A comment made me realize I never said when this story happens: after Last Olympian (you can ignore anything that happens in Heroes of Olympus, cause I actually started the original version before it came out) and somewhere in series 5 Merlin (I'm thinking after the first episode arc)
Not exactly sure how many chapters there will be, but I do have it laid out in a rough outline

TW: Dark themes, blood and violence, gory implications

They were growing bold, these Saxons.

To begin by attacking Camelot's outer towns, where farmers were more common than competent soldiers, was strategic. Had Nama not begged the king for his protection, Arthur might not have learned about the incursions until it was too late. The Helladan-Saxon army could have claimed the territory and slowly overcame the kingdom's defenses, encroaching inward until they had the citadel surrounded, the people dead or enslaved—and with the aid of ghastly hounds, colossal one-eyed men, and enchanting winged-women, the effort on their part would have been laughable.

Only, the Saxons didn't follow the predictable path. They didn't set their claws into the land and ensure an anchor point, but rather remained unseen, spreading through the forest like a festering wound. Striking from the trees, in the dark, targeting those who cannot protect themselves, and then vanishing without a second trace. And now they reappeared, only an hour's ride from the heart of Camelot.

Merlin admitted that his familiarity of the region spanning Five Turnings and Eldroth wasn't what it could have been—despite having studied the kingdom drawn out on a map more times than he could count—but as their horses led their seven-man party across the rolling hills, he couldn't comprehend the Saxons' design.

There was nothing special about this part of Camelot: highlands upon hills upon dales, as far as the eye could see. Waves of luscious greens sprinkled with yellows and whites melding discordantly with the ominous greys of the sky. Ash trees, mighty and deep-rooted, mottled the horizon, an ancient, derelict stone wall snaking between a pair of them and disappearing on the other side. It truly was a beautiful country, but of no importance to the state.

Arthur led them along silently, trying to conceal the fact he was carrying along a storm cloud of his own, removing his brooding demeanor from the confines of his tower. The road narrowed, forcing their horses to fall in line with one another, as two climbing mountains—which, in reality, were not mountains at all and were barely taller than the other surrounding hillocks—arose on either side. Merlin's all-encompassing line of sight abruptly came to an end. He hated it.

If the Saxons chose then to appear, they would be like fish in a pond, ripe for the fisherman's pike. Helpless.

Already the anticipation had set Merlin's nerves afire, but this new hindrance brought about a wave of nausea, his gut churning. Odds were that if they did happen upon the horde, it would end in a fight, an inevitability Merlin had grown to accept since his appointment as Arthur's servant, but it was the circumstances that brought about the anxiety. With Annabeth and Percy inexplicably watching his every move, the use of magic might prove to be too much of a risk. After all, it was hard to explain away multiple, highly coincidental broken tree branches when they hadn't come to expect them over the years, as the knights undoubtedly had done.

Although, Merlin couldn't deny that they seemed oddly taken aback by Arthur's stance on sorcery. Almost as if they didn't share his beliefs…

Merlin's fingers brushed the fadedleather wrapped around the grip of his sword—no, not his. Lancelot's. Merlin hadn't been the one to rescue it from the pyre. Someone else believed he would need its protection, and he preferred to think it was his friend, rather than some unknown entity playing with his reality. No matter. Whoever called it forth, for whatever their reason, it could be Merlin's only defense.

As they emerged from the enclosed path, Merlin was unsurprised to find more of the green pastures, lazily divided by more crumbling stone walls. Relics of the times from even before the Pendragons. Except, it seemed these were not so forgotten. An indolent flock of sheep prowled the nearest ridge, munching and bleating mindlessly, their shepherd nowhere in sight. Forty tufts of cotton speckling the green hill with as much alertness as a spool of thread. A handful of lambs broke away from the plodding herd and frolicked in the fresh puddles, cacking their fine wool in mud and baying in amusement. The ewes couldn't be more indifferent to their activities, their jaws grinding side to side, their boxed eyes gazing, half-asleep, at the passing party of knights.

Merlin returned their content, languid, brainless stare. If these prey animals were at ease, then there was likely nothing to worry about…

But then again, he couldn't exactly trust a sheep to warn him of impending dangers. He'd been raised in a farming village, surrounded by every livestock imaginable; he remembered a time when Ole Hamon had frantically tugged on members of his flock as they threatened to walk themselves to death around a mill, too witless to realize their instincts to follow blindly were inherently flawed. There wasn't a creature alive more stupid than a sheep. And if one had existed, there was a reason it didn't exist now.

