Important Warning: As previously stated in "Recruit" (which you should read first if you haven't, this is a continuation), "Innate" involves slavery, magical bondage, dehumanization, character death and MORE violence than last time, since they're at war.

ALSO: there will be discussion of past suicide and rape. Nothing graphic, and it doesn't involve any of the main characters, but this is slavery. I feel it'd be ignorant as an author to create a world like this and not address such likely issues.

Since nothing is explicit beside the violent bits, I'm still maintaining a T rating - but please let me know if you think it ever goes above that. The ratings are for you readers anyway!

On that note, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I will be dividing my chapters into bigger chunks for Innate, with more time in between updates.

1. A Battle Ends and A War Begins

Summary: I know Arthur means well. I can feel it. But I can also feel another part of my soul blackening, even as I consider the idea of standing by—doing nothing as an innocent boy is forced into slavery for life, no matter how he claims to 'be ready' for it.

A light, spring rain settles over the open field as we survivors walk around the bodies. I can't hear it over the roaring in my head, the blood-smeared chaos still raging inside.

A stupid attack in the middle of the night. Careless, brutal, like the Camelot generals have given up on tactic and are content to unleash their soldiers like one releases a catapult: hoping more to hit something than attempt to aim.

Spotting Arthur is finally what quiets the buzzing in my ears. He's some ways across the field, helping a soldier up—no, it's Sir Galahad, who looks little worse for wear—and directing his men to check for injured. It appears we won't be regrouping and chasing their retreat. I feel the last of the adrenaline sizzle out of me, followed by heavy relief.

Count of the dead?

Arthur's head lifts a fraction, and then his eyes find me. Oh good, you're alive.

Ha ha.

Twenty soldiers, he tells me as I approach. One recruit heavily injured, two knights. And counting.

"At least the rain held out for the battle," Arthur says out loud once I've reached him, nudging a body with the toe of his boot. It's a Camelot sorcerer, or was one, judging by the all-black attire. The woman doesn't stir.

I nod. Rain tends to make fighting all the messier. "If we go to the treeline I might be able to see how far they retreated," I turn to him and say, cocking my head at the forest line the enemy ran into.

"Later," he replies, motioning at the bodies around us. "Let's clean this up first."

I nod, crouching down to check a seemingly-uninjured man's nose for breath. His young face is half-submerged in the dirt-turned-mud, body splayed. No older than I, I would imagine. It's no surprise to find him dead.

I don't envy him, but neither do I envy myself, here for the aftermath we living endure. The overripe smell of sweat, the immediate stink of the dead, the slower stink of the dying. Blood, mud, and flies—no one warned me about the flies, sticking to the dirty sweat of my skin and swarming over wounds as they putrefy. At least the rain has solved that nuisance, for the time being.

I levitate the dead body, directing it to land on top of the stack a few paces away. There's a few carts the soldiers have brought out for the same purpose. We pile up the bodies of our enemy's fallen, and we don't keep count.

It is not the worst penance of being on the winning side, however. My dreams fill with a growing number of faces, of voices calling out for me to save them only for their death to again flash before my eyes. I spot Freya a ways off, and send her the question I dread asking but cannot fully relax until answered:

Anyone?

None of us.

Freya, Finn, Relaen, Kara and Sefa. All safe, then, all accounted for despite how unprepared we were. Despite the fact I was nowhere near where the dragon landed. That is the single detail that keeps me from the assumption Camelot is only desperate—their attacks could easily be calculated chaos. Considering how many plumes of smoke, black and thick like dragon's breath, flare up in every direction during the recent battles. Too many to fight together at once.

Separating my squadron into bite-size pieces before an actual dragon arrives.

As if sensing my thoughts, as he very actually could be, Arthur asks, "Did it happen again?"

I glance over at him, not surprised to see the tired droop of his eyes. Not exhausted enough to warrant concern for now, then. But it's only a month into spring. Plenty of time to lose sleep. His hair is grown out like mine, long and tangling almost to our chins to keep warm the past winter. It's a darker shade right now, dripping from the steady rain, and I stop myself from telling him to pull his hood up before he catches grey fever.

I'm not his mother.

His eyes bore into mine, patient but still demanding truth, and the corner of my soul attached to his senses restlessness, relief, and concern all in one. "Yes," I tell him, not elaborating further. I don't really need to at this point. Have your knights send their recruits for another meeting, I add, and Arthur nods. His mouth twitches down, ever so briefly. The beginnings of a beard grows on his cheeks; mine are still smooth, for the most part. If it wasn't certain before, it's clear now who's older.

But war has a way of reducing time down to the single space between breaths. Years could pass in between, the moment he stands at my side now and the moment the war's over. Between aliesan and sheathing, when the power of gods is at my fingertips. Everything could change in less than a heartbeat.

Still four have passed since Arthur volunteered us to permanently join the army at the front lines.

