The morning didn't arrive with sunlight.
Just pale gray pressing against the curtains, the kind that made it hard to tell whether it was dawn or some stretched-out version of night refusing to leave.
Rain still whispered against the windows. The wind scraped along the frame in thin, dragging breaths.
Eyes open but unfocused. He blinked once. Then again.
The ceiling above him didn't change. Still the same stonework. Still the same shallow patterns carved into the support beams—common in the faculty housing. Meant to stabilize mana flow, prevent atmospheric distortion.
'Pointless for now I guess.'
His body didn't ache like before. It felt worse.
Not pain. Not sharp. Just… hollow.
Like someone had carved out the core of him and replaced it with static.
He sat up slowly. One hand braced against the bedframe. His arm trembled. Muscles not used to carrying his own weight anymore.
The blankets slid down his shoulders.
There was a thin glass of water on the table. Covered with a folded cloth. A note beneath it.
Merlin didn't reach for it.
He already knew the handwriting.
Nathan had scrawled something at the bottom. Something dumb. Probably a joke.
Definitely not going to read it for now…'
Merlin didn't want to see it.
He slid his legs over the edge. Feet touched cold stone.
He didn't reach for Keryx.
Because Keryx wasn't there.
No blade at his side.
No mana in his veins.
Just a body that barely felt like it belonged to him anymore.
A knock broke the stillness.
Three short taps. Crisp.
Elara wouldn't knock.
Vivienne would barge in.
That left one option.
Merlin didn't answer. But the door opened anyway.
Morgana stepped into the room like she'd always belonged in it.
Hair tied back today. Robes not as elaborate as usual. Her white eyes swept across the space once, then landed on him.
She stepped forward, folding her arms behind her back. "Good. I was starting to worry you'd become decoration."
He looked at her. Quietly.
She returned the gaze, equally silent. Then, with the faintest tilt of her head—
No explanation. No clarification.
Just an invitation phrased like a command.
Slow. Careful. He didn't hide the way his legs shook when he took the first step. Morgana didn't comment.
He followed her out into the hall.
No one else was there.
And her footsteps leading the way.
Not until they reached the stairs descending into the archival wing—an area closed off to most students, tucked beneath the Headmistress's quarters. Lined with old enchantments. Residual echoes. Sealed doors.
"There's something I need you to sign again."
Merlin frowned. "That's it?"
Morgana gave him a sharp look. "You thought I dragged you out of bed for tea, little boy?"
She opened a side door. Inside—an empty table. A single scroll. Ink and pen laid out beside it.
She gestured for him to sit.
She unrolled the scroll and pushed it forward.
"Medical documentation again," she said. "Proof of recovery. Also outlines your temporary withdrawal from practical lessons."
His name. Inked in perfect cursive. A few lines of vague wording. No mention of the portal. No mention of the breach.
It was an official lie.
He picked up the pen.
Signed without comment.
Morgana rolled it back up. "You'll be cleared for observation after two weeks."
"Yes," she said, interrupting. "You do."
He didn't argue again.
She studied him a moment longer. Then said, "You'll need to decide soon."
"Whether you're going to pretend nothing happened, or start preparing for the next time it does."
Because he already knew the answer.
But saying it out loud meant committing.
And he wasn't ready for that yet.
Morgana turned toward the door.
Just before stepping out, she added, "Some of the students are already back in class, however you have two days before all of the students return to full class rotation. Spend them wisely."
Leaving Merlin alone again.
In a room that hummed faintly with memory.
He stood there for a while.
Then finally, he turned.
And walked back into the quiet.
The hallway outside Merlin's temporary room creaked under a heavier step.
Not boots meant for silence. Not the soft-soled tread of a mage or the polished click of an instructor.
This was weight. Presence. Armor set aside but not forgotten. The sound of someone who didn't need stealth to be dangerous.
Merlin looked up from the chair by the window. Rain still tapped against the glass, slower now.
Distant thunder curled beneath the clouds like a warning no one had listened to.
Reinhardt filled the frame like a wall had come to visit.
'What's he doing here?'
Broad shoulders. Thick scarred hands. A cloak too worn to be official but too deliberate to be accidental.
His black hair was tied low behind his back, a few streaks of grey threading the edges now. And in his hand—
Reinhardt stepped in without invitation. He never waited for those.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Keryx was wrapped in black cloth. The kind used to bind relics, to muffle signature readings. As if someone had been afraid of the weapon doing something on its own.
He set it gently across the small table near Merlin's bed. His movements were careful. Too careful for a man known for splitting boulders.
"I took a look at your toothpick," Reinhardt said dryly.
Merlin didn't speak. Just reached out and unwrapped the blade.
The rapier looked the same.
Thin. Straight. Silver-edged steel. The hilt still fit perfectly in his hand.
But he felt nothing from it now.
No response. No pulse.
Still, he held it like it mattered.
Reinhardt leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Watching him.
Then he finally spoke up.
Merlin didn't answer.
Reinhardt raised a brow. "I've seen you fight. And survive fights you shouldn't. But that weapon doesn't make sense for how you move. For what you've been through."
Reinhardt's voice softened, just slightly. "It's not practical. Not with your affinities. Not with your instincts."
Merlin ran his thumb along the flat of the blade. It didn't hum. Didn't crackle.
"It was never supposed to be practical."
Reinhardt frowned. "Then what?"
And for a second, Reinhardt saw it.
The same expression from the reports.
From the battlefield.
From the night they thought he died.
Something deliberate.
"It was supposed to be precise."
Reinhardt studied him. "Precision doesn't win wars."
"No," Merlin said. "But it stops the wrong people from dying."
The silence stretched.
Rain ticked once against the glass.
Then Reinhardt exhaled, slow.
He pushed off the wall and turned toward the door.
Just before he opened it, he paused.
"If you ever decide to switch," he said without looking back, "I'll get you something that matches your madness."
Merlin's grip tightened around Keryx.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Merlin sat alone with the blade across his knees.
But somehow… heavier than before.
'Should I get keryx to…switch? It's a chosen weapon after all..'
Merlin stared at the blade in his hands wide eyed, without a single thought behind his eyes.
The room seemed to grow smaller. Or maybe it was just his world that felt like it was closing in.
He had known this moment would come, this reckoning, but the weight of it, of the choice ahead of him, was far heavier than he anticipated.
He glanced down at the blade again. The silver edge gleamed under the dim light, but the familiar shimmer that used to respond to his will, to his magic, was gone. And with it, a sense of him was lost.
"Precision…" he muttered to himself. He could hear Reinhardt's voice echoing in his mind.
'It's not practical…?'
Merlin's fingers flexed around the hilt.
'Was it practical? Was it ever?'
Or had it just been a weapon tied to an ideal, to a version of him that no longer existed?
'Not practical… but precise.'
It was an ideal, a way of life.
But now, with his magic fractured, his affinities scattered like leaves in the wind, he felt like he was running out of options.
He stared out the window, his gaze unfocused. The rain was no longer tapping. It was pounding now, almost as though it was trying to drown the thoughts inside his head.
"Why did it have to be this way?" Merlin whispered to himself.
His eyes slowly wandered back to Keryx. The blade felt heavier, almost accusing him of things.