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Arthur came to groggily, bound and aching, his temple sticky with dried blood. It was cold—stone floors, damp walls—and the ring of flickering torchlight showed three figures nearby in dark robes, talking quietly.
“Merlin?” he rasped.
The boy was sprawled nearby, unconscious, blood trailing from his hairline. Arthur jerked against the chains. “Merlin!”
One of the captors glanced over, bored. “He’ll wake soon enough.”
“He’d better,” another muttered. “We need him conscious before we apply the cuffs.”
Arthur stilled. “What cuffs?”
They ignored him. One held a velvet pouch reverently and opened it to reveal a pair of iron shackles, blackened with age and carved with glowing runes.
“Magic blockers,” he said. “He’ll be neutralized. Then we break his spirit. Slowly.”
Arthur’s breath came fast and sharp. His heart pounded. “Don’t touch him.”
“You should worry about yourself, princeling,” one hissed.
But Arthur was watching Merlin stir, groan faintly, then blink open dazed eyes.
“Merlin,” Arthur said quickly, urgently. “Don’t let them—”
But Merlin blinked at him once, confused, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped, unconscious again, just as the cuffs were clasped around his wrists.
Click.
And the world… changed.
⸻
It wasn’t a noise. Not exactly.
But something shifted.
A snap, like the breaking of a bone. A wrenching, too deep to be heard, too sharp to be ignored.
Merlin’s eyes flew open. His back arched, mouth open in a silent scream. His body trembled, fingers twitching violently. And then—
He collapsed.
Eyes closed. Not breathing.
Arthur’s scream tore from his throat. “MERLIN!”
The robed sorcerers froze. Then the torches extinguished, all at once.
And far beyond the cave, magic died.
⸻
In the Forest of Balor, a unicorn stopped mid-stride. Its horn cracked with a hairline fracture, and the silver light in its eyes went dull. It reared once in terror and galloped into the shadows.
In a distant village, a henhouse door burst open—and from inside stumbled a man, dazed and feather-covered, blinking at the dawn. His cursed helmet lay in the straw, now an actual chicken pecking the floor.
In a knight’s armory, a blade once enchanted to burn with blue flame hissed—then went cold. The metal groaned as it warped into a quill. Ink pooled from the tip.
A shield, once marked to deflect all arrows, shimmered and warped into a dented tin plate. Someone’s dinner fell to the ground.
In the mountains, a basilisk curled in on itself, its gaze dulled and harmless. The wind howled. The birds fell silent.
Even the Sidhe in their shadowed realm looked up from their pool of still water, murmuring. Something was wrong.
The animals felt it first. The earth second. The sky, last.
And in the depths of a scorched cave, the last dragon felt it in his bones.
⸻
Kilgharrah had not flown in days. Sickened by some druid-born curse, his flames sputtered and his strength waned.
But when Merlin’s magic vanished, it struck him like a spear.
He screamed. A deep, wounded bellow that cracked stones and silenced wolves.
He clawed his way from the depths, broken but burning, and lifted into the sky with a roar that shook the world.
He left claw marks across the forest as he landed.
And the mountains trembled.
⸻
The sorcerers barely had time to react before the cave entrance exploded.
Wings blocked the sky. Scales scraped the stone. Kilgharrah’s golden eyes burned like twin suns.
He rasped, “You fools. You unspeakable fools.”
One tried to cast a spell—his mouth formed the words, but no light answered.
Kilgharrah laughed—a sound of ash and judgment.
“There is no magic,” he said. “You have taken its heart.”
They turned as one to look at Merlin’s crumpled form. Arthur was kneeling beside him now, slapping his cheek, checking his breath.
“Come on, Merlin. Wake up. Come on.”
Nothing.
Arthur pressed his forehead to Merlin’s and whispered, “Please.”
The dragon’s voice thundered through the cavern. “Release him.”
A trembling hand unlocked the cuffs.
The instant they were gone—
Magic returned.
⸻
The torches roared back to life. Runes flared along the walls. The shield-turned-plate shimmered back into bronze and gold. The enchanted sword reformed, flames leaping once more from its hilt.
A unicorn lifted its head, horn whole again.
A dragon exhaled in deep relief, fire sparking at the edges of his jaws.
And Merlin gasped.
His back arched again—but this time, he breathed. Deep, shuddering.
Arthur let out a sob and caught him, gathering him into his arms and pressing Merlin’s face to his neck. “I’ve got you. You’re all right.”
Merlin’s lashes fluttered. “Arthur?”
“I’m here.” He pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “You absolute idiot. You scared me to death.”
Merlin gave a dazed smile. “I was dreaming I was a tree.”
“You stopped breathing.”
Merlin blinked. “Oh. That wasn’t part of the dream.”
Arthur hugged him tighter, not caring that the dragon was watching, that the sorcerers were groveling on the floor. Not caring about anything but the soft rise and fall of Merlin’s chest.
Kilgharrah exhaled smoke and fire behind them. “You are more than a vessel, young warlock. You are the breath of the world. Its balance. Its being.”
Merlin croaked, “That sounds exhausting.”
Arthur snorted and brushed the hair from his face. “You’re not allowed to collapse again. I’m putting it in law.”
“Oh?” Merlin murmured. “Is it royal decree?”
“First order of the Pendragon reign,” Arthur said. “Anyone who lets Merlin stop breathing shall be sentenced to—”
“Cuddles?”
Arthur coughed. “Hard labor.”
Merlin’s eyes drifted shut again, but he leaned into Arthur’s chest.
And Arthur let him.
⸻
Epilogue
The story of what happened passed in whispers among magical circles. Sorcerers who’d once cursed Arthur’s name now left offerings near Camelot’s borders.
The unicorn returned to the forests. The Sidhe watched more closely. A phoenix was seen in the north again.
And Arthur never again questioned Merlin’s power.
Or his heart.
Because when magic disappeared, the world mourned.
But Arthur—
Arthur grieved.