Suddenly driven by the idea of a lurking danger, Merlin twisted around to ensure nothing had caught them unawares. He found instead Annabeth and Percy taking up the rear.

The boy was draped over the neck of his horse, stroking the plaited mane, and whispering in its twitching ears as Annabeth looked on with amusement. She rolled her eyes and spurred her own horse on, leaving the boy grinning in her wake, once again speaking to the stallion as if life-long companions.

Annabeth noticed Merlin's gaze and smiled, waving with so much sardonicism Merlin could almost see it written out before her. He stared blankly in response. Perhaps it was cultural differences, as well as the language barrier that both existed and didn't exist simultaneously, but Percy's argument left everyone at a loss. She's mean with a dagger.

Even Gwaine had puzzled over it.

"Everyone with a dagger is mean if you're the one being stabbed," Merlin grumbled under his breath, righting himself in the saddle.

Admittedly, his feelings on the two oddities had grown complicated. Despite the numerous days of residing within Camelot's halls, not once had they acted out of malice. Instead, they treated everything there as a marvel—as if rumors of their small kingdom had traveled far and wide—and had even offered all that they knew about Cyclopes and Hellhounds, offering their swords for when the time came. If it weren't for Gaius's own, ill-timed oddness, he might have thought he was outgrowing his suspicion entirely.

Nearly keeping toe with Percy, the old physician had all but flown to Merlin's side as he was preparing the horses. He'd fiddled with a few of the straps needlessly, leaning in close but never actually speaking any words. With Gwaine and Percival bustling about, and Mordred's curiosity imposing on their need for secrecy, he never got the chance. One word. Gaius had been able to intone one name before Annabeth, who had needed to change into more battle-appropriate attire, chose to appear and Arthur ordered they leave.

Achilles.

Merlin glared at a dim-witted ram, who had eaten his way into oblivion and far away from his flock. As if the animal would impart to him the wisdom of why a baby from his dream apparently held relevance in his life. He didn't understand how he knew this to be true, just as he didn't know how his asleep conscious had recalled the father's name, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. Achilles, Son of Peleus. What had Gaius been trying to tell him?

A figure flickered in the corner of his eye.

Merlin swung around, nearly tossing himself from the saddle in the process, ready to call out to the others in warning—

But there was nothing there. Pulling on the reins, twisting around to make sure he hadn't simple overlooked some impending doom, but even the fattened ram had ventured elsewhere. His horse snorted in protest as Merlin brought them both around in a tight circle, leaning a little too far into the right stirrup for it to be comfortable for either, but he needed the extra height to see over the piling stones rambling across the nearest field.

It might have only been for a second, but he could have sworn there had been a figure walking alongside him. A flash of fiery hair.

Merlin shook his head and nudged his horse onwards. It seemed his paranoia was finally taking its toll, after years of boiling over in his head. Well, either that or Merlin was haunted, which was something he had to seriously consider, given his life and luck. He made it a few feet before it happened again, only this time it was a voice.

Emrys.

Not haunted then.

Emrys, the voice cooed.

Merlin's glare bored into the back of Mordred's head. The young Druid hadn't tried speaking to him in such a manner since their reuniting, the only thing he could be thankful for given the circumstances. Mordred was incapable of reading between the lines, and comprehending blatantly dismissive behavior, and insisted on establishing a kinship with Merlin. Merlin, however, was insistent in a different manner.

He was contemplating the possible consequences of petty retaliation when Arthur signaled for everyone to stop, the reason for which was soon clear. Before them was a crossing of five roads. A simple shack, mostly rotten and nearly entirely roofless, stood off to the side. Odd bits of straw and branches still full of freshly budded leaves spilled out of a hole in the side, remnants of some animal's burrow, though it was unclear if it was still inhabited. The crossroad had once been the meeting point for farmers, a sort of midway point for them to gather and form a caravan so as to safely travel to the next marketplace, but now it was nothing more than a milestone.

Five Turnings.

Percy trotted up next to Merlin, frowning as he glanced up each of the possible routes, fiddling with the hilt of his curiously bronze sword. Merlin read the question plain on his face; even if someone had informed him of where they were headed, he probably wouldn't be able to tell one crossroads from another. Even if he could, it wasn't so much as what was at Five Turnings, but what was missing that had the knights so grim.

"Perhaps they haven't come this far yet," Leon suggested. He had dismounted and scoured the roads in vain for any sign of armed men and monstrous beasts. "An army, even one as small as the one Roderick spotted, would be travelling far slower than a small party on horseback."

