Elara's grip was warm, tighter than it had any right to be. She wasn't usually like this. Normally she spoke sharp, precise, like every word had been sharpened before she let it out. But now her voice shook, her eyes searching his face as if she could pin him down there, stop him from slipping further away.

Merlin didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.

Her fingers pressed harder against his wrist, until the bone ached under the pressure.

"You don't get to think that way," she whispered this time, softer, but the words cut more than when she'd shouted.

Merlin's throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway. "Elara. You don't understand."

"Then make me."

He stared at her. The lanternlight caught the side of her face, threw the rest in shadow. She wasn't asking like someone curious. She was demanding, like her life depended on it.

'If I tell her, she'll look at me differently. She'll see me as broken, not strong. And I can't—'

Merlin shut his mouth. He dragged his wrist free slowly, not yanking, but steady enough that she couldn't stop him. Elara's hand fell back to her side, clenched into a fist.

He turned away, pulled off his breastplate, set it down on the desk beside the gauntlets. The metal was still stained with smoke and dust, streaks of someone else's blood dried along the edges. His reflection in it was warped, broken in a dozen ways.

"You think I haven't lost people?" Elara said behind him. Her voice was steadier now, calmer, like she'd drawn the blade back. "You think I don't carry them every night? You think I don't feel guilty I'm still breathing while they're not?"

Merlin closed his eyes.

'Of course she has. Of course she does. I'm not the only one who counts the dead.'

But still, he couldn't answer her. Not without choking on it.

He heard her shift, the fabric of her cloak brushing against itself as she stepped toward the door. Her voice was quieter, not sharp now, not demanding.

"Sleep, Merlin. Before it kills you."

The door clicked shut.

Merlin stayed standing, staring down at the warped reflection in the dented plate, until his legs finally gave out.

–

The knock on the door came too early. Too sharp. Merlin jerked awake where he'd collapsed across the desk. His neck screamed from the angle, his hand still clenched around nothing.

Nathan's voice carried through the wood. "Get up. We've got training to do."

Merlin rubbed his eyes, forced his body upright. His whole chest felt like stone.

When he opened the door, Nathan was leaning on the frame, arms crossed. His wound was still bandaged, but he didn't look nearly as bad as yesterday. Typical Nathan—half-dead one night, acting like nothing happened the next.

"You look like hell," Nathan said, giving him a quick once-over.

Merlin grunted. "That makes two of us."

Nathan smirked faintly, then jerked his head toward the yard. "Come on. Before the healers catch me moving and try to tie me to a bed."

-

The morning air was cool, cleaner than the night before, though smoke still lingered faintly on the wind. The yard behind the barracks was wide enough for drills, ringed with worn dummies and racks of practice weapons. A few other soldiers lingered at the far end, but most gave Merlin and Nathan their space.

Merlin drew his own blade, rolling his shoulder until the stiffness gave. Nathan mirrored him, loosening his stance, grip firm but casual.

"You sure you're up for this?" Merlin asked.

"No," Nathan said, flashing a grin. "But since when has that stopped us?"

They circled once, twice. Then Nathan lunged.

The clash of metal rang sharp through the air.

Nathan's strikes were strong, precise, faster than most could keep up with. He'd always been dangerous with a blade. But to Merlin, every swing felt slower now. Like watching waves roll in—predictable, timed, inevitable.

Merlin blocked each strike, letting the rhythm carry. Then, when Nathan overcommitted on a forward thrust, Merlin shifted his weight, twisted his blade just enough, and sent Nathan stumbling sideways.

"Damn it," Nathan muttered, catching himself. He came back harder, faster, driving forward with teeth bared.

Merlin barely had to think. His body moved on its own, parries flowing like water, counters biting sharp. His blade came within an inch of Nathan's throat before he stopped it cold.

Nathan froze, sweat dripping down his temple. His chest heaved, eyes flicking from the edge of Merlin's sword to his face.

Merlin pulled back. "Again."

Nathan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodded, and charged.

It went the same way.

And the next.

And the one after that.

By the time they stopped, Nathan was doubled over, hands on his knees, sweat darkening his shirt. Merlin wasn't even breathing hard.

"You're—" Nathan panted, shaking his head. "You're not even close anymore. When the hell did that happen?"

Merlin stared at him, grip tight on the hilt.

'Because I cheat. Because the system's always one step ahead, pushing me forward whether I want it or not.'