"My lord," Freya says formally, approaching us at my right. I realize then she's been trying to call out to my mind for the past minute or so, and I've been too distracted to notice. Again.

She wears the fire-resistant red cloak of all Camelot soldiers, though her small shoulders seem barely able to carry its wet weight. Arthur nods in acknowledgement at her greeting, silently allowing her to speak. Her eyes move over to me. "There are three Camelot soldiers still alive, sir."

Damn. "Are any of them sorcerers?" I ask, already tensing.

"One." She answers it grimly, expecting the next order before it comes.

"Give them the choice," Arthur says, shutting his eyes briefly. "If needed, I can summon the eligible knights." He turns his attention back to the piling bodies, expression unreadable.

"Sir," Freya starts, almost as if to protest. She clenches her jaw and I blink, not used to hearing any kind of defiance from her. Freya's guardian Jethro stamped most of it out years ago.

"What is it?" I say, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't flinch, like she sometimes does; she flashes me a grateful smile while Arthur looks back and nods for her to continue.

"Sir, the soldier . . . he's a child. I don't know why he was in the battle, he surrendered right away. No older than eight years, it looks like."

A sound nearly escapes my throat.

"Eight years?" I repeat, and her grim nod is enough to make my stomach roll. Because of course, of course age is no discrimination. My own claiming is evidence of that.

Arthur always makes an effort to summon knights closest to the recruit's age since he was given the authority. It's one of his few duties, besides leading the squadron. He hasn't said why he tries to keep the guardian and recruit close in age, though it makes its own kind of sense.

But eight years . . . there is no way to combat that. Only squires would be less than twice the boy's age, and no one younger than 18 has ever been chosen. Arthur was the exception, at thirteen years of age, and the only one so far.

"No one above the age of 24, then," Arthur says in answer. His expression finally gets that slumped, exhausted look it hadn't shown earlier. I wonder if it's new, or just no longer hidden.

"I'll ask the boy," I say.

Arthur snaps his gaze to me. What are you doing?

I don't answer, though he can probably guess by the emotions swirling inside: anger, fear, determination.

I wait for his verdict. The times we have attempted, tried to save someone from the claim, have either ended failing or succeeded only at a terrible cost. Except perhaps for the last time when Freya helped; it was all going well until Leon caught us.

Merlin, Aredian is on high alert. He already suspects you, if not me yet, Arthur says, but it's not a no, and he knows it. Please . . . let's at least think this through.

Eight years, Arthur.

I know.

We finish the collecting of the dead, and I set the heap of Camelot dead aflame, covering my nose as the flesh starts to burn. You don't think it's strange? I ask as we head towards the treeline. Arthur frowns, then shakes his head.

No. Just pitiful.

He surrendered right away, Freya said.

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, and I'm able to feel the slightest impression of his bone-deep weariness. He's gotten better at hiding it. Perhaps Camelot is becoming more desperate than we thought, he says to me, and doesn't look any more cheerful for the thought.

But what is there to cheer about, when you're rooting for both sides to lose?

I nod, and grasp his hands. "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð." See, and I hear it in a bare whisper, followed by another tiny, warm pocket of myself slotting back into place as I feel the magic return. I sigh and turn to look ahead, whispering the right words under my breath that allow my sight to stretch. I can feel my eyes burn as the picture ahead of me narrows, flies ahead to the still-retreating Camelot soldiers. Many are limping, though as my sight stretches past them I see—I see—

I blink the vision away, gasping as I rub at my stinging eyes. "What is it?" Arthur speaks aloud urgently, putting a hand on my arm. I wave away his concern, straightening.

"I saw where they were retreating to," I explain, shaking my head. "I didn't realize. How close we were, I mean."

"The citadel," Arthur says without help. "Yes, Aredian said we'd be starting a siege sooner or later. I suppose it is to be sooner."

Which means Uther will be here even sooner, I guess darkly, and Arthur sighs.

I wouldn't be surprised if he stayed in the Ascetir Camp this season.

Uther's health is indeed failing him—but I have doubts that much would stop him from seeing the victory of his almost twenty-year-long campaign for the throne of Camelot.

My body feels light, thrumming with energy; his face is extra haggard now, and I know it's past time. Alright, take it back already.

What back?

I kick at his shin, scowling when Arthur smirks. You know what. You look as old as your father right now.

He sighs yet again, but finally, finally, Arthur shuts his eyes and everything goes numb for a long, terrifying moment. Despite my best efforts, I always find my head disconnecting. Unable to stay present as my magic is ripped from me. But then it's over and I can breathe, even if my chest feels hollow as I fill it with air. That was seventeen different tokens of my magic returned to me, before Arthur had to close the connection.

His shoulders slump; probably in relief.

Not done yet, he tells me when I turn to head back, however, still holding out his hands. I interlink them with mine, comforted by the familiar phrase that follows: "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," and then, You cannot die. You will do whatever it takes to live.

