Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

❝𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙, 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙❞

❝𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗶𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗺❞

-

❝I think, therefore I am.❞

 ❝ I have always been a giver, warm and loving. Even as a child I never cried, seeking to make others happy. Often people sought me in times of trouble and I gave all I had - my whole heart and showered love upon them. 

By age nine adults leant on me, told me of their woes and I was their spark of light. Yet when my time to suffer came, when my world was a hurricane of ice, every light but one switched off. All but one offered a skinny love, shallow and brief, before finding a reason to excuse their flight. 

But maybe that's the way it had to be, one light to follow, no choice but to walk toward love and truth. Perhaps the road toward heaven feels like hell. Because I can tell you I never felt more empty in mind, body or soul, never so bereft of any comfort. 

I have never felt so worthless or disposable, never so wretched and cold. For hours I would have no emotion, only an urge to move fast; then all at once I'd be on the floor, shaking with a grief that bled from my bones. 

Days became weeks and months, and in every single moment of every single day my soul asked God why I must still live. He said, "Because I love you, daughter, and you will do great things. So live, breathe, walk." 

Moments of emptiness still come like an ambush, yet in company of a true friend a real smile can return, a real laugh, real warmth. I can't give much yet, I'm still too empty, but at least now I know who to give it to. I know who is safe. ❞

𝗢𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲, 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗮𝗿, 𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴. 

𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗴𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗰𝘁, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴—𝗮𝗻 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗼𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗵. 

𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲-𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝘂𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗿𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝘇𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗮 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗮𝗻𝘁. 

𝗜𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁, 𝗢𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗼𝘅—𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘂𝗻𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻, 𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱.

𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐒

❝𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆❞

as

❝𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐃𝐔𝐍❞

❝𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍❞

as

❝𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍❞

❝ The truth is you could slit my throat, and with my one last gasping breath. I would apologise for bleeding on your shirt❞

❝𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒❞

as

❝𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍❞

❝A lover? Maybe. Something tender, anyway. But tender like a bruise.❞

❝𝐄𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐍❞

as

❝𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄❞

❝But God fuck I'd swallow poison if it tasted like you.❞

❝𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐑𝐀❞

as

❝𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐂❞

❝If you stabbed me, I'd thrust myself deeper into the blade just to be a few inches closer to you.❞

❝𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐂𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇❞

as

❝𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐘❞

❝If touching you makes me a sinner, then why do I feel like I just reached heaven the moment I traced my fingers along your skin?❞

❝𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐁𝐘❞

as

❝𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄❞

❝If I could have done it all again, I would have loved you better. But I could not have loved you more.❞

𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝘀 𝗴𝗮𝗶𝘂𝘀

𝘁𝗼𝗺 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹

𝗿𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗼𝗻

𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗶𝘄𝗮 𝗲𝗱𝘂𝗻 𝗮𝘀 𝗲𝗹𝘆𝗮𝗻

𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗻𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻

if you dont imagine your character as elle fanning or with the name odette that's perfectly fine its just how i see her and its easier to just have a name

Chapter Text

ACT I

swan lake...Tchaikovsky

salvatore ... Lana del rey

up and down ... Judy singh

time has made a change in me ... A golden ring  of gospel

let down ... Radiohead

A CT II

la maritza ... Sylvie  vartan

about you ... The 1975

once upon a december ... Christy altomare

lilith ... Saint avangeline

half return ... Adrianne lenker

ACT III

something there ... Beauty and the beast

time in a bottle ... Jim croce

using you ... Mars argo

headlock ... Imogen heap

waiting room ... Phoebe bridgers

ACT IV

impacto ... Enjambre

i only want to be with you  ... Dusty springfield

the cut that always bleeds ... Conan gray

(they long to be) close to you ... Carpenters

blue ... Yung kai

ACT V

velvet ring ... Big thief

out of touch ... Daryl hall & john oates

little lies ... Fleetwood mac

pretty when you cry ... Lana del rey

ma meilleure ennemie ... Stromae & pomme

ACT VI

crime and punishment ... Ado

we belong together ... Ritchie valens

exit music (for a film) ... Radiohead

red sex (restrung) ... Vessel, rakhi singh

my kind of woman ... Mac demarco

Chapter Text

elle fanning as odette

"just love me, that's all I ask."

deva cassel as odette

"it is not a crime to live, but it is a sin to waste it."

lily collins as odette

"sometimes I play dumb to lighten the mood."

dunai gurira as odette

"do you think I am stupid?"

liu yifei as odette

"I don't let my losses define me, I let them mold me. That is the difference between you and I."

naomi scott as odette

"the people around you are the things worth living for."

Chapter Text

It was winter when the war ended, it was by far the coldest winter Odette had ever experienced. It was the sort of cold winter that would freeze the blood of those who didn't take sufficient care to be warm in heart and core. After all, when the power of the ages commands the skies in a primal raw scream of frozen white, there is little else to do but seek the sanctuary of our own warm soul.