Arthur nodded, although his face betrayed his doubt. "Or perhaps they veered away from the main road," he countered as he studied the heavily trodden ground. Where usually it would be covered ostensibly with footprints, animal tracks, and ruts from wagons, the morning rain had washed it clean and carved out new craters in the mud, filling it with foul water, and making it night impossible to discern friend from foe.

If Arthur was right and the Saxon-Helladan horde had turned away from the road, their numbers were too few; six men and a girl couldn't cover the leagues between Camelot and Eldroth, let alone do so safely. They were more likely to come across the enemy by staying on the main road as they had been intended to pass through the most vital towns.

Arthur came to the same conclusion simultaneously. "We ride on," he announced. "If they happened across anyone—passed through a village—they would have attacked without mercy."

Without objection, Leon mounted his sorrel, falling in line behind Arthur, Mordred, and Percival in tow. Merlin, as he tensed to drive his own ride forward, froze. There in the corner of his eye was the unmistakable image of a woman. Posed in the middle of the road leading to the North, she regarded the knights.

Had he not been shadowed by the same flickering figure moments before, Merlin would have assumed she was a lone traveler, unsure whether it was safe to approach a group of six large, well-armed men. Except, he was certain now that he hadn't imagined the movement from earlier. Without turning his head, peering at her from the corner of his eyes, he recognized the fire-red hair.

Merlin turned slowly—painstakingly so—not wanting to betray his movements or startle her away, but the woman was yet to disappear. She was too far away to perceive any details, save for her long flowing hair, blood red dress veiled by a black cloak, but even the distance didn't stop the crawling chill from washing down his back. Her attention hadn't been on the knights at all—it couldn't have been as they had left him behind in favor of continuing onward, and her gaze remained on the center of the crossing. Where Merlin was stood.

Time vanished. The world was silent.

Wind coursed through the fields, birds flew across the sky, his horse danced anxiously, but Merlin was oblivious to any sound. There was no enchantment. He had experience with Sidhe and their nature magic, sorcerers and their control over men, but this was nothing like that.

The woman reached out her hand, calling to him. Emrys. Her voice was hushed, but even so, Merlin could hear the heartrending sadness within that one word. And like Mordred, the Great Dragon, and the Fisher King all those years ago, she recognized him for who he was.

Your king errs, Emrys. Her hand fell. He mustn't follow that path. For Death lies to the North.

Who are you? He asked voicelessly. How do you know this?

You must go North.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and the suspension encompassing him shattered. Merlin jerked violently, nearly tumbling from his seat for a second time that day, and righted himself, only to find Gwaine's worried face staring back at him. He must have circled back as soon as he realized they had fallen a man short.

"Alright, Merlin?" Gwaine squeezed Merlin's shoulder, an awkward feat given their horses' wide girths.

Merlin swallowed. He nodded, not yet trusting his voice.

Gwaine looked over his friend's shoulder and scoffed. "I never liked those birds."

Birds? Merlin turned back to the road to the right—to the North—expecting to find it empty, if not occupied by a ghoulish woman, but instead of either, there was a bird. A black bird, so dark that its feathers shone with an inky blue, a hooded crest at the top of its head.

The raven opened its piercing black beak and cawed.

Gwaine grimaced and directed his horse back toward the western road. The others had stalled, scattered further along as they impatiently waited for the last two members of their party. "Come on." Gwaine jerked his head.

Merlin didn't move. "What lies to the north of here?"

"Well, the taverns are fewer than far between," Gwaine retorted with a smirk. When Merlin didn't reciprocate one, his easy, light-hearted nature slipped away. "Hamlets mostly. The mountains and cold make for a short and difficult harvest season so they rely on trade. Why?"

Before Merlin could respond, Arthur reached the limits of his patience. "Merlin!" He trotted back along the path, his face thundering. "You do realize the longer we wait, the more these Saxons will have free reign of my kingdom? Is it really so hard to keep up?"

Merlin looked to the bird again. Two others had joined it, each one larger than the last. The largest one, a great bird of black and white, shrieked, flapping its wings boastfully, stomping its taloned feet with human-like indignance. Like it was offended they deigned to ignore its presence.

"Are you scared of a few birds, Merlin?"

"I think—" Merlin set his jaw, fixing his gaze on his reins. He couldn't bear to look at Arthur, or Mordred, who was staring at him openly, suspiciously. "I think we should go north."

