Later, when the chill of night crept heavier and the academy bells rang curfew, Elara finally turned to leave. Merlin followed, his steps slow but steadier than before.

As they descended the stairwell, she spoke without looking back. "Do not speak of this to the others."

Merlin blinked, startled. "…Why?"

Her voice carried down the steps, calm but firm. "Because it was not for them."

Merlin's chest tightened again. He nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "…Understood."

They reached the hall in silence, the quiet tap of their footsteps echoing faintly off the stone. Students hurried past, some bowing to Elara with reverence, others sneaking curious glances at Merlin. He ignored them all.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on the warmth still lingering on his cheek. On the words she had spoken.

On the truth that, maybe for the first time since the labyrinth, since the simulation, since the gods had made him their stage, he was not entirely alone.

—

That night, when Merlin finally lay back in his hospital bed, the sterile white walls no longer felt so suffocating.

He touched his cheek with his fingertips, closed his eyes, and let himself breathe.

For the first time in a long, long while, sleep came without chains.

—

The morning light filtered soft and gold through the tall windows of the infirmary, painting long stripes across the sterile floor. Dust motes drifted in the air, catching the glow as if the world itself had been holding its breath for this moment.

Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressed flat against the cold tile. His body still felt heavier than it should, as though invisible chains coiled around his limbs, but his gaze stayed fixed on the door.

It had been days. He wasn't sure how many. Time slipped strangely here, without battle, without blood. He'd forced himself to stand each morning, to test his weight, to walk the small circuit of the room. But today—

Today was different.

The door eased open, its hinges sighing. Elara stepped through, her violet eyes cool as always, though the faintest flicker of something softer crossed them when they landed on him upright.

"You're ready," she said simply.

Merlin managed a crooked smirk. "You say that like it's not obvious I nearly collapsed five minutes ago."

Her gaze didn't waver. "You'll walk."

Not a suggestion. A command.

Merlin pushed himself up with a grunt, legs trembling beneath him. For a heartbeat he thought they'd buckle, that he'd crash gracelessly back to the mattress. But then Elara moved, quick, fluid, and her hand found his arm, steadying him.

He froze at the touch. Not because it startled him, but because of how unhesitating it was.

Her fingers were firm, anchoring, her stance strong enough to bear more of his weight than he wanted to admit. She didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge the intimacy of it. To her, it was necessity.

"…Thanks," Merlin muttered.

"Don't waste your breath." Her tone was cool, but there was no sting in it.

Together, they moved toward the door. His steps were uneven, dragging at first, but Elara's presence turned each falter into progress. The hall opened before them, wide and empty, the air humming faintly with enchantments woven into the stone.

Merlin's breath came shallow, his chest tight with both exertion and something he couldn't quite name. The world smelled different outside the infirmary, stone warmed by sun, faint traces of polish on the floors, and somewhere farther away, bread and spice drifting from the kitchens. Real.

Every step felt like proof.

They passed students in the corridor. Some stopped mid-conversation, eyes widening as they recognized him. Others whispered, their voices hushed but impossible to ignore.

"That's—"

"Everhart?"

"I thought he—"

Merlin kept his gaze forward. His jaw clenched. He wasn't ready for their stares, their questions. Not yet.

Elara must have noticed. Her hand tightened subtly on his arm, guiding him with silent authority. Her eyes flicked once toward the gawking students, sharp as daggers, and the whispers died in their throats.

Merlin almost laughed. "…You scare them."

Her lips curved, faintly. "Good."

They moved on. Step by step, hall by hall. The academy unfolded around him like something both foreign and familiar. The banners draped from vaulted ceilings, the carved stone sigils etched into the walls, the faint shimmer of wards that hummed when they passed beneath them, it was all as he remembered. And yet, after the labyrinth, after the simulation, it felt like walking through another world entirely.

They reached a set of tall doors. Sunlight spilled through the crack where they met, and beyond it came the murmur of countless voices.

The courtyard.

Merlin's chest tightened. His knees threatened rebellion.

Elara's eyes flicked to him. "Do you need to stop?"

He swallowed, shaking his head. "If I stop now, I won't start again."

She studied him a moment, then nodded. Without ceremony, she pushed the doors open.

