Morgana, Arthur's older half-sister, lay pale and unmoving in her chamber, her breathing shallow, skin cold despite the furs piled around her. A poison ran through her veins—a slow, magical venom no ordinary healer could cure.
They had acted swiftly once she collapsed. The court had been sealed. A spy was discovered among the servants, but before he could be interrogated, he was found dead—his own lips foaming from the same poison he had delivered. Suicide or silencing, no one could say.
Gaius, Camelot's royal physician, had tried every tonic, every healing charm he knew, but none had worked. And now he stood helpless beside her bed.
Merlin stared at the bouquet placed near her pillow. It looked almost untouched—lush and vibrant, petals glowing faintly in the dim torchlight.
"She got them yesterday," Gwen said softly. "From a traveling merchant. Said they were called Dreamblossoms. She said they reminded her of her childhood."
Gaius went still.
"Dreamblossoms?" he said, voice taut. "From the northern wilds?"
"Yes," Gwen said, startled. "The merchant said they were rare."
"They're more than rare," Gaius muttered. "They're cursed. They grow only where the veil between worlds thins, where the earth remembers sorrow. To mortals, they're poison."
A heavy silence fell.
"Can she be saved?" Merlin asked.
Gaius didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to his shelves, pulling open a drawer worn smooth with age. From within, he retrieved a brittle scroll, yellowed and flaking at the edges. He unrolled it carefully.
Drawn in faded ink was a single white flower, luminous and radiant.
The Remedy to Cure All Ills.
"It's a myth," Gaius said. "But a persistent one. Some say the flower grows in the Deep Glade, beyond the Endless Forest. A place where the world folds in on itself and time forgets its path."
"That's where I'll go," Merlin said.
Gaius blinked. "You?"
"I'm not letting her die," Merlin said simply.
A voice cut through the doorway.
"I'll go too."
Arthur stood there, arms crossed, already dressed in travel leathers.
"You can't," Merlin said. "Your father—"
"Already forbade it," Arthur replied, with a grin. "So I'll be gone before he notices."
"You're disobeying him. Again."
Arthur shrugged. "Seems to be a habit when people I care about are dying."
They packed quickly—just what they needed. Food. Water. Weapons. A few of Gaius's old notes. Then they slipped into the stables under cover of darkness and rode hard toward the northern borders.
Just as they passed through the outer gates of Camelot, five figures blocked their path.
Leon, noble and precise.
Percival, tall as a tree, quiet as a glacier.
Elyan, sharp-eyed and quicker with his tongue than his blade.
Gwaine, leaning casually on his sword, grin crooked.
And Lancelot—calm, steadfast, already scanning the horizon.
Arthur reined in his horse, startled.
"You thought we'd let you go without us?" Leon asked, arching a brow.
Arthur climbed down, a grin breaking across his face.
One by one, they introduced themselves to Merlin, who, despite the urgency, was quietly taken aback by their ease, their camaraderie.
They set off together.
They crossed half-frozen rivers still clinging to winter's breath, and passed through forests so silent even the wind seemed afraid to stir. And somewhere along the second day, Merlin realized something unexpected.
He liked them.
The knights. He had expected arrogance and pride. But they laughed, teased, shared stories—not of war, but of failure, childhood, dreams. Percival carved animals from wood. Gwaine recited tragic poetry, usually while tipsy and always out of order. Elyan told riddles that left everyone groaning. Leon knelt at every dawn, whispering prayers to gods he never named.
And Lancelot… Lancelot, who had once defended Merlin with nothing but a stick and his own courage, watched over them all like a silent guardian.
By the fourth day, they reached the edge of the Deep Glade.
It was nothing like the legends.
No gnarled trees or blackened soil. Just a quiet, silver-lit field. Trees with leaves like mirrors. Air still as glass.
At its center: mist.
The knights drew blades, spreading out. But as they stepped into the mist, the world shifted.
The forest twisted.
Merlin blinked—and Arthur was gone.
Merlin stumbled into a thicket of thorns, coughing and disoriented. He called out. No answer. The mist had swallowed them.
Hours passed. The forest whispered, pulling at direction and memory. But eventually, by accident or magic, Merlin and Arthur found each other again.
Arthur had a cut on his cheek. Merlin had mud in his ears.
"You look worse than the thorns," Arthur muttered.
"Nice to see your face again, too," Merlin replied.
"You scared?"
"A little."
"Good. Means you're not stupid."
They sat together beneath a crooked tree.
"I keep thinking they're just around the bend," Arthur said quietly. "Laughing. Whole. But they're not."
"We'll find them," Merlin said.
Arthur didn't reply. After a long silence, he said, "I was trained to lead. But no one trains you for being afraid. Or lost."
"My father disappeared when I was young," Merlin said softly. "I don't know if he left... or if something took him."
Arthur met his gaze. "Not knowing is the worst part."
They sat there, bound by shared silence and pain too old for their years.
"You're not bad at this," Arthur said eventually.
"What, being lost?"
"Listening."
"I try."
They pressed on.
Hours later, they stumbled into a moonlit clearing. A single flower bloomed at the center—golden-white, pulsing with gentle light. The Cureblossom.
But something else was there.
A creature of bark and root, shaped like a golem, rose between them and the flower. Its eyes blazed green, limbs creaking like ancient wood.
Arthur drew his sword.
"Stay back, Merlin."
Merlin didn't argue. He never did—because he was already casting.
The creature attacked.
Arthur met it head-on, steel flashing. Roots lashed like whips. Merlin flung spells from behind trees, subtle and cloaked, making it seem like Arthur's strikes landed by skill alone.
Arthur was lifted by the throat.
Merlin whispered, "Læt wynd wisple!"
A gust of wind struck the beast. Arthur fell, gasping.
The golem turned toward Merlin.
"Why do they always turn on me?" he muttered, dodging a blow.
"Stille heorte!" he cast. The golem froze—then roared and shrugged off the spell.
Arthur lunged again. "You will not touch him!"
Strike by strike, they fought—Merlin subtly guiding fate, Arthur embodying courage.
Finally, Merlin whispered the last spell.
"Bræc stān."
The beast cracked, then burst apart into dust and vine.
Arthur panted, victorious. Merlin approached the flower.
"That," Arthur gasped, "was entirely too easy."
"You nearly died," Merlin said.
"Yes, but I didn't."
Merlin plucked the Cureblossom. It trembled—then leaned into his hand.
They found the others a day later.
Elyan had nearly uprooted a tree. Gwaine lost a bet on who would die first. But when Merlin held up the flower, they cheered like children.
Three days later, they returned to Camelot.
Morgana awoke before dawn. Her color had returned. Her voice was soft.
"What did you do?"
Merlin smiled faintly. "Found something that was never meant to be found."
Arthur said nothing to the court. Nothing to his father.
But that night, Merlin returned to his room to find a cloak—dyed in Camelot red, not servant brown.
And a note.
"Next time, I carry the flower. —Arthur"
Merlin laughed.
He didn't mind being a servant.
Not if it meant this.
Not if it meant them.
Beneath Camelot, the stones shifted.
And something old stirred.