Camelot, 543 AD
The night was heavy with rain when Mordred first stepped into the great hall of Camelot. The sound of his boots striking stone echoed between the pillars, sharp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock no one could see. Torches hissed and swayed as if stirred by an unseen wind, their light bending around the new arrival.
Arthur rose from his seat, his bearing calm but his heart uncertain. In that brief moment, the hall seemed smaller — its vaulted ceilings less eternal, its walls less sure. "Welcome, Sir Mordred," he said, voice even, though something in him recoiled from the words. "May your service to Camelot be honorable and true."
Mordred bowed low, the gesture perfect. "I thank you, my king," he replied, his tone threaded with reverence. "I pledge my sword, my counsel, and my life to Camelot's cause."
The assembled knights exchanged glances — polite smiles from some, thinly veiled doubt from others. Sir Gawain's eyes lingered longest, weighing the measure of this new brother. In the shadows beyond the torchlight, Merlin watched, his expression unreadable. His eyes, still bright despite the centuries, reflected the flames in two thin slivers of gold.
So it begins again, he thought, folding his hands within his sleeves. The boy steps into the fire, and the king steps closer to the edge.
Camelot greeted Mordred with applause that sounded more like judgment than welcome.
Days turned into weeks. Mordred moved through the castle like light through glass — precise, unyielding, impossible to ignore. He mediated disputes between squires, trained in the yard until his palms bled, and spoke with the kind of passion that stirred even the jaded hearts of the elder knights. To the people, he was hope reborn — noble, pure, uncorrupted by politics.
Yet in the quiet corridors, whispers began to crawl like ivy. They spoke of ambition disguised as charm, of flattery too easily given. None could say who first uttered them. They spread naturally, quietly, like a spell no one realized had been cast.
Merlin walked those halls often. He did not need to lie. He only asked questions — gentle ones that made others answer with suspicion. "Strange, isn't it?" he'd say softly to a servant, his tone laced with curiosity. "How quickly the young knight wins favor." Or, "The king seems fond of him — perhaps too fond."
Then he would leave, and the silence that followed did his work for him.
At the next feast, the tension had begun to hum beneath the laughter. Mordred sat beside Sir Percival, their goblets half-raised. The smell of roast and mead filled the air; a minstrel's song drifted faintly beneath the clatter of knives and the murmur of politics.
"I have long admired your valor," Mordred said, earnest and unguarded. "It is my hope to serve Camelot with that same devotion."
Percival looked up, his face weathered by battle and faith. "Words are easy, boy. It's deeds that carve your name into the stone."
Mordred smiled faintly, masking the sting. "Then may my deeds speak for me, when the time comes."
Across the hall, Merlin's gaze flicked up briefly from his cup. A shadow of satisfaction crossed his face. He had not needed to lift a finger — doubt had learned to walk on its own. Perception, he thought, is more potent than prophecy.
Arthur watched his court with growing unease. He could feel the change in the air — laughter came slower, words landed heavier. The once-lively hall now carried a brittle sort of quiet, like glass under pressure. Even Guinevere noticed, her eyes following the tension with the silent understanding of one who'd seen it before.
That night, when the hall had emptied and the moon hung pale above the courtyard, Arthur went to Merlin's chamber seeking counsel. The old wizard sat beside a low fire, the room perfumed with burning herbs and the faint hum of runes alive within the walls.
"Camelot frays, Merlin," Arthur said, pacing before him. "I see it in their faces. I hear it in their voices. The trust that built this kingdom is slipping away."
Merlin regarded him quietly, his eyes reflecting the firelight like coins at the bottom of a dark well. "You feel it because it's true," he said, voice low and deliberate. "And the cause, my king, is Mordred."
Arthur froze. "No. He's young, but his loyalty is clear. I've seen his devotion."
"Loyalty," Merlin murmured, "is the most convincing mask a traitor wears. Do not mistake eagerness for virtue. He gathers influence — too easily, too quickly. You see promise, but I see pattern. And patterns, Arthur… repeat."
