before. Whatever comes, we will face it together."
Merlin forced a faint smile, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He turned his eyes toward the distant treeline beyond Camelot's walls. The ancient forest shimmered with summer heat and whispered with the low voice of magic. Within those trees lay the Enclave—a realm of beings older than men, guardians of balance who watched even Camelot with wary eyes. Today their whispers were restless.
The balance falters, the wind seemed to say. Shadows stir where light grows proud.
He thought of the creatures who dwelled there: the Dwellers of the Mist, forever shifting between seen and unseen; the Angha, the great iridescent bird of rebirth; and the Nuckelavee—a horse-beast of despair whose breath carried plague. These were not mere myths to Merlin; they were omens, reflections of the kingdom's own state. Even the Angha's cry, once a sign of blessing, now echoed like a warning.
When the trumpets blared again and Lancelot lifted his visor in triumph, the crowd erupted in adulation. Merlin alone did not cheer. His gaze lingered on the knight's eyes—bright, uncertain, haunted. The kingdom's mightiest blade, and already it trembled.
As the sun began to sink and the feasting tables were prepared, Merlin made a silent vow. I will guard this peace, no matter the cost.
But even as he thought it, a chill crawled along his spine. Visions flickered at the edges of his mind—banners burning, the Round Table splintered, Arthur's crown fallen into ash. He blinked, and the visions vanished, leaving only the scent of smoke in the air.
Night descended softly upon Camelot, wrapping the city in gold and shadow. The torches lining the courtyard flickered to life, their light dancing across the stone. Minstrels tuned their lutes; servants carried trays of bread and venison; laughter rose once more. Yet under the glow of the feast, Merlin felt the weight of prophecy settle upon him like a second cloak.
As he took his place beside the king at the high table, the doors of the great hall creaked open. A hooded woman entered—her steps slow, deliberate, her presence heavy enough to still the room. Conversations faltered. Even the fire seemed to dim.
Merlin's pulse quickened. He knew her face before she spoke. He had seen it the night before in dream and flame.
"The bonds of this great kingdom will be tested," the seer Anwen declared, her voice carrying through the hall. "Betrayal will come from within, and the heart of Camelot will break before it bends."
Her words struck like thunder. Silence followed, deep and uneasy. Knights shifted uneasily. Sir Kay's hand drifted toward his sword.
Arthur raised a hand. "Peace, Kay. Let her speak."
Merlin rose slowly, the edges of his robe brushing the dais. "What name do you bear, wise woman?"
"I am Anwen of the Northern Wastes," she said, lowering her hood. "I have seen the threads of fate. They twist tighter with every choice you make."
"And what is it you have seen?" Arthur asked.
"That the shadows you fear are not beyond your walls, my lord," she replied, "but within them."
A murmur rippled through the court. Lancelot's gaze fell; Gawain frowned; Percival looked to Merlin for guidance. But the wizard's thoughts were racing. Anwen's words mirrored his own hidden fears. The storm he had felt in the air was not distant—it was already here, waiting for its hour.
Arthur's voice was calm but firm. "Then we will meet it together. Camelot will not fall to fear."
The seer's eyes softened, filled with sorrow. "See that you remember, King of Kings. Unity is the only shield that can withstand betrayal."
As she turned to leave, Merlin felt the room's warmth return—but the echo of her prophecy lingered, coiling in his chest like smoke. When she was gone, Arthur leaned closer, voice low. "Do you believe her?"
Merlin hesitated. "I believe the future speaks through many mouths, my king. And I fear hers was one of them."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Then we must be watchful."
Merlin's eyes lingered on the flickering torches, their flames bending toward unseen drafts. "Yes," he said quietly. "Watchful."
Outside, the wind shifted. In the darkening forest beyond Camelot's walls, something stirred—the faint rustle of wings, the echo of an ancient breath. The feast would continue, but the first tremor in the kingdom's glass had already begun.
Section II — The Unnatural Storm
The feast reached its zenith. Music spilled from the balconies; goblets clinked in rhythm; the smell of honey-glazed venison mingled with the sweetness of mead. Outside, the courtyard glowed beneath hundreds of lanterns that floated like captive stars. For one fragile moment, Camelot felt invincible.