A hesitant hum of something returns, a tiny wisp of warmth in my chest. Anchoring.

We join the rest of the soldiers, the field almost cleared. The other squadron leaders and generals are further back, heading to our base. Arthur runs to catch up with them. Freya waits nearby as well, leaning against a tree.

Commander said they'll perform the claim tonight. He's waiting on the decision, she tells me.

Aredian the arse, I mimic, the term a quiet joke between us. Her mouth flickers up in the smallest of smiles.

I let her lead me to the place the prisoners are being kept, in the middle of our base; her shoulders are twitchy and eyes tight. We reach them, the prisoners soaking wet and all tied to a thick-trunked tree with copious amounts of rope. I raise an eyebrow as the one facing us looks up and gives a shite-eating grin. He has a nasty black eye and his facial scruff is encrusted with blood.

"Time to meet our makers is it?" the young man asks, attempting to flip wet hair from his face. It only whips more across his forehead.

I might have smirked, if it wasn't almost the truth.

The next one is a woman in full armour, who has her head leaned back against the tree and eyes shut. They flicker open at our presence, and she looks between me and Freya coolly. They're a surprisingly deep brown, her eyes; I find I have to forcefully stop myself from staring. I'm grateful she says nothing.

And then we reach the other side of the tree, and my heart plummets at the sight.

He's so young.

Eight years is a kind estimate. The boy is not only young, but skinny and obviously malnourished. He looks up at Freya and I with round, blue eyes too big for his face. His mouth is chattering, dark hair flat against his head. A cornered mouse.

Please, he communicates by way of the mind, and I stiffen in surprise. It took me the entire past year to develop the skill, months and months practicing with Freya. My innate connection with Arthur made the ability even harder to obtain; I can hear Freya's messages if I focus hard enough, but still have trouble finding where exactly inside myself to reach back. With Arthur, it takes as little as thinking—with a fellow sorcerer, it's like calling across a battlefield.

Freya crouches down at the boy's level, her kind face open but sad. You are much too young to be able to speak like that, she tells him, but his eyes don't leave my face.

Emrys, he tells me. We're here to help.

I frown, confused.

"I would claim a false alarm like usual," Freya says in a low voice. She must not have heard him. "But most of Aredian's captains saw the boy's display of magic. It killed one of them."

"How?"

"He screamed, and they were all knocked off their feet." This comes nonchalantly from the dark-eyed woman, who I can still see the profile of against the tree.

All at once I feel a bone-deep anger root up, flaring at the bored sound of her voice. "Because he was frightened. Because he's a child." I move to see her more fully, glaring. "A baby. And you took him into a battle just hoping his power would take some of us down with him."

"I didn't," she says resolutely. "That would be a waste."

"Yes it was," I growl.

"Merlin," Freya entreats softly, still crouched next to the boy. His wide eyes are watching our exchange.

I sigh, moving back to the child and resolving to ignore the woman from now on. "What's your name?" I ask him.

"Mordred."

I manage a tight smile at the high, boy-ish voice. "Mordred. A fine name. Do you know what's happened?"

"We're your prisoners," he answers somberly.

I open my mouth and close it a few times, unable to get the right words out. Maybe That's right—except nothing about this is right. I feel all at once relieved and guilty that it is usually Freya who makes the offer. "Do you see these?" I finally start with, and push back the chain mail on one arm to reveal the marks there. He looks at them, then back up at me. "They're from something called—"

"I'm ready," he interrupts. I gape at him. His high voice is firm, steady, resolved.

"You know what will happen?" Freya says, hiding the surprise from her face much better than me. "Who told you?"

"I'm ready. If my friends can be recruited as well," he says simply, and gestures best he can with a tied-down arm. I glance at the woman, who is looking at the young child with a face that betrays affection.

Enough. I'm going to help you run, I say by way of the mind, and I can feel that he received it. Mordred cocks his head with the smallest of grins on his face.

I'm not afraid, he replies. I'm going to be like you.

You don't know what you're talking about. Your magic is about to be taken away—unless you escape before tonight. In the next hour, I need you to—

No, Emrys. I blink, caught off-guard both by the strange name and the resolve in his tone. This is what I choose. For the good of our brothers and sisters, he continues. Let me.

I lean back, unable to find anything but wisdom and surety in his round eyes.

"Do you choose to be recruited or do you accept death?" Freya says aloud then, for the sake of anyone passing by.

Mordred really smiles then, and I can't help a shudder at the sight.

"If my friends can join as well, I will be a recruit."

I stand up, at a loss. Every recruit thus far we've managed to save—a grand total of 6 in the past two years—immediately jumped at the chance to run. There wasn't a moment of hesitation, much less lack of desire. I move away, tearing my gaze from him and leaving to find Arthur. The captured woman speaks as I pass, however, and I can't help but stop at the words: "Let us be there for it."