"One of your funny feelings again?"

"I—" Merlin broke off but nodded his agreement. He couldn't very well say a phantom woman, who was following them, advised they were going the wrong way. "I think you were right. The reason we haven't come across them yet is because they weren't headed for Camelot in the first place."

In a violent wave, the three birds, among dozens of others, took to the skies. Shrieking and cawing, a tumult of crows and ravens soared north bound, their flock almost as thick and dark as the clouds above them. All of their horses fell to panic, skittering madly. Even Arthur flinched, though he did his best to hide it.

Their wings carried them away within seconds, until it was almost as if they had never been there to begin with.

Merlin didn't even blink. "Still think we should go West?" He could only imagine the scathing look on Arthur's face. No one moved to object, and Annabeth rose to his defense, in her own off, unbidden way.

"Crows are carrion birds," she said, her intense grey eyes set on the horizon. At the responding expressions, varying in degrees of confusion, she added, "scavengers. They eat the flesh of dead animals. It's why they're associated with death. Though, I didn't take that to mean they were attracted by the smell of blood like sharks…"

Gwaine, chagrined from his earlier jesting response, cleared his throat. "I know of a town north of here. Large enough it would draw the attention of an angry horde. It lies off the main roads. Not easy to get to, but not far."

Arthur clenched his fists around the reins, already crimped and mangled from his tendency to do so. Their predicament was the same as before, only now they would be actively choosing to abandon a town that faced a high chance of falling victim to an invading force. "What is the name of this place?"

~.~

The first they saw of Langcliffe was the smoke.

Before they had reached the edge of rocky knoll, before they could glimpse any man made structure comprising the town, black tendrils rose above the treetops and danced in the wind, pooling above like a storm cloud. The fire hadn't spread; it hadn't eaten away at the land, which should have been encouraging—if it hadn't been allowed to spread, then someone had to have been there to prevent it from doing so—but the sheer mass and thickness of the smoke was anything but.

Arthur barely slowed his approach. He knocked his horse in the sides and went tearing across the overlook and down its side, his men following as fast as the animals' legs could carry. The terrain here was dangerous—strewn with jagged rocks and slick with rain. It wasn't long before they abandoned the horses and carried on by foot. Merlin vaguely recalled pulling Lancelot's sword from the saddle even as his roan protested the unstable incline. She frisked away to safety, readily abandoning the man who often treated her with apples and greens.

Before he could pass through the curtain of trees enclosing the town, Merlin could taste the ash in the air. A fleeting forewarning for what he was to see.

Everything was in ruins. The houses and shops, the tavern and inn, anything that was made of wood, of clay or stone had been rampantly assailed and barely retained the solidity to remain standing. Charred walls, shattered doors, droves of belongings scattered about as if people had grabbed anything they could as they fled their homes. Or as they were dragged out into the streets. A doll, a rag of burlap and straw, lay next to a crumbled well, covered in soot and mud, not precious enough to warrant the few extra seconds it took to retrieve.

Merlin crept alongside Arthur and Leon, careful to watch where he placed his steps. It felt…forbidden to trample over the shattered remains of Langcliffe, even though the trappings and belongings had never once been alive. But it was too much like walking across a person's grave. A disrespect to all that remained of them.

The smoke that was continuously wafting into the air was coming from the stables. Or what was left of them. It was now nothing more than a smoldering husk of support beams and scorched paneling that had miraculously survived. A new thick, bitter smell rose above the worst of smoke, and Merlin turned away in disgust. It seemed not every animal had escaped the flames. He preferred not to know which one.

The air felt thick, but Merlin was coming to realize it wasn't due to the smoke. The same intense hum of power he'd found in Baile-Avon burned here as well, crawling out of the earth with the same voracity of a fire hungering for more sacrifices. Except instead of joining with nature, it threatened to choke everything living in its grasp. It wasn't like the black auras that surrounded the monsters, wasn't even like the blazing waves that ebbed and flowed around Percy and Annabeth. It didn't even contend with the dear enchantment cast by the woman from Five Turnings. It was something else entirely.

A shrill hiss made Merlin jump, and Percival grimaced apologetically as he leveled his blade, seeking its comfort in the face of this pained silence.

Silence.

It shouldn't be silent. Even in the aftermath of a slaughter, there should have been something. Wails of pain, jeers of triumph, keening and braying of terrified animals who were wanting for the care of their masters—anything but this emptiness.