Then the wind changed.
A low moan swept through the hall, faint at first, then rising until the torches guttered in their sconces. The laughter faltered. Cups stilled mid-toast. Beyond the arched windows, clouds were gathering—black, boiling, wrong.
Sir Gawain rose from his seat, instinct guiding him faster than thought. "A storm?" he muttered. "But the sky was clear an hour ago."
Merlin felt it before he saw it. The air thickened, charged with a magic that tasted of metal and despair. He set his goblet down and stood. "This is no storm born of nature."
Lightning cracked without warning, tearing across the sky like a blade. Thunder rolled through the stone halls, shaking banners from the walls. In the courtyard, tents collapsed, and the crowd scattered in panic.
Arthur's voice rang above the chaos. "Secure the gates! Help the wounded! Gawain—organize the guard!"
But even the king's command could not drown out the fury of the wind. It howled through the corridors like a beast freed from its cage, extinguishing torches and hurling open doors.
Merlin strode to the threshold, his staff already glowing with pale blue fire. He could feel the storm's intent—a consciousness twisting through the air, feeding on fear. He lifted the staff high and spoke words older than the crown itself. The runes etched along its length flared, and a ring of light burst outward, pushing back the darkness.
For an instant, calm. Then the clouds screamed.
The gale struck the castle in full force, a wall of wind and shadow. Arrows of rain slashed through open archways; shards of glass flew like silver birds. Servants fled, crying out for their children.
Merlin braced himself against the blast. "Back!" he shouted to those nearest. "This magic answers to none of the old laws!" He extended his hand, palm open, and whispered a counter-charm. The storm hesitated—only a heartbeat—but it was enough. He seized that moment, driving his will into the eye of the tempest.
Light exploded outward, flooding the courtyard in a blinding surge. Then, silence.
The wind died. The rain ceased. Only the soft drip of water from the battlements remained.
Slowly, the people dared to breathe again. Smoke curled from overturned braziers; a few torn banners fluttered feebly in the damp air. Arthur descended the dais, soaked but unbowed. "It's over?" he asked.
Merlin lowered his staff. The glow faded, leaving him pale and trembling. "For now. But this was no accident, my king. This was a message."
Arthur's gaze hardened. "From whom?"
"From whatever watches the cracks we cannot see," Merlin replied. "The balance trembles."
He turned toward the great doors, staring out into the night. The clouds were retreating, but they left behind a sky strangely luminous, threaded with veins of violet light that pulsed like a living wound. "A warning," he whispered, mostly to himself. "The storm marks the beginning."
Inside, the feast resumed out of stubbornness more than joy. Musicians plucked hesitant strings; servants refilled cups with shaking hands. The hall smelled of damp stone and fear disguised as celebration.
Later, in the quiet of Arthur's private chamber, only the fire spoke.
Flames bent low as the two men sat across from each other, their armor and robes alike scorched from the battle. Arthur poured wine into two goblets, his movements slow and deliberate. "To peace," he said grimly, offering one cup.
Merlin accepted it but did not drink. "Peace is never won, only borrowed."
Arthur studied him. "Do you think this is connected to Anwen's warning?"
"I think the warning has begun to unfold," Merlin answered. He stared into the fire, seeing shapes within the flames—shadows of men he loved, of choices not yet made. "The storm was drawn to Camelot. To us. The fates test the strength of what we built."
Arthur's voice softened. "You look weary, old friend."
"Weary?" Merlin managed a thin smile. "I have been weary since the world was young."
Silence stretched between them. The king gazed into his wine, and for the first time since the battle, doubt crept into his eyes. "Tell me honestly—can we withstand what's coming?"
Merlin hesitated. Truth was a blade sharper than any sword. "If unity holds, yes. But if pride divides us…" He let the sentence fade.
Arthur nodded slowly. "Then unity must be our armor."
They drank in unison, a toast more to courage than to faith. The fire crackled, throwing their shadows high against the walls—two figures joined at the edge of light and dark.