"Are you his 'friends' then?" I ask, incredulous. The young man smiles so wide it might split his face.

"That's right," he replies cheekily, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Our Commander would never allow it," I say, shaking my head. They'll be dead before sunset anyway. Camelot does not keep prisoners; neither do we.

"Do you know what would truly be a waste?" the woman asks rhetorically, eyes bright with mirth. "Killing us when we have much to offer as well. For the right price, I'd gladly turn my sword on Camelot."

"How about your life? Is that high enough a price?" I say sardonically.

"Good enough for me," the young man agrees, grinning around his black eye.

"Then Camelot truly is hiring mercenaries," I say speculatively. "Where could you possibly be from? Mercia, Caerleon and Essetir are not in good enough standing with Camelot. Nemeth is weak; they'd have no soldiers to spare."

"Caerleon, though we are not knights sent from there," she answers.

The young man flips his hair, again unsuccessfully. "We swear loyalty to no one."

"That doesn't change—"

"He's just a boy," she interrupts me, something more genuine now in her voice. "We are the closest things he has to parents. Our presence will give him strength. I'm sure if you tell your Commander so, he'd agree to it."

Her brown eyes swim with earnestness. I frown, wondering where I've seen them before. Perhaps we've fought in a previous battle.

"Or better, have your master tell him," she suggests, cocking an eyebrow. "Would you really deny the child his last wish before . . . ?"

I don't answer and turn to leave, relieved when neither of them call after me.

I reach my tent a few minutes later—our tent. Arthur is not here, however, leaving me more room to pace and run a line into the dirt floor. Are the mercenaries just trying to save their necks? Where did this Mordred child come from? How does he know about the claim? What are they all playing at?

Where do I know her from? What if she—

Gods, Merlin, I can't pay attention to these battle strategies with you blabbering like that, Arthur interrupts me mid-thought. His voice is distant, still at a meeting probably, but apparently I'm loud enough to hear without even trying. It's been happening more and more, over the years.

Sorry, didn't mean to—

No, I could tell that. Doesn't make it less damned annoying though. Wait till I get back to lose your head, alright?

Fine.

When Arthur finally comes back I immediately unleash my racing thoughts on him. "The boy wants to be a recruit, Arthur. Not even eight but he basically said he wants to. Didn't need an explanation or anything—but then he said only if the other two can join our ranks, they're mercenaries, apparently hold loyalty to no one. And one of them, a woman, she kept trying to get me to agree to letting them, to persuading Aredian as if that's possible, and her eyes, Arthur—and he kept calling me Emrys, I don't even know what that means—I don't know what they're up to but it's something, the woman seemed—"

"Hold your tongue a moment," he stops, pulling me farther away from the door. For good reason. I definitely should have kept all that between our minds, not burst out with it all out loud. Hindsight.

But Arthur only sits me down on my cot, sitting on his across from me, and looks at me with wide eyes. He takes in a shaky breath, then says, "Who called you that?"

"Sorry?"

He huffs impatiently. "You said you were called 'Emrys.'"

"Mordred. The boy, he did. Emrys, or something like that. It was strange." I shrug. It was strange, but it was easily the least strange thing about the whole interaction.

Arthur gusts out an exhale, brows furrowed. "How would he know it?"

"The name? I don't know, I've never heard of it. It's more a question of why he's calling me the name, though."

"And they seem like they're up to something?"

"Yes!" I nod, trying not to jump up back to my feet. "Yes, I know it. No one wants to become a recruit, Arthur. Much less a child. The woman, I think this is all her doing, so maybe if we just—"

"Do what she says," he interrupts, and I feel my jaw unhinge.

I must have heard wrong. "What?"

"Let them join," Arthur nods, firm. "If that's their plan."

"But . . . why?"

"What harm could it do? If they're just mercenaries—"

"He's a baby, Arthur. Younger than I was." My voice comes out harsh, hurt.

Arthur shuts his eyes tight, and I wince, immediately regretting my words. Shoots of pain, regret, and hatred manage to hurt me even through our connection; actually feeling it must be terribly painful.

"Arthur. Stop it. That's not what I meant," I say, attempting a scolding tone.

You didn't mean that the claim is horrific and ruins lives? he says sardonically, but between our connection. Statements like that can't be made out loud. "I know it's a horrible decision to make. But . . . he wants to be a recruit. I have a feeling. If he called you Emrys, maybe . . ."

"Maybe what? What does the name have to do with anything?"

"It's important," Arthur says firmly.

"So we let an eight year old become a recruit," I say, "on the whim of your 'feeling.'"

"On the chance these people are more than what they say," he says, clenching his jaw. "Besides, I don't like your chances of helping a child escape if he emphatically doesn't want to."

I feel my stomach sink, my lungs clam up at this side of Arthur. The non-negotiable side. "It would still be worth it to—"

"No. No, it would not," he cuts me off, eyes burning. "Not worth the cost of your life. Not this time."