"Where is everyone?" Gwaine kicked away a plank of smoldering wood.

Where are the corpses? Merlin wanted to ask, but the words refused to come. As if voicing it would make the streets run with blood.

"Maybe they all fled before the Saxons arrived," Percival proposed, though his voice suggested he didn't believe it himself. "Perhaps the raiders laid waste to the town out of spite."

No one had an answer.

As each of their party spread out amongst the wreckage, Merlin found himself at the edge of the town square, gazing down a tunnel of interwoven ash and elder trees. It seemed odd the town would choose to build around the quarried hills and specks of dense forest, though he supposed it had been meant to provide some kind of protection. Like Camelot's own motte, the natural barriers would hinder approaching forces—only when they had needed it most, it had failed them.

The copse was thick enough that it limited Merlin's view into Langcliffe's outskirts. He knew he should wait for the others before venturing further on; even with his magic—and a sword to boot—if he were to find the Saxon raiding party, he would be fatally outnumbered. Not that their own party's numbers rivaled those of the Saxons'…

As Merlin deliberated the odds, Mordred appeared next to him, as if sensing his plight. In his hands was the forgotten doll. He brushed the ash and soot away distractedly, facing the shadowy passage with his inscrutable expression.

Did you feel it too, Merlin? the Druid's voice echoed in his mind. The anger?

For a fleeting moment, Merlin wondered if Mordred meant the woman from the crossroads, her ghoulish, inexplicable presence that led them here. He'd lost track of her once Gwaine had begun leading them toward Langcliffe, but there was no denying Mordred's gift for connecting with all things magic. She had projected herself powerfully at the Five Turnings—a maelstrom of anger, hate, and anguish—but grief had been the thing fueling the rage. Without really knowing why, Merlin did not think her responsible for this.

"I felt it as soon as we came upon the landing above."

Of course, it was possible she meant to lure them into a trap, but Merlin couldn't ignore the pain in her voice.

"It is stronger here." Mordred stared down the pathway, continuing despite Merlin's lack of a response. He worked away at the grime on the doll's featureless face, oblivious to the fact he was grinding it further into the fabric. It is deafening, he whispered.

No, Merlin decided. The red-haired woman more closely resembled the Cailleach, than a malevolent sorcerer like Nimueh or Morgause. Neutral to the world, until something or someone offset the balance. She wouldn't needlessly destroy a town.

—or so he hoped.

Still, this meant that there was something else out there, angry and powerful, and Merlin refused to be caught unawares. So, he closed his eyes. Whilst he may not have shared Mordred's natural ease, it didn't mean him incapable. Steadying his breath, he reached for the thrum of power that encased the town of Langcliffe. Quiet at first, it rushed to embrace him, singing at the back of his mind, reverberating through his skull like a dagger at the base of his neck.

It wasn't a pleasant sensation, but Merlin didn't falter. He latched on tighter and coaxed it, despite the aberrant drumming that was now keeping time with his heartbeat. Steadily, the pulse, the drum, the wave of power that sunk stagnant in this poor place grew clearer. The wind carried it through the leaves, into the square consumed by ash and fire.

Hundreds of raspy voices sang in discordant harmonies, repeating the same phrase over and over again, until it was shouting, screaming in Merlin's mind. Gar eimi phrenapates. Aponostounton, ho psyche, himeronous.

Aponostounton.

Ho Himeroi.

Diaktinixeste.

The words held no meaning, but the cadence and flow was undeniably familiar. Merlin had no concept of where the fanged woman in his dream came from, but she had to arise from the same land as the one that was now setting into the trees and ground like a poison.

"Diasti," Merlin muttered. The very air seemed to burn around him, and he felt, rather than saw, Mordred's sharp glance.

"You know of it?"

Merlin checked over his shoulder before shaking his head curtly and returning to gaze down the passage. He may not have been able to locate the castor, but something was drawing him there. Just as it had lured Mordred. All that was missing now was the return of the avian harbingers, who would then take him to Langcliffe's inhabitants. Dead or not.

Mordred sighed. "I cannot help if you do not allow me to, Merlin." He nearly sounded exasperated. "Do you not think I care what happens to the people of Camelot?"

Merlin bit back the ingrained scoff brought about by such a statement—it was hard to take his earnestness seriously considering Mordred's return to Camelot had been under the employ of slavers, who delivered countless innocents to perish in Morgana's mines. "I believe you to be—a fine knight and—that you honor all that it entails."