When Arthur finally retired, Merlin lingered alone. Outside the window, the remnants of the storm drifted away over the forest. He could still taste the bitterness of the magic that had fueled it. It was not foreign—it was familiar, echoing the same pulse that beat within his own veins.
He pressed a hand to the cold stone sill. "The storm outside," he murmured, "was nothing compared to the one within."
Lightning flickered once more in the distance, faint and dying. In its flash, his reflection stared back from the glass: eyes older than centuries, ringed with exhaustion, glimmering with secrets.
"Stay true," he whispered to his reflection, though the words felt hollow. "Stay true to Arthur. To Camelot."
But the fire behind him hissed, and for the briefest moment, his shadow seemed to move on its own—reaching forward, darker, hungrier, waiting.
Section III — Return to the Present (2024)
The rain had long stopped falling, yet Merlin still heard it.
It lived in his thoughts—the rhythm of the storm echoing against centuries of silence. When he opened his eyes, the world of Camelot dissolved, replaced by glass and steel that glimmered beneath a neon sky. The city sprawled endlessly below his mountain sanctuary, its lights beating like a thousand mechanical hearts.
He stood on the balcony of his crystalline lair, robe stirring in the night air. The fusion of ancient magic and modern design surrounded him: runes glowed softly beneath transparent floors; consoles hummed with data; holographic glyphs drifted like fireflies. Every surface reflected fragments of who he had become—a sorcerer turned warden, a guardian bound by his own hand.
Camelot had fallen, yet it never truly died, he thought. It only changed its name.
Beneath him, the city's towers reached skyward like the spires of some new faith. Screens flickered with headlines, drones traced lazy arcs through the smog, and humanity continued its endless dance of creation and ruin. Merlin watched it all through eyes that had seen empires rise and crumble. He was both their protector and their ghost.
"The bonds of this great kingdom will be tested."
Anwen's voice, a whisper from half a millennium ago, threaded through the hum of machines. He pressed a hand to the railing; the cool metal bit against his palm. "And still they are," he murmured. "Different crowns, same fragility."
Behind him, the cave glowed with shifting light. Arcane wards pulsed like veins, syncing with the city's digital rhythm. He turned back inside, passing shelves where ancient tomes rested beside sleek terminals. A single candle burned amid the circuitry, its small flame the only thing in the room untouched by time.
Merlin paused before the mirror opposite his desk. Its surface was alive, showing not reflection but memory—echoes of Camelot's great hall, the Round Table gleaming beneath sunlight, Arthur's laughter spilling through the years. He watched the image fade into the night of the storm, the moment when everything began to fracture.
"How many ages since that thunder first struck?" he asked the silence.
The mirror answered with flickering ghosts: knights kneeling, banners falling, the look in Arthur's eyes the day trust broke. The sight drew a whisper from Merlin's lips. "What did I protect, in the end? A kingdom? A man? Or merely my pride?"
He moved to his worktable, where an obsidian map dominated the surface. Across it, points of light marked ley-line intersections and global faultlines of energy. Each pulse corresponded to a crisis: wars, political upheavals, digital corruption. He had threads woven into them all—nudging, containing, restraining. The invisible hand of Merlin still guided the world, but the gesture had become mechanical, stripped of faith.
On a nearby pedestal lay the Staff of Alduin, its wood veined with silver light. He ran his fingers along the carved runes, feeling the warmth of its pulse. Once, this staff had raised castles from dust and split mountains. Now, it served as a conductor for satellites and surveillance.
"I built walls to keep the darkness out," he said softly, "and found myself sealed within them."
The city skyline shimmered through the transparent walls. Lightning flared somewhere far beyond the horizon, a brief white scar across the clouds. He closed his eyes and imagined Camelot beneath that light—the same storm, the same pattern repeating through ages.
"Arthur," he whispered, tasting the name like a wound. "You believed the heart of man could endure untainted. You were wrong, perhaps. Or perhaps I was."
He felt the faintest tremor beneath his feet as power surged through the ley-line conduits. Data streams cascaded down the mirror's surface, forming images of world leaders, armies, markets—all threads in his unseen tapestry. For every problem he solved, another rose. For every peace he brokered, new weapons bloomed in secret. The cycle mocked him.