"That's not for you to decide." I take a bold step, closing the distance between us.

Arthur is not deterred. "Maybe not," he agrees stonily, "but I won't give you any of your magic to do it. I decide that, at least." He moves past me back to the tent's entrance, adding, "I'll ask Aredian about Mordred's conditions," before leaving.

I sit down on my cot, gusting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I've been looking into the mechanics of the claim with little to no progress in the past four years. It doesn't help that Morgana has only been here for campaigns, when Arthur and I are too busy not dying to come up with ideas. The closest I think I've ever come to reaching an epiphany is still that fateful day in the forests outside of Ealdor. The connection flaring between Morgana and Arthur as their hands clasped, somehow deterring the claim's effects.

But time and time again Morgana comes with Uther every Spring with no more hope than when she left.

Times like these, my soul aches to be freed.

I know Arthur means well. I can feel it. But I can also feel another part of my soul blackening, even as I consider the idea of standing by—doing nothing as an innocent boy is forced into slavery for life, no matter how he claims to 'be ready' for it. It always feels wrong, always—but the youngest I've seen to become a recruit since myself was last year, and the sorcerer was seventeen. More than twice the age of this child.

My brain simply can't reconcile with the notion. I stare, seeing nothing, thinking of my oath to help every sorcerer I could here at the front lines. Friend or foe. To save and unite your people, like the white dragon Aithusa once said.

Finally I move to grab our bar of soap, deciding to make use of the rain if it insists on pouring down incessantly. Rubbing off battle grime is a heavenly experience, if one can ignore how the water always runs red—especially like now, when I know with a surety that none of it's mine. I've found a more secluded spot to pull off my chain mail and then peel off the shirt underneath, letting the rain pound against my bare back. It's freezing, but wonderful.

I think Aredian wants the boy for himself, I hear from Arthur in the midst of scrubbing my hair.

Is that a yes?

He said we could use more swords, Arthur replies with.

A child, though? After all this time?

The grisly man rarely exhibits interest in showing up for claim ceremonies, and seems fine with being one of the only higher generals in Lord Uther's army to not have a recruit. He makes up for it with cruelty towards any recruit that steps in his path, of course. Beatings, when he's in a bad mood. Worse, when he's in a good one. That and more apparently helped him earn enough favor before Sir Gorlois's death to be Uther's new second-in-command ten years ago.

I'll admit to having a few nightmares about the man.

Easier to influence, maybe, Arthur says, sounding disgusted, and I suppress a shudder at the thought. It would ruin my plans to only have the youngest of the knights there.

In that case, I hope their little plan involves his death, I declare.

Arthur sends back wordless agreement, but I also catch a pang of regret. The kind he has when he's feeling guilty about something—or everything. But I don't press. Sometimes an argument just makes it worse, and I'm tired of debating the pros and cons of escaping into another kingdom and leaving the other recruits to die. Arthur will never give it up. A part of me is glad he won't, even when he frustrates me like this.

"Merlin?"

I whip around, only to further tense at the sight of Leon. He smiles hesitantly from underneath his red cloak, hunched against the rain. "Merlin, have you seen Freya?"

I immediately shake my head, and clamp my teeth so they stop chattering. "Sorry, no. Not since she took me to the prisoners earlier."

It's been an uneasy past few months between us. At the tale end of the fighting, before the autumn weather had yet given way to winter, Freya helped a magical prisoner of war escape. An older man, who said he fled to Camelot with his family to get them away from Lord Uther but was still required to join the army himself when his magic was discovered.

It was my doing. I lit the council tent on fire as a distraction, and she cut him loose. It was supposed to seem like an accident.

But Leon saw Freya and I give the old man a blanket and food before he ran. Stupid, that, doing more than the bare minimum. Wasting time. But all the other soldiers and knights were trying to put out a fire on the other side of the base, and I thought for once I could do a bit more.

But Leon had gone looking for her, and saw us. And we saw that he saw us.

He looked away.

"She's not with Sir Jethro?" I suggest when we've been standing, silent, for too long. Leon blinks, then shakes his head.

"No. He's been resting, said he's not feeling well. I thought she might be with you." He shrugs, smiles uneasily again, and turns to leave. "Let me know if you do."

"Of course, sir," I say.

Freya, Leon is looking for you again, I send out to her as I finish washing. It takes several minutes before I hear a response.

He found me.

Why does he keep asking where you are?

Her answer comes unfinished. I think . . .

What?

I don't know.

. . . I think he's afraid for me.

Her message comes with a large amount of uneasiness. Leon is probably acting even stranger around her. But it's been months, even if I keep assuming the worst.

I go back to my tent to dry off and change into a new shirt—or a new-er shirt, they're still all from Arthur—and lay down on my cot, just to rest my eyes for a moment, to not think for a second, especially not dwell on the thought that another child will be losing their innocence tonight, think of easier things like playing ball, my mum's smile, her soft, dry hands running through my hair—

"Merlin."