"And even so you do not trust me." His eyes searched Merlin's face, hoping to see a flicker of acceptance amongst the hardened lines, even if in vain. "I will prove myself to you, and to the king. Beginning with avenging what happened here."

Merlin met and held his gaze evenly. If only Mordred knew that by claiming vengeance, he was reinforcing the vision of the young knight heartlessly wounding the man he swore to protect. The same fervency, strength, and brutality in his eyes now as was among the field of corpses and fire. Nothing the druid could do would prove his loyalty.

The so-called prophecy had seen to that.

"Spread out," Arthur called, saving Merlin from having to answer. Standing in the center of it all, surrounded by blackened houses and fire-torn earth, his red cape burned brighter ten-fold. He held himself stiffly, the sword's hilt clutched in one hand, his other trembling at his side. He could barely contain the fury burning under the surface. "Check the surrounding fields, everywhere. If anyone survived this, if there is anyone left, I want them found."

"Ever the noble heart," a voice sneered.

Before Merlin even registered the words, an unseen force slammed into his back and propelled him through the air. Breath crushed from his lungs, he tumbled down the path, rocks and snags catching on his clothes and any exposed skin, his sword launched far out of reach. Mordred crashed down next to him, and the moment Merlin met his gaze, he knew who was responsible. The same dread he felt in his gut was painted across the knight's face.

Merlin rolled onto his back. The magic had sent Arthur sprawling as well, tossed aside Leon and Percival as if they were nothing more than a pair of dolls themselves, and for a horrifying, choking moment, none of them moved. Blood sluiced down the side of Percival's limp, lifeless face. Then Arthur coughed, spitting dust and grime from his mouth, and the pressure in Merlin's chest eased just slightly.

That is until she stepped out into the open.

Ashen skin, tangled locks of ebony hair, her black clothes ragged and torn—a far-cry to her once faultless regality. Morgana strode forward, confident despite the numbers stacked against her. Not that she need worry, as she had already toppled four of Camelot's best swordsmen and two sorcerers without so much as blinking an eye. She paused momentarily by the stables and scowled disdainfully at the carrion within, though a playful smirk crossed her face.

Her appearance wasn't the only thing falling further into craved depravity.

Morgana stopped a few paces away from Arthur, who scrambled to place his feet under him. "Don't you ever grow tired of such practiced compassion?"

"Morgana," Arthur sighed. "I should have known your alliance with the Saxons would not have ended with the Diamair. What is it this time?" He spread his arms out wide to mark the land she helped to ravage. "How do you justify such horrors?"

The smirk fell from Morgana's face in an instant, and yet she laughed. A horrid sound, void of mirth and joy. Merlin didn't think she was capable of expressing any emotion, beyond hate and jealousy. "As if I need more of a reason than wanting to raze Uther's kingdom to ashes."

A gentle caress at the back of his neck drew Merlin's attention. A cool breeze that touched nothing else and settled in his gut, warning him they were—or rather Morgana—not alone. He spun where he stood, but it didn't take a proficient hunter to spot them almost immediately.

Blending in with the dull surroundings, swathed in broad armor and thick fur mantles, a group of Saxons appeared in the alleys and breaks in the trees. They dragged their swords along the dirt carelessly; brute strength and numbers have been enough in the past that they believed intimidation would take its toll again. The overcast light reflected off their blades, catching on dried flecks of red. Merlin wasn't naïve enough to hope it was rust.

Arthur didn't react. He knew of the Saxon's sudden arrival—Merlin could see the shift in his stance, as he tensed and balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, recognizing an inevitable battle for what it was. Only he couldn't accept Morgana's hatred, despite the years of her becoming the villain.

"You hate our father so much," he said softly, his head bowed. "It blinds you even in his death. This isn't Uther's kingdom anymore. The people here have done nothing to you!"

"It matters little to me," Morgana sneered.

A wave of her hand brought the Saxons closer—at least twenty of them, encroaching from all sides, herding them like sheep. Annabeth and Percy, who had been simple spectators to the confrontation, stumbled backwards, towards the center of the square after a Saxon feigned an attack. His domed helm concealed over half his face, but his savage grin was visible enough. Gwaine stepped in front of the two youths and leveled his sword at the enemy, to little effect. Merlin and Mordred weren't far behind, driven by two more soldiers who approached from behind. Soon, their party composed a tight circle around their two fallen comrades.

