Merlin didn't follow her immediately.

He couldn't.

Not when everything she'd just said was still settling in his bones like cold iron.

The clearing around him felt wrong now—too open, too exposed, too parallel to whatever was breathing in the air behind him.

He forced himself to inhale.

Slow. Quiet. Controlled.

The distortion—whatever shiver of half-formed presence hovered near him—thinned, as if receding when his heartbeat stabilized. It behaved like an echo of his state. Like it mirrored him. Like it learned from him.

And that terrified him more than any monster the novel ever described.

When Merlin finally turned to leave the clearing, the distortion followed.

Not loudly.

Not visibly.

Not even consciously.

Just enough that he felt the weight of something step where he stepped.

The world's breath matching his.

Balance, Morgana had said.

Restraint.

A cost.

He wished she hadn't been so calm. It would've been easier if she looked worried. But she looked… expectant.

Like she had seen this once before.

Like she had lost before.

The thought made his hands curl into fists.

He left the clearing.

And the distortion followed again.

—

By the time they reached the academy's outer ward, Morgana's mana thinned around them, dissolving back into the cold wind that carried winter's first bite. She stopped in the shadow of a wardstone, turned, and just studied Merlin like she was waiting for him to speak.

He didn't.

She raised a brow. "Nothing to say?"

"No," he said. "Because anything I ask, you'll answer in half-truths."

Her smile widened. "Good. You're learning."

He ground his teeth. "Why not just tell me everything?"

"Because you're not stable enough to hear everything."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," she said, voice dipping, "that knowledge shapes mana. And yours is still soft in places. Suppose I told you what it becomes. What it wants. What it once was. The meaning behind its tether. The form it might take."

Her gaze sharpened.

"You would break."

He wanted to argue.

He didn't.

She nodded once, approving.

"Walk with me."

He did.

Not beside her—behind her, because that felt safer. She descended the warded stairs with unhurried grace, her robes catching faint runes of light as they brushed enchanted stones.

"Do I have a choice in this?" Merlin asked.

"No," she said. "But you have choices in other things."

She lifted her hand, drawing a small sigil in the air—something old, unfamiliar, something the novel never described. It shimmered a moment, then sank into his shadow.

Merlin stiffened. "What was that?"

"A shield," Morgana said. "Invisible. Non-interfering. And anchored to you, not your mana."

"I don't need—"

"You think that."

She glanced back, expression unreadable.

"But you're not the only one who reacts when that thing stirs."

"What are you talking ab—"

A rustle ahead cut him off.

Three students rounded the corner—third-years, all taller, all wrapped in charmed winter cloaks. Their mana signatures were sharp, restless. Duelists. They froze when they saw Morgana.

One swallowed audibly.

"H-Headmistress."

Morgana didn't acknowledge them.

She looked at Merlin.

"Observe."

Before he could ask what she meant, the distortion behind him expanded—just a fraction, a twitch, a ripple in mana that only he and Morgana felt.

But the students reacted instantly.

The first one froze, eyes wide as if sensing a predator behind Merlin.

The second flinched as if something brushed past his throat.

The third stepped back involuntarily, nearly tripping over her cloak.

None of them knew what they sensed.

But they sensed it.

Fear, instinctive and primal, flashed across all three faces.

Then Morgana spoke softly—

"You see?"

He did.

Whatever followed him… whatever grew with him…

People felt it.

Even if they couldn't see it.

Not recognition.

Not awareness.

Not detection.

Primal fear.

Fight-or-flight triggered by something that didn't even exist in full.

Morgana dismissed the three students with a flick of mana. They scattered like birds escaping a hawk.

She turned back to Merlin.

"That," she said gently, "is why you cannot walk alone."

He let out a slow breath. "So it's… dangerous?"

"Oh, undeniably," Morgana said. "Possibly catastrophic. Potentially apocalyptic, if poorly handled."

Merlin stared. "…What?"

"But also—"

She took a step so close he felt her breath.

"—it is yours."

His voice came out lower than he expected. "I didn't ask for it."

"Power rarely takes requests."

A faint, colder smile.

"But it accepts direction."

She tapped his chest lightly.

"And you will learn to direct it… before it defines itself without you."

A chill ran all the way down his spine.

"What happens if it defines itself first?"

Morgana's expression didn't change.

"Then the world will correct you, Merlin."

She stepped past him toward the academy doors.

"And the correction always starts with severing the cause."

Merlin inhaled sharply. "…Me?"

"Of course."

A soft glance over her shoulder.

"Anchors are only useful when they hold the right thing."

She walked away without waiting.

But Merlin didn't follow yet.