My eyes snap open, scrambling to sit up and fight before I realize where I am. And that I've been flustered, again.

Relaen is hesitantly peering in from the tent's opening. "Sorry." She smiles in sympathy, and I force my body to un-tense. "Sir Arthur said you wanted a meeting with all of us."

"No, I did," I say, swinging my legs onto the ground. She enters, pulling down her red hood. "Falling asleep was not the plan."

"But it did you some good," she laughs, pointing at the top of my head. I frown, confused as I look up and raise a hand until I feel the tufts of hair sticking straight up.

Relaen laughs harder when I attempt to flatten my hair and it immediately flops upward again, and of course that's when the rest of the party arrives. Sefa and Kara, followed by Finn, all of which incites a range of smiles and smirks at the sight.

"Glad to see you all alive," Finn says, the main culprit of the smirking. I make one last attempt to flatten the bedhead, and give up with a sigh.

Kara snorts at his comment. "Breathing, maybe."

Sefa chews on a lip to keep from smiling; Relaen rolls her eyes. "No thanks to you, trying to single-handedly take down that dragon." Everyone turns their head to Freya, who's spoken from the door. She has her hands on her hips, looking cross. Kara looks down, shrugging.

"Who did, in the end?" I ask, and all eyes shoot to Sefa. Her face pales.

"I didn't do anything," she says quickly, looking mortified.

Finn pats a hand on her shoulder. "If you hadn't directed the archers to shoot at its wings like that, we would never have been able to fight it on the ground."

"Or kill it before Merlin could rush to our aid," Kara says, nodding. "It's the first time." And Sefa's first battle, as the newest recruit in Arthur's squadron. Her father decided death, and in the same moment pleaded with her to choose the claim.

But the whole point of our squadron is to take down the dragons. Many battles begin and end without an attack by one of the creatures, but the ones that did forced a retreat out of Lord Uther's army.

Not anymore.

"And I've never been happier to not be needed," I say, meeting all of their eyes in the cramped tent. "But I think it's time to assume Camelot's generals are aware of us, who we are. What we do. They scattered us on purpose."

They keep silent, the air growing solemn at the notion. And for good reason.

"This can't happen again," I say, and stand. This many pairs of eyes on me used to be unsettling at the least, terrifying at the worst, but now I'm only glad I'm keeping their attention. "It could be the difference between life and death, for us and everyone else. No more pairs, no more leaving our squadron when you see fire in the corner of your eye. Tell me, and I'll decide when we move. Together."

Relaen grimaces, looking at me with concern. "That could mean we're all led into a trap, sir. And the dragons will have more time to attack."

"Yes," I answer simply. "But I'm willing to bet their trap can't be worse than last time with the three manic dragons."

Manic, like the dragon Kilith, who wreaked havoc on Ealdor and enslaved recruits after swearing to never attack innocents. Unreasonable, and more importantly—un-persuadable. Which leaves me with only raw power, no option to merely compel the beasts to leave. Not to mention that horrible, twisting stab to the gut that comes, the moment I feel the life leave the poor creature. Why exactly I can feel it, every time, even apparently when I'm nowhere near the fight, I try not to think about too hard.

Meanwhile everyone shudders at the mention of the three manics, attacking like rabid dogs when our soldiers' fire-repellent capes kept them safe from fire. It was all in all a bloody mess.

"Is that clear?" I raise a brow, and the sorcerers all nod their heads in agreement. "Good. Who is it this time?"

"Freya's, I think, considering she's never had to before," Kara says, and Freya frowns at all of us.

"Had to what?" she asks, eyes wide.

"It's nothing too exciting," Finn says, smirking. "You just have to tell us one reason you're glad to be alive."

"Breathing," Kara mutters, though everyone ignores her this time.

"W-what . . . I, I don't know—why—"

"We're a team," I tell her, and reach forward to still her wringing hands. "I have to make sure you all survive this. And reasons to survive . . . that helps."

Blue eyes grow impossibly wider, her mouth opening and shutting without sound. Not unlike how Relaen reacted the first time; entirely dumbfounded. Because all the reasons to be alive and be glad of the fact are stripped from you with the claim—and it takes conscious effort to find new ones.

"Today, I'm glad I'm alive because my squadron managed to slay a dragon without me," I say, for example.

She chews her lip, blushes, then finally says, "I'm glad I'm alive because . . . you are all kind. Even my guardian."

I try not to let my surprise show, instead giving her an encouraging nod. Her guardian is Sir Galahad, who according to Arthur always wanted to have a recruit. Those kind of men, who view a person as something to "have," don't tend to treat the person that does become enslaved to them very well. But perhaps fate took pity on her. As far as I can see, Galahad behaves as well if not better than the other knights in the squadron, so perhaps I was wrong to judge him.