"Uther instilled fear and hatred of the Old Religion," Morgana continued. She began to circle them, knocking aside debris nonchalantly with the tip of her foot, her gaze roaming over her prizes with a prideful sort of hunger. "A tradition you so valiantly upheld. I am merely giving them what they already believe to be true. Something to tr—" she faltered.

At first, Merlin assumed this to be because of Mordred—Morgana had never been one for forgiveness, even for those she had claimed to love—except, she was looking too far to the right for it to be the Druid. Merlin followed her gaze. Percy shifted, also suddenly aware of the scrutiny. The boy had removed his sword from its scabbard, resting its tip gently in the dirt, its bronze sheen catching the light every so often.

Just as Merlin had, undoubtedly Morgana sensed their power too.

Did she know what it meant? Did she recognize it?

Shaking away her surprise, Morgana smiled hungrily. "I am giving them something to truly fear." Again, her speech halted, but instead of latching onto something new, she seemed to detach from the world. Her head tilted to the side and her lips moved as if in the midst of a conversation, but there was no sound. Then she scoffed in annoyance. "You cannot understand how much I wish to witness your death, Arthur—" she took a moment to collect herself, allowing her callous exterior to possess her once more, "—but it seems I will have to settle for your head."

Morgana stepped away, nodding to her men. "Töten die Cneohtas," she ordered, "aber bringt den cniht und mægden zu mir her."

Percy would be lying if he'd said he didn't want to meet Morgan le Fay. Whether it was the candied meat house, the classic evil witch role in Arthurian legends, or his memory of his mom's voice narrating the tales late at night, that little childish part of him couldn't deny the flicker of excitement when he and Annabeth made the connection between Morgana and the fairy queen. So, when an invisible hand picked him up and tossed him like a ragdoll, he wasn't disappointed.

Morgana Pendragon was nothing like the Morgan le Fay he'd imagined while munching away on jellied raspberries—instead, she was terrifying. Not at all the kitschy hag, who was the more than not the victim of misogynistic fears, but an ordinary woman who carried herself with poise and emanated power fueled by the Dark Side. Who also, admittedly, did look like she'd been living in a hovel for the better part of a decade, but Percy was willing to bet that was because she'd made herself Enemy of the State no 1.

His enthusiasm melted away as quickly as it came, however, realism setting in.

Percy had seen collateral damage, seen direct casualties, inflicted some himself—in a screwed, merciless way, he understood that there was no avoiding this while at war—but what had happened to Langcliffe was none of those things. The fact the town had been unprepared, the way the damage was unjustifiably violent and total, the complete lack of anyone spoke volumes. The army had sought them out simply because they wanted to.

He may not have been disappointed by Morgana's reality, but as she sauntered around their tight circle, mocking Arthur over caring about innocent people getting hurt, he remembered something.

Percy hated bullies.

Morgana may be a legendary, magical fairy priestess with an army at her beck and call, but Percy? He'd faced gods. And he'd won.

The witch stared at him. The kind of stare that made Percy squirm, having seen it enough times in hungry monsters, and the smile that followed wasn't much better. She backed away, jerking her head toward their impromptu protective formation, and yelled, "kill the Cneohtas, but bringtheboyandgirl to me."

Percy had no intention of making it easy for her little soldiers, and if the hand at his back was any indication, neither was Annabeth.

She tapped him on the side, and he shifted his weight, scanning each potential adversary, trying to guess which would be the first to strike. They'd practiced this very scenario at camp a hundred times over, and while each time had been with someone they'd trusted and trained with, the knights seemed competent to hold their own. After all, wasn't a knight's whole life spent preparing for battle?

Out of the lot of them, the three buffest, Rock-wannabes were the most likely. They were the closest, trembling with frantic energy, grinning cause they had sized Percy up in return and found him somewhat lacking. Jokes on them, though. Think what they will about him, but they had completely disregarded Annabeth. She might be small, but she was scrappy.

No one moved, holding true to the adage of the quiet before a storm. The Saxons were basking in their likely victory, the knights assessing their adversaries in turn.

Then the man, who had the unfortunate disposition to look like the Hound from Game of Thrones, sprung. Lunging to the left, Percy felt the air right before his nose move, the man's meaty hands missing him by a hairsbreadth. The standstill shattered, the square erupted into battle.

Percy's sword moved of its own accord and caught the flashing iron coming in from the side. He struck back, driving the flat of his blade across the Hound's, wrapping it around, and slapped it away. Only to have another immediately take its place. He slashed in a wide arc, jumping back and nearly colliding with the Rock. The man reached for him, arms stretched wide, but a small brown and white blur crashed into him.

