Morgana spent a majority of her days in her old hut, curled into bed with a peculiar necklace twined around her fingers. It was a simple strip of leather, but at the end of it was an apple-sized pendant—flat, and with the milky sheen of an opal. It was one of Aithusa's scales. The sorceress had been loathe to take it; parting with it had been painful for the dragon, and the scale would not regrow, leaving an unprotected spot on the side of her neck. All the same it was Morgana's most prized possession. It never left her hand, because the moment she took her fingers from its lustrous surface, she was plunged into blackness. While she wore it, however, she could see the forests unfolding beneath Aithusa as she hunted for food; she could watch sunsets, and sunrises, and count the stars. And best of all, she could see the hulking towers of Camelot.

Weeks passed, even months, but Morgana didn't care. She had become patient. Obsessed. The sorceress's body was withered, weak, and so was Aithusa's, and it could take centuries but she would become strong enough to destroy Emrys. He would never grow old or die, not by any hand but her own, and neither would she. It was the thought of killing him that made her tortured existence bearable. His face was the only face she could remember with clarity, with his simpleton's smile which had so easily turned to the stony, unfeeling look of a murderer.

The longer Morgana was in contact with the scale, the deeper her bond with Aithusa became. It could have been the work of the Triple Goddess, her own subconscious sorcery, or- more likely- the dragon's magic (or even a mixture of the three), but the two began to form a link so deep they were almost as one. Morgana found that even though she had never heard Aithusa speak, they could now communicate thoughtlessly. The sorceress knew when the dragon was hungry or tired, just as the dragon sensed an unbearable need to kill the man called Emrys. This communication soon went beyond simple emotions and desires.

Morgana could control Aithusa.

It was an accident the first time. Aithusa had been hunting, and the sorceress had been "watching" from her bed, when she caught sight of a small band of knights bearing the crest of Camelot. She wanted them destroyed… and instantaneously a jet of flame hid the men from vision. Morgana shrieked at the sight of the fire and dropped the scale in fear, but not before she heard the knights screaming and felt a wave of confusion emanate from Aithusa.

Did you do that?

No, the dragon responded, and she sounded frightened.

Morgana held the necklace out in front of her, mindlessly spinning the scale as she stared, unseeing, unblinking, into the dark.

Did you really think you'd seen the last of me, Emrys?

The weeks following Arthur's announcement were, for Merlin, nothing short of bizarre. There were still some members of Court who had strongly supported Uther's ways and looked at him with suspicious eyes; there were even rumors that he had bewitched the King. Far stranger, however, was the opposite. People who had once seen him as—and treated him as—nothing more than a servant now seemed reverential when they passed him in the halls.

Perhaps the only one who didn't act any differently was Arthur. Even though Merlin wasn't technically his servant any more (George was quite happy to take the job), he still threatened polishing duty every time the warlock responded too cleverly to his insults. He had an official uniform made for Merlin—a black cloak with the golden dragon of Camelot embossed on the back, but the sorcerer refused to wear it, opting instead for his usual ratty blue or red shirt with the kerchief. It also irritated Arthur that Merlin wouldn't move into the new quarters he'd had arranged, choosing to stay with Gaius in the physician's chambers.

"What did you expect?" Gwen had said quietly one night, leaning her head on his shoulder as he complained. "He spent ten years hiding his powers. Do you know how strange this must be for him?"

Arthur sighed. "But he's a member of court now, Guinevere. I can't have my Royal Sorcerer dressed like a servant."

"You did before," she murmured before planting a kiss on his cheek and sliding under the sheets.

Camelot itself began to change in the wake of the reinstitution of sorcery, and not in the anarchistic way Uther had always warned. There were occasional spots of trouble—mostly gamblers who used magic to cheat, or pranksters who overturned stalls and laughed about it from a distance. These incidents seemed to Arthur a fair price to pay as it became obvious how useful sorcery was in terms of medicine, farming, construction, and essentially every other aspect of life in the kingdom. Families on the outskirts of the citadel that once starved now had access to as much food as they needed, and far more cheaply than ever before. Illnesses and injuries which had always been considered fatal became easily treatable. The entire kingdom prospered, and saw an influx of Druid traders who were happy to teach the skills of healing or select spells to those who were particularly apt. It was truly a golden age.

It was in the midst of this golden age that a rider returned to Camelot from a routine scouting mission, a lone knight out of a party of six. He rode furiously through the marketplace and practically up the steps to the Great Hall, sagging on his horse.

"Blaise?" Arthur hurried out to meet the knight, Merlin not far behind. "What happened? Where's—"

"We were attacked, sire." Several servants helped Sir Blaise off of his mount, and he seemed to be struggling to stand upright. "They're dead. All of them."

"Who attacked you?"

"It was a… dragon, sire. A white dragon." The knight looked away. "I was in the back of the group, and it let up before it…"

"Thank you." The king's lips tightened and he gave the man a weary nod. Sir Blaise was helped towards Gaius's chambers, and Arthur turned to Merlin. "Did you hear that? A white…" He broke off. The sorcerer was rigid, staring dead ahead, and his face had become deadly pale. "What?"

"Morgana," Merlin whispered.