But there's only ever hope that at the words 'seek thy guardian!' it is the recruit's soul seeking, not the claim itself. I sometimes believe the former, considering Arthur and I. But then I see the cruelest of men chosen for the most innocent of men and women, and wonder if just in that one moment the fates took pity on me.

"Thank you, Sefa," Relaen says, and the others nod.

"I'll see you at supper," I tell them, a dismissal, and my squadron makes to leave. Before Freya can go, however, I catch the sleeve of her coat.

Stay.

"What is it?" she asks once we're alone.

"What did Leon want?"

Freya's brow furrows, regarding me with a strange expression. "Does it matter?"

"It does if he plans on telling someone."

Her expression wavers between fear and resignation. "We can't control whether he does or not."

"What did he say?" I press, and she sighs.

"He asked if I've been feeling alright," she says, and I stare blankly in answer. "That's it, I swear. He's just been concerned a lot. I don't know why."

". . . are you, alright?" I ask, looking her up and down with new eyes. Four years ago she was an inch taller, and now I'm nearly a head higher. But her brown eyes regard me with even more of the same warmth, if with a bit of exasperation right now.

"Yes. Two young men worried after my well-being," she shakes her head, smirking. "My parents would be so proud."

She's never mentioned parents before; I force myself not to press, grinning back easily. "Good. I need my second-in-command at her best."

Second-in-command is a very formal way of putting it. Arthur and I spent our first two and a half years training here till he was knighted—at the age of 16, two years earlier than knighthood is usually given—and then Uther appointed Sir Jethro to stay with the troops and replace the aged commander over training. Freya came with of course, taught me patiently how to speak between souls of magic, and was my first choice when Arthur got permission to form a dragon-slaying squadron of knights and recruits. The only other on the original team is Finn.

Now she teaches the guardian and recruit pairs that join us, Freya and Sir Galahad being her current trainees. We've lost two others in the past year, one to a Camelot sorcerer and the other to the bite of a dragon. Thomas and Cerah. Sefa wouldn't know either of them.

"Is there anything else, Merlin?" Freya says, eyes genuinely asking.

"Just let me know if Leon . . . if he asks or says anything—"

"I promise," she interrupts vehemently, and I sigh, smiling tiredly. Maybe it is time to stop worrying about that. But caution never hurt anyone.

"Till supper, then," I nod, letting her go.

Supper is larger than usual—as it should be, considering that the only other meal of the day was skipped during the battle—and the line for it stretches almost to me and Arthur's tent. Speaking of, I can't find Arthur in the line, and inwardly moan at the thought of waiting at the very end of it right now. Even the smell of plain cooked beans and bread is enough to make my mouth water.

Merlin, where are you going? I hear as I turn to head for the back. I spin around, and the more seconds that pass as I scan the crowd of eating soldiers the stronger the feeling of amusement echoes back at me.

I spot him in the next moment, his grin wide and altogether too smug for such a small mistake. But then I see the amount of food he has set in front of him, and understand his enthusiasm. There are even two bowls of soup. I hate sharing soup.

How did you manage this?

Does it matter? He waves his hands over the feast proudly, then says aloud, "Dig in."

I've inhaled about half of the soup when the rest of Arthur's squadron begin to join us, sitting with Arthur like always. I can tell he likes it—a mix of gratitude, relief, and hesitant pride every time his men choose to be by his side—but outwardly he merely gives a nod as Sir Kay sits on the ground next to him.

"How's your back?" the knight asks, and immediately my eyes shoot over to Arthur.

You're hurt?

"Just fine, thanks," Arthur answers, giving me a look.

"A knight knocked him onto his side when you were busy with the Camelot's scum," Sir Kay says to me, not missing my expression. "Kara turned the man's sword into a stick, though, so he only got a spanking."

Kara smirks as Kay laughs, sitting at her guardian's other side and slightly behind.

"Who knew transformation spells would be helpful in battle," Sir Gareth says, joining the group with Finn behind him. "Aren't they some of the easiest to perform?"

"Depending on the recruit," Sir Kay says. "Kara's pretty advanced in it."

"Finn was the one to deliver the killing blow to the beast this morning," Gareth defends, like a petty game of whose toy is better. The two glare at each other for a moment before laughing heartily.

I put down the remaining chunk of bread, appetite lost.

Gareth and Kay joke about other, less insulting things as the rest of Arthur's knights join, their recruits following. Ralaen and her knight, Sir Owain, and then Sefa with Sir Galahad. The men talk loudly about the battle, Sir Galahad boasting about swiping off two heads in one stroke. The others don't believe him, no matter how he insists, standing and demonstrating.

"You have no witness!" Kay argues, pointing his spoon at him. Galahad's smile turns sly, and he turns back to where Sefa still sits.

"That's where you're wrong. Sefa, did I not behead the two men?" he says, arm out to her. Everyone looks curiously at the newest recruit, her eyes flitting hesitantly between everyone.