Merlin turned from the glass. "Eternal vigilance," he said bitterly, "the curse of the immortal."
He walked to the center of the chamber where a single crystal pedestal held a golden amulet. It pulsed with a warm, familiar light—the last relic of Camelot. Inside it burned the memory of their oaths, the laughter of the knights, the first sunrise after Camlann. He reached out, hesitated, then took it in his hand.
The amulet's glow bled across his palm, softening the hard lines of his face. "For the kingdom, for the peace we built, and for the future," he murmured—the same words he had spoken that night so long ago. They felt fragile now, almost foreign.
A voice drifted from the corner of the chamber.
"Still clinging to old prayers, Merlin?"
He did not turn. "Old prayers are the only ones that answer."
The voice faded, no more than the echo of memory, yet it left him shaken. He placed the amulet back on its stand and drew a steadying breath. The mirror's surface shimmered again, unbidden, showing Arthur's reflection standing where he himself stood—a phantom, gaze steady, expression unreadable.
Merlin's throat tightened. "If you could see this age, my king, would you forgive me?"
No answer came, only the whisper of the city's wind through the crystalline vents.
He extinguished the candle with a gesture, plunging the room into a cool, electric twilight. Lights from the city below painted shifting constellations across the floor. Each shimmer felt like a heartbeat, each heartbeat like a countdown.
"The storm has never ended," he said quietly. "It only learned to wear new clouds."
Turning away from the window, Merlin descended the steps to his inner sanctum where shadows thickened like water. The deeper he went, the louder the hum of ancient machinery became. It was the pulse of the world itself—a heartbeat he had promised to guard.
At the lowest chamber, he paused before a great obsidian slab inscribed with runes of containment. Within it swirled faint silhouettes—his creations, his guardians, his sins. They slept, waiting for his command.
Merlin's hand hovered over the sigils. "Rest a while longer," he whispered. "The world is not yet ready for what follows."
He withdrew his hand and looked once more toward the faint reflection of city lights bleeding through the crystalline ceiling. Their glow touched his face like distant starlight, soft yet unyielding. For the first time in centuries, he felt something almost human—a flicker of doubt, a longing for the warmth of a fire not born of magic.
"Tomorrow," he said to the emptiness, "I will find the balance. Or die trying."
The words echoed through the chamber, fading into the rhythm of the machinery until they became indistinguishable from its pulse.
Outside, lightning flashed again—silent this time—like the ghost of a promise the world had forgotten.
Section IV — Morgan's Torment and the Shadows Within
The night within Merlin's lair grew colder.
The candlelight guttered as if the air itself recoiled. Across the crystalline walls, runes dimmed and pulsed erratically, the hum of power faltering. Merlin, seated at his desk, did not look up. He felt the shift in the air like the prickle of a memory returning uninvited.
"Must you always announce yourself with dread?" he said softly.
From the corner of the chamber, mist coalesced into form. The outline of a woman emerged—graceful, regal, her beauty sharpened by sorrow. Morgan le Fay stepped into the light, her presence rippling through the room like a cold wind. Her cloak shimmered with the hues of twilight, and her eyes—green and piercing—held centuries of pain.
"You call it dread," she replied, her voice as soft as falling ash. "I call it recognition."
Merlin sighed. "What recognition can there be between ghosts?"
"Don't pretend you don't feel it," she said, circling the table. "This place reeks of memory. Every spell you weave hums with guilt."
He rose, staff in hand. "You shouldn't be here, Morgan. Your power disturbs the wards."
Her laughter was light and cruel. "Then perhaps the wards should learn to endure the truth."
A pulse of energy flickered along the walls, answering her presence with muted protest. Merlin tightened his grip on the staff. "Say what you came to say."
Morgan paused beside the great mirror, its surface swirling with faint images of the past—the Round Table, a crown glinting beneath sunlight, Arthur's hand gripping Excalibur. "I came to remind you what you've buried."
"Buried?" he echoed. "I remember everything."
"Remembering isn't the same as feeling," she said. "You've turned remorse into ritual. You dress it in purpose, call it guardianship, but it's still the same hunger that destroyed us all."