Arthur looked away, unable to silence the doubt creeping in. "You speak as though betrayal is certain."
"I speak as one who has seen it take root before," Merlin answered, his voice edged with something that might have been pain. "You trust too easily, even after all this time."
Arthur's shoulders sagged, his breath leaving him in a sigh. He wanted to dismiss it, but the words clung to him like smoke. Merlin saw the hesitation and pressed no further; he didn't need to. The thought had been planted.
The following morning, the clang of steel drew Arthur to the training yard. Rain fell in a thin drizzle, dampening the earth until it smelled of iron and ash. Mordred and Gawain were sparring, their movements fluid, their strikes relentless. Each blow rang with the purity of real intent.
"You fight well," Gawain grunted, parrying hard. "Too well, perhaps."
Mordred smiled through the strain. "Is excellence now suspicion, Sir Gawain?"
"That depends," Gawain said, their blades locking in a flash of sparks. "On what you plan to do with it."
They broke apart, breathing hard. Around them, squires whispered in awe. But from beneath the cloister archway, Merlin watched, unseen. The faintest curl of smoke drifted from his fingertips — an illusionary shimmer, subtle enough to distort sound, to make every compliment sound like mockery, every word of praise sound like pride.
He turned away before the match ended. Doubt feeds itself once begun.
By the time the council gathered a week later, Camelot was quieter. The great hall felt heavier, its very air aware of its own history. The Round Table gleamed under the torches — perfect, eternal, unbroken — a symbol that now mocked what it once promised.
Mordred rose to speak. "My brothers," he began, voice calm but burdened. "We have all felt the distance between us. I've called this council not to accuse, but to mend. We are one kingdom, one cause. Let us not fall to whispers and shadows."
Sir Kay's voice cut like iron. "And who made you arbiter of peace, Mordred? You've been here a season and already act the diplomat."
Mordred met his gaze steadily. "I serve where I am needed. Division serves no one."
A ripple of argument followed — voices rising, loyalty turning brittle. The torches guttered, shadows twisting against the walls. None noticed the faint hum of magic in the air, the unseen pulse of Merlin's will — a breath upon the flame of discord, nothing more. Yet it was enough.
Arthur's patience broke. "Enough!" he thundered, and the echoes fell like stones. Silence claimed the room. "We are one fellowship. Let not pride tear down what generations built. Mordred's loyalty will prove itself through deeds, not words. Let his actions speak."
Mordred bowed, but his eyes shone faintly, hurt flickering beneath restraint. "Then deeds you shall have, my king."
When the meeting dispersed, Arthur lingered, staring at the empty table. The round surface, meant to erase hierarchy, now felt like a mirror of his failures. He wondered when unity had turned into performance — when leadership had begun to feel like holding water in his hands.
That night, he stood on the balcony overlooking Camelot. The rain had returned, soft and ceaseless, tracing paths down his armor like tears he would never shed. Below, the city burned with light — a thousand hearths glowing against the dark.
"You never rest, do you, Merlin?" he asked quietly, not turning as the wizard stepped into view.
"A kingdom never sleeps," Merlin replied, voice low, almost kind. "And neither can those who guard it."
Arthur's eyes stayed on the horizon. "You think Mordred a serpent. I see a man trying to serve. Must everything be seen through suspicion?"
Merlin's gaze followed his. "Light blinds as surely as shadow, my king. Do not mistake warmth for safety."
Arthur exhaled slowly, weary. "If I doubt everyone I love, there will be no one left to stand beside me."
"Perhaps that is the price of a kingdom that endures," Merlin said softly.
When he turned to leave, the sound of his robes brushing stone lingered like a sigh. Arthur remained, watching the storm swallow the city's glow. Camelot shimmered beneath the lightning — radiant, fragile, already cracking beneath the weight of its own legend.
Far below, the torches along the courtyard wall guttered, their light bending in the wind. In another tower, Merlin stood at his window, the reflection of those same torches burning in his eyes. For one fleeting instant, regret crossed his face — gone before he could name it.
Every fall begins with a whisper, he thought. And I am merely the wind that carries it.