Annabeth.

She latched onto him like a rabid monkey, clawing at the chinks in his armor, putting her hand-to-hand training to good use. With one swift motion, she kicked out, connecting with the side of his knee. The limb snapped with a sickening crunch, bending in a way that it was never meant to go. The Saxon howled in pain, dropping to the dirt. Annabeth lashed out again, but Percy never saw it connect.

The Hound had recovered. Colossal arms encircled Percy's chest and tightened, lifting him off the ground. Percy writhed. He threw his head back, earning a satisfying crunch of his own. The embrace loosened enough for him to escape, and he slashed Riptide in warning.

The man threw off his helmet impatiently, Percy's blow having caused the nose guard to gauge inward. His eyes said it all.

It was weird, fighting someone who didn't want to kill him for once. Percy supposed they had that in common. Now that he knew he could kill, it took just that much more to refrain from a fatal blow. Had he been fighting monsters—and Percy, despite the likely atrocities these men had committed, still considered them not monsters—he wouldn't have been as careful. So, when the Hound lunged for him again, Percy didn't lose himself to his instincts.

Annabeth appeared next to him, her face set in grim determination. She held her dagger loosely. She didn't want to kill any more than he did.

The Hound and two new friends growled, flexing their hands like they itched to run the two teenagers through with their iron swords. As they approached, Percy and Annabeth backed away. The fighting had become to localized, too close quarter, and with the numbers as they were, it would be easier to take on the Saxons when they couldn't keep replacing their downed men.

Percy beckoned the Hound forward. "Hey," he called, "I think you and I need to have a conversation about hugging without consent."

"Percy," Annabeth moaned.

The clash of metal echoed around him, piercing and distracting. Gwaine was out there in the corner of Percy's eyes, Mordred and Arthur landing blow after blow, taking a few hits themselves. The drab furs of the Saxons still vastly outweighed the red of the knights, though Percy wasn't about to sit around and take count.

He held steady as the Hound approached with his big, lumbering steps. He hefted his sword, using his entire body to hoist it off the ground and looking about ready to lop Percy in half. One more step and he swung the massive broad sword, letting gravity take its course.

The guy might not be aiming to kill, Percy amended as he rolled out of the way, but he definitely wasn't afraid to maim him a bit. Big surprise.

Percy reacted in time to deflect the backswing. The sheer force behind it knocked him off balance. His arm stung, vibrations shooting up and rattling his bones, but he managed to keep his footing. A flash of grey, and the sword thudded into the ground by his foot. Instincts screaming, his mind knew where to place his sword before his eyes had even seen the danger.

Percy swung.

Riptide met the Hound's sword midair. And shorn straight through it. Shattered the metal as if it were ice. Splinters exploded outwards. The sword's tip whirled madly, catching glints of reflected light as it flew. Percy didn't even have time to clamp his eyes shut before impact. He couldn't tell what part made contact, only that it drew a line across his eye down to his lips.

The iron ricocheted off his skin.

His head snapped to the side, throwing him back as he windmilled his arms. He barely caught himself, but as soon as his foot hit solid earth behind him, Percy took advantage of the Hound's disbelief and confusion. He lashed out blindly, knocking away what was left of the sword, and carving Riptide's edge deep into the man's thigh. Before he could follow through on a final coup de grace, the Hound shuddered mid-cry.

He toppled forward, revealing Annabeth standing over him with her dagger poised. Her eyes were wide. "You okay?" she asked breathlessly.

Percy jerked his head. Nausea reared its ugly head as he looked at his sword. The color of mortal blood almost glowed against the celestial bronze. Not a rusty crimson but more vibrant and theatrical. Like the dyed cornstarch they used to use in corny horror films in the 1960s.

If only.

Percy knew he didn't have time for this. It may not be a life-or-death situation for him, but there was still at least a dozen more Saxons gunning for their heads. Steeling his nerves, he tore his eyes away, and his breath hitched. Annabeth stood in front of him. She'd somehow moved without him noticing and was affording him the chance to have his freak-out by keeping watch. A nice gesture in theory, but it was the person across the square, far out of reach, that sent a cold wave of nerves washing down his back.

Merlin.

Of all the seconds in the day, he chose now to look in their direction. No matter how much he hoped, Percy knew, as Merlin's face shuttered, chalk full of suspicion and disbelief, that he had no delusion of what he'd just witnessed. And he didn't understand or like what he saw.

Percy sighed. Well, shit.

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