". . . yes?" she replies, more a question than anything. Kay immediately snorts.

"We're not taking the word of your recruit, Galahad," he says incredulously, blind to how half of the group tenses up. "She's going to agree with anything you tell her to!"

Galahad's jaw clenches, just for a moment, before he rolls his eyes. "Fine. Don't believe me. If anyone secretly wants lessons, though, I wouldn't begrudge you."

The knights laugh and break up to speak between each other then, enough conversation to let the recruits begin as well. Arthur doesn't speak, silently finishing his meal and staring off just above their heads, into the woods. I'm only catching threads of thoughts, and overall his feelings are too muddled to understand. I try to send out a wave of comfort to him anyway—but it's hard when I don't feel it myself.

"I want you all there tonight, for the claiming ceremony," Arthur speaks up in the midst of everyone, and all other conversation stops.

They all look appropriately confused. I can't say I'm not.

"But . . . Arthur—" Sir Owain starts, glancing back at Ralaen.

Arthur cuts him off. "I need you all there tonight." He grimaces, looking down at the cup of water in his hands for a moment. "I know two recruits is a . . . commitment. I don't wish it on myself. But I trust all of you, and I don't trust many."

"Wait, is this for the little boy?" Sir Galahad asks, eyes widening, and Arthur's grimace is confirmation enough. Galahad's face flashes for an instant, too quickly to see what passed on it before it hardens into resolve. "I'll be there."

The other knights murmur their consent as well, conversation starting up again when Arthur stays silent.

They're not perfect men, but I trust them, he tells me instead, and I nod.

I agree. Especially considering they actually listen to your orders once in a while. Takes a high caliber of knight to manage that. I say it with humor, but there have been many knights in the past who disregarded Arthur—because his looks make him seem naive or entitled, maybe, or just because of his young age. Not these men. Despite their flippant words and imperfect regards towards their recruits, none have truly harmed or shamed them. None would try making Mordred's life any more miserable than it's about to be.

Leon drops by with Freya, but only to wish the knights a good evening. "Where is Sir Jethro?" Gareth asks, and Leon's smile seems strained as he answers.

"Just a bit under the weather. I'm bringing supper to him."

I try to silently question Freya, asking if anything's wrong, but my head is too crowded to send it through. She seems relaxed enough, if a bit tired.

Is Leon going to be there? I check with Arthur, already assuming a yes.

No.

I try not to glance up at Arthur too quickly—the knights already seem a bit intrigued by our tendency to "have conversations with our eyes"—before he continues. He refused. Wouldn't say why.

Strange. Like a lot of things today.

It's been a long one, all things considered. Arthur smiles tiredly, shrugging. Although if you want to add to the list, Aredian was very easy to persuade, having the mercenaries join us. He said to have them present for the ceremony.

That's it: he's in on their plan, I deadpan, and Arthur snorts into his water. The group around us glance his way, but Arthur manages to turn it into a cough in time not to arouse more suspicion.

You're trying to make me look like an idiot, he tells me, shooting a very obvious glare.

You don't need any help with that.

Arthur sighs, shaking his head and rising. "The ceremony will start at dusk," he announces, then adds to me: I'll tell the others I selected.

I'll get Mordred ready, I say, rising as well. My stomach immediately ties itself into knots at the thought.

I thought he already was 'ready,' Arthur says with dark humor as we part ways.

That's what worries me.

And Mordred does indeed seem ready; his eyes are bright with excitement, perking up the second I wake him. He's been put in a tent under a sleeping spell with a magic-draining poppet under the cot, as procedure; but it doesn't seem to faze him, having his magic blocked.

But then again that's different from having it completely ripped from you.

"How's your head?" I ask, remembering how dizzy I felt under the spell.

Mordred shivers his little shoulders, nodding. "Feels strange."

"Not having your magic?" I ask. He nods, and my heart takes a hopeful leap. "You don't have to do this. I can find my guardian and then transport you a few miles west; it'll give you a head start. You can run to Caerleon's kingdom—"

Emrys. His voice is powerful despite its youth, cutting me off with the strange name. I wonder if I could force him to escape anyway, without my powers and without his cooperation. The chances seem small.

You'll thank us, one day, he says firmly, almost placating, like I'm the one in need of comfort right now.

Us? Who do you mean? I press, thinking of the fierce blond woman and her familiar eyes. I'm almost positive now that she's behind whatever is going on.

But instead Mordred answers, The Innate. His small face lifts up into a small, innocent smile.

It looks too dangerous to be sweet.

A/N: Can't wait to hear from you all, I've missed our conversations :) I'm also implementing a historic tactic of mine from the 'RIVULET' fic days: if you members review, I'll share a sneak peek with you from the coming chapter! Woohoo, wouldn't want to miss out on that, amiright? Pretty sure I am ;)