He turned away, but she followed, her voice softening. "You always believed you could command the darkness. That you could wield it for good. Tell me, Merlin—how fares your kingdom of glass? Do your machines sing your praises? Do they thank you for their salvation?"
"You mistake stewardship for vanity."
"No," she whispered. "I mistake you for the man you used to be."
The words hit like a blade. Merlin's composure faltered; the staff dimmed. "I did what was necessary. Camelot was dying. Arthur's idealism blinded him—he refused to see that peace cannot be kept with honor alone."
"Peace built on fear isn't peace," Morgan said. "It's silence. And silence rots."
Merlin's eyes flashed. "And what would you have done? Let the world burn? Let ignorance rule again?"
"I would have trusted it to rise on its own," she said simply. "Even ashes can birth new flame."
Her hand brushed the mirror's surface, and for an instant, it showed her younger self—laughing, radiant, hand in hand with Arthur before the wars. The image dissolved, replaced by her ghostly reflection. "But you and I—we built cages instead."
"Cages protect," Merlin replied. "Without them, the world would devour itself."
"Then why are you still trapped inside yours?"
Silence stretched between them, heavy and electric. The only sound was the faint crackle of magic running through the veins of the walls. Merlin's shadow loomed long behind him, cast in the dim light of his own power. Morgan's face softened, her anger fading into grief.
"You still dream of him, don't you?" she asked quietly. "Arthur."
He did not answer, but his eyes flickered toward the mirror, where the king's image appeared unbidden—young, proud, unbroken. The sight stole his breath.
"I warned you once," Morgan said, her voice now little more than a whisper. "That in trying to save him, you would lose yourself."
"I remember," Merlin said. His voice was raw. "I just didn't know how right you were."
Morgan stepped closer. The air between them shimmered with magic—the ache of two immortal forces drawn together by memory and regret. "It isn't too late to stop," she said. "Let the world stumble. Let it fail. Let it live."
He looked at her as one might look upon a relic—precious, dangerous, impossible to touch. "If I stop," he said, "all this was for nothing. Every sacrifice, every betrayal, every century of silence. I can't let that be the end of Camelot."
Her expression twisted, equal parts pity and fury. "Camelot died because you wouldn't let it change. Because neither of you could let go."
"I will not watch another age fall," Merlin said, the words trembling with conviction and despair. "I will not."
"Then you've already failed," she whispered.
The runes along the walls flared bright, reflecting the surge of emotion between them. For a heartbeat, their power met and clashed—light and shadow, brother and sister, will and warning. The lair itself seemed to recoil.
"Leave me," Merlin said, turning his back. "Before I make you."
Morgan's eyes filled with something that might have been sorrow. "You can banish my shade, Merlin, but not my truth."
She reached out a hand that never quite touched his shoulder, then vanished—dissolving into smoke and faint starlight. The chamber fell still again, the hum of machinery returning like a heartbeat after silence.
Merlin stood motionless for a long time. Then, slowly, he turned to the mirror. His reflection stared back—not the sage of Camelot, but the weary tyrant of eternity. Around him, the walls pulsed faintly, responding to the storm within.
He whispered to his reflection, "I am not the monster she thinks I am."
The reflection's lips did not move, yet in the faint distortion of the glass, he thought he saw Arthur's eyes gazing back—calm, patient, disappointed.
"I am not," Merlin said again, louder this time. The words echoed against the stone and faded, unanswered.
He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes. Beneath his palms, the crystalline floor vibrated with latent energy, ancient and alive. He felt the darkness pressing close, like an old friend begging to be remembered. And within that darkness, faintly, the echo of Morgan's last words lingered:
You can banish my shade, but not my truth.
Merlin opened his eyes. The world below him still pulsed with life—fragile, fleeting, human. He raised his hand, and the mirrors lit once more, showing cities in motion, the restless hum of progress. His voice, quiet but resolute, filled the chamber.
"For the kingdom. For the peace we built. For the future."
But even as he spoke, the runes along the walls flickered—light dimming just enough to remind him that he no longer spoke to the world.
He spoke only to himself.