But he didn't say that.

He just shrugged. "You're rusty."

Nathan barked a laugh, bitter and amused at once. "Rusty my ass. You're on a different level now." He straightened slowly, pointing his blade at Merlin. "And don't think I'm going to stop chasing you. If I fall behind, you're dragging me with you."

Merlin's chest tightened. He looked away, sheathing his blade. "We'll see."

–

The mess hall was louder than Merlin wanted. Soldiers packed the benches, talking in low voices, clattering spoons against bowls. The smell of stew and bread filled the air, too heavy after the morning's training.

Merlin sat across from Nathan, neither of them saying much at first. Nathan ate like he hadn't seen food in days. Merlin pushed his stew around the bowl, appetite gone.

He could feel eyes on him. Not just Nathan's. The soldiers at the nearby tables glanced his way between bites, whispers carrying low but pointed. Ever since the wall, ever since the gates fell, they looked at him differently. Some with awe, some with suspicion, most with fear.

Nathan noticed it too. He swallowed his mouthful, leaned forward slightly. "You're the story now, Merlin. Whether you like it or not."

Merlin stabbed his spoon into the bread. "Stories don't matter."

"They do to them," Nathan said, nodding toward the others. "People need something to hold onto. Right now, that's you."

Merlin clenched his jaw.

'And if I fall? If I fail? Then what do they hold onto?'

He pushed the bowl away, stood. "I need air."

–

The streets were quieter, but not peaceful. Too many homes still broken, too many families sitting on steps with empty eyes. The scent of ash clung to everything.

Merlin walked with no destination, letting his boots carry him. Every corner he turned, he saw the same thing: rebuilding efforts mixed with grief. A child sitting on the curb with a broken toy. A woman scrubbing soot from the stone of her doorway. Men dragging beams of wood to patch roofs.

Everywhere he looked, he counted. Faces, numbers, losses.

The system pulsed faintly again.

[Objective Reminder: Survive]

Merlin's lip curled. "Survive. Easy for you to say."

He turned down another street, one darker, quieter. At the far end, smoke still curled faintly from a house reduced to rubble. He stopped there, staring at the blackened stones.

For a long while, he just stood, watching the smoke drift upward into the darkening sky.

–

When he finally returned, the halls were nearly silent. Only a few lanterns burned, shadows stretching long across the floor.

Merlin opened his door, half-expecting Elara to be there again. But the room was empty this time. Just his desk, his armor, the faint smell of oil and blood that never really left.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots off slowly, one by one. His body ached, not from the spar, not from the fight at the wall, but from carrying too much weight.

The system chimed softly in his mind, insistent.

[Warning: Emotional Load Critical]

[Stabilization Recommended]

Merlin closed his eyes.

'Not tonight.'

He pushed the message away, lay back against the mattress, and stared at the ceiling.

For the first time in days, no one knocked. No one demanded answers. No one pressed him to explain the unexplainable.

Just silence.

And in that silence, Merlin finally let his chest rise and fall, heavier, slower, until exhaustion took him.

Sleep came like a stone.

—

first thing Merlin noticed was the stiffness in his neck. The second was the sound of footsteps outside his door, light, measured, but stopping right in front of his room.

He pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The knock that followed wasn't sharp this time. It was softer, hesitant.

"Elara," Merlin muttered under his breath.

Sure enough, her voice came through, low but clear. "Merlin. Are you awake?"

He didn't answer right away. He stared at the floorboards, tracing the scratches in the wood. Something in her tone felt different from last night, less fire, more… restrained.

The knock came again. "Merlin, open up."

He sighed, dragged himself to his feet, and opened the door.

Elara stood there, arms folded, but her posture wasn't half as rigid as usual. She looked at him for a moment, eyes scanning over his face, as if checking whether he'd cracked overnight.

"You didn't sleep, did you?" she asked.

Merlin leaned against the doorframe. "A little."

She raised a brow. "Liar."

He almost smirked, but it didn't come. He just shook his head and stepped aside, letting her in. Elara slipped past him, her cloak brushing against his arm. She didn't sit, didn't wander, just stood near his desk, glancing at the breastplate and gauntlets still lying there, stained with old blood.

"I was going to drag you to breakfast," she said finally, "but I figured you'd find an excuse."

"Good guess," Merlin muttered, shutting the door.