Because behind him—

soft, barely perceptible, like a breath forming—

the distortion pulsed once.

Like it agreed with her.

Merlin froze.

Not because the distortion pulsed again—

it didn't.

It went still.

It waited.

That was worse.

It wasn't a mind.

It wasn't a spirit.

It wasn't anything with intent.

Not yet.

But it listened.

And that meant it could choose something resembling intention someday.

He exhaled, slow and steady, grounding his senses, pushing mana down into his core until the trembling in his fingertips stopped. When he finally turned to follow Morgana, her silhouette was already a dark line disappearing through the archway of the upper courtyard.

He walked.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Measured, like each step had to be checked for cracks.

—

When he reached the courtyard, she wasn't waiting—of course she wasn't. She wasn't a babysitter. She was a storm that briefly decided to hold its lightning.

Merlin thought he was alone.

He wasn't.

"Hey."

Elara's voice came from the stone railing overlooking the gardens, simple and steady like she hadn't been pacing for fifteen minutes. She turned as he approached, the wind catching her braid and flipping a loose strand across her cheek.

She didn't look angry.

Or scared.

Just… locked in.

All her focus on him.

"What did she do?" Elara asked quietly.

Merlin opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Not because he couldn't lie.

But because he physically didn't know what answer would be safe.

Elara read that hesitation the same way she read battlefield terrain—instantly.

Her jaw tightened.

Her hand dropped toward her spear, not to summon it, but out of habit, instinct, readiness. She stepped closer.

"Merlin," she said, softer but sharper. "Are you alright?"

He forced a breath. "It's not—she didn't hurt me."

"That's not what I asked."

He looked away.

She stepped directly into his line of sight. "Look at me."

He did.

And the moment he met her eyes—

the distortion behind him quivered.

It was subtle.

Barely a ripple.

A thin, cold shift in the air like a draft sliding through walls.

Elara didn't sense it.

But she felt something.

The faintest crease formed between her brows.

"Did… something move?"

Merlin's heart stumbled.

"Elara," he said quietly, "don't step any closer."

She did the exact opposite.

One smooth motion—

Closer.

Within arm's reach.

Her presence steady, grounding, stubborn.

"Merlin," she said, voice low, "if something is here, I'm not giving you space. I'm staying right where I need to be."

He swallowed hard, forcing a calm that fought against an instinct he didn't understand—an instinct that screamed that getting close to him wasn't safe.

"Elara," he whispered, "there's something following me."

Her expression didn't shift into fear.

It sharpened into anger.

"At you?" she asked.

"No," Merlin said. "Because of me."

She stared at him for a long, heavy moment.

Then she said:

"Okay."

Not panic.

Not confusion.

Just acceptance.

He blinked. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"You're not asking what it is?"

"You don't know yet."

"You're not asking what Morgana said?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

Merlin stared at her.

Elara exhaled softly, then stepped even closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his. "Listen. Whatever this thing is—however it reacts to you—whatever Morgana thinks she knows—you're still Merlin. You're still here."

Her voice dipped.

"And you're not carrying this alone."

The distortion didn't flare.

It… steadied.

Like it was listening to her too.

Which made something cold move through Merlin's chest—not fear, not dread, but a terrible awareness.

This thing wasn't just responding to him.

It responded to what mattered to him.

And Elara mattered.

He forced a breath. "Elara, you need to be careful. If this thing grows—"

She cut him off with a quiet shake of her head. "If it grows, we manage it."

"No. It's not 'we.'"

"It is," she said, tone brooking no argument. "You're not the only one at risk. You're not the only one who gets a say."

"Elara—"

"Whatever happens," she said, "I choose to stay."

His throat tightened.

She didn't understand the stakes.

She didn't understand what Morgana meant about anchors and corrections and severing causes.

She didn't understand that staying close to him might put her exactly where whatever was growing would look first.

But she also wasn't asking permission.

Because she was Elara.

Because she didn't follow him.

She stood beside him.

Merlin looked down, unable to hold her gaze.

"…Okay," he said quietly.

Elara touched his sleeve—light, brief, grounding. "Good."

Then:

"You're coming with me."

He blinked. "Why?"

"Because Nathan is planning to break into the faculty tower," she said flatly, "and if we don't stop him now, he will get stuck in a broom closet and blame you."

Merlin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Not a laugh.

But close.

Elara started walking toward the lower courtyard.

He followed.

The distortion followed too—

quiet, patient, watching.

But as Elara moved closer, it drew back just slightly.

Like even it didn't want to challenge her.

Merlin wasn't sure if that reassured him.

Or scared him more.