The light hit him first, bright, almost blinding after the shadowed halls. Then the sound, the layered hum of students scattered across the courtyard, laughing, sparring, chattering, their lives continuing without pause.

Merlin's breath caught.

So many people. So much life.

He hesitated on the threshold, the weight of it pressing against his chest. For a heartbeat, his body screamed to retreat, to crawl back to the sterile safety of the infirmary.

But Elara's hand remained steady on his arm.

"Walk," she said again, low.

And so he did.

The courtyard was wide, ringed with arches and framed by climbing ivy. Sunlight caught on the fountains, scattering diamonds of water into the air. Students glanced up as he passed, some pausing mid-duel, others whispering into their hands. A few looked away quickly, as if embarrassed to have been caught staring.

Merlin ignored them. His focus stayed forward, on the ground beneath his feet, on the warmth of the sun against his face.

He was walking.

Here.

Now.

Not in illusion. Not in some god's twisted play.

Here.

The world pressed in around him, alive with noise and color, and for the first time in what felt like years, Merlin let himself believe it was real.

They reached the fountain at the center of the courtyard. The spray caught in the sunlight, the ripples playing naturally across the water. No stutter. No loop.

Merlin stopped. His breath trembled.

"…It's beautiful," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Elara's eyes followed his gaze. Her voice was calm. "It always was."

He turned to look at her. She stood tall beside him, silver hair glinting like molten moonlight, violet eyes unflinching. For a moment, with the fountain's song behind her, she seemed like the anchor of the entire academy.

Merlin's chest ached.

"…Elara," he murmured.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

But the words tangled in his throat. He couldn't explain it, couldn't even name it, not the gratitude, not the fear, not the fragile hope clawing through his ribs.

So he just stood there, breathing, while the world moved around them.

And for once, it was enough.

—

The rest of the day blurred.

Elara guided him through the grounds, down familiar paths, past lecture halls and sparring rings, gardens blooming with late summer flowers. She kept her pace matched to his, never hurrying, never slowing too much.

Sometimes students greeted her, bowing their heads respectfully, she acknowledged them with a nod but never broke stride. Others looked at Merlin, hesitant, uncertain, but under Elara's shadow none dared approach.

By the time the sun dipped westward, Merlin's body ached with exhaustion. His legs trembled, his shoulders burned, and his chest felt raw with the effort of breathing. But when they returned to the infirmary steps, he found himself smiling faintly.

He'd done it.

Elara released his arm only when he sat back on the bed. She studied him, her eyes sharp, assessing.

"You'll be sore tomorrow," she said.

Merlin let out a breathy laugh. "Tomorrow sounds… fine. As long as it's real."

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then, just barely, her lips curved. Not quite a smile, but something dangerously close.

"…Rest," she ordered.

Merlin's golden eyes softened. "…Yeah."

And as she turned to leave, he realized that for the first time in months, the idea of tomorrow didn't terrify him.

—

The morning came with the steady warmth of sunlight bleeding through tall windows, golden strips cutting across the stone floor. The infirmary carried that strange blend of sterility and comfort: wards humming faintly against the walls, the faint smell of herbs steeped overnight, the soft shuffle of healers changing shifts.

Merlin lay back on the narrow bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His body ached. Not the sharp, tearing ache of battle, but the dull throb of a body dragged past its limits and still catching up.

He didn't regret it. Not one step of yesterday's walk with Elara. Every breath of wind, every glance at the fountain, every whisper of students watching him, it had all carved proof into his bones: he was alive. He was here.

But the price was clear this morning. His muscles pulled like wet rope, his chest burned with every inhale, and his legs still remembered the trembling weakness.

He let out a slow breath, golden eyes flicking toward the door.

And then it opened.

Victoria stepped inside, her auburn hair pinned up loosely, strands falling around her face. She held something in her arms, another pot, smaller this time, with a healthy little cluster of green leaves sprouting from the soil.

Her eyes landed on him, sitting upright on the bed. Relief softened her face instantly, though her lips pressed tight, like she was trying not to let it show.

"You're awake early," she said, voice carefully even.

Merlin smirked faintly. "Didn't think you'd want to see me sleeping again."