The soul is the self, the "I" that inhabits the body and acts through it. Without the soul, the body is like a light bulb without electricity, a computer without the software, a space suit with no astronaut inside. With the introduction of the soul, the body acquires life, sight and hearing, thought and speech, intelligence and emotions, will and desire, personality and identity.

Everything Has a Soul.

In truth, not just the human being, but also every created entity possesses a "soul." Animals have souls, as do plants and even inanimate objects; every blade of grass has a soul, and every grain of sand.

Not only life, but also existence requires a soul to sustain it--a "spark of Godliness" that perpetually imbues its object with being and significance. A soul is not just the engine of life; it also embodies the why of a thing's existence, it's meaning and purpose.

It is a thing's "inner identity, it's raison d'être. Just like the 'soul' of a musical composition is the composer's vision that energizes and gives life to the notes played in a musical composition the actual notes are like the body expressing the vision and feeling of the soul within everything.

But can you call what Odette is feeling having a soul? I will tell you exactly what life is like without a soul. You have zero conscience, zero emotions, and I am finding most recently, zero morals. Everything is pure logic. You don't break laws or go psychopath because of the repercussions of those actions, such as death or prison.

Life is interesting... your perspective completely changes because you no longer get angry or upset or sad. Unfortunately that also means you don't get happy or like anything or love anything. There's no guilt or pride. You still react appropriately to things but that is just your body's natural reaction. You recognize that something someone said was supposed to be funny so you crack a smile or laugh, but it is in reality an empty gesture. You are merely existing, not living. I know it probably sounds horrible, but it's really not. It's not bleak or miserable or dark or lonely.. it's not bright or happy or fulfilling... it just.. is.

Odette had spent all her years of living like a stray dog. Yearning for a love that will never happen, it claws against the cage that is Odette's ribs. Yet she continues to try, each time tasting a sip of heaven before it torn out of her throat once again. Looking at someone who never saw you at all, but in her dreams when she is free of all judgement, she dreams of blurring into them.

Waking up is a struggle, when she awaken she instinctively looks to the beds beside her own, only to find them empty. So many people lost. So many fathers looking for their children in the rubble of the aftermath. So many husbands having to comfort their wives for their lost children.

But all time ever does is pass, and all they can do is grieve. Grief, she's learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers up into the corner of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go. And maybe in another universe she saved them all.

So she waits.

And waits.

And waits..

And waits...

Until the chilling winds of Winter are over, and the mournful tears of spring start. Time has not waited for no one, and Odette would be delusional to believe it would stop for her. So she continues to exist, because she isn't truly living. Processing the guilt by running, until it finds her on a warm, summers day.

Her hands clasp over the hourglass, ready to turn a familiar twisting pattern. The wind howls violently, as if mourning with her. The wind does not mourn, it only carries the feelings of those who do. So when she twists once more, the wind clasps her hand in theirs and continues to twist.

She grabs her wrist with her free hand, but its too late and the damage has been done. She can't do anything but watch hopelessly, as the stoned walls of Hogwarts turn to bark and leaf.

The air smells cleaner, purified, but Odette can't help but hate it. It is a constant reminder of her mistake. A reminder that she can longer waltz through Hogwarts homely halls and walk up the changing stairs.

Her blonde hair is gently swept from her face, showing sapphire eyes that have never known love or peace. And she can't help but quietly weep from the frustration of it all, palms wiping away the tears and snot until her eyes become raw and her hands, flaked and wrinkled. Already homesick for arms that have never held her.

Odette sits against an oak tree and can't help but be reminded of Hagrid, so kind, so compassionate. A complete opposite to the person she was, and she prays that he at least always have her name on the tip of his tongue.

She thinks of Professor Mcgonagall, and an ugly sob is torn from her throat and she claws at the ground until the roots of the tree show. Odette tries to stop, but she cries until there are no tears left to sob out. A dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't.

"My guilt will not purify me."

She hopes that Hermione's heart aches when she thinks of her, she hopes that it hurts and is slowly killing her. Because maybe then she will finally realise that, that's all her heart has been doing. She stares blankly at the grains of sand in her hand and lap, dissociating.

It's over and Odette is stuck in a time where no one knows her, let alone loves her. But she knows deep inside that she will love soon enough, whether it be platonic or romantic. Because she loves like a rotten dog, she loves like her canines are falling out of her gums. Like a monster, like a beast. Like something that's not worth loving back. She is the flesh maggots adore.

The worst part of love is that I remember it.

I walk around all day thinking:

"I'm going to die in a universe no one loved me in"

I get so jealous of euthanized dogs.

And she aches.

She aches all over.

Aching to be herself, but afraid of what it means to do so.

Her once electric blue eyes, now dulled a periwinkle blue, catches movement from the corners of her eyes, and she does not have enough strength in her to muster up the ability to lift her wand.

For the first time in a long while, Odette softly smiles.

" Maybe in another universe I'll be warmed by the life I tried to live"

✷ Hey everyone! here's the first chap hope u enjoyed

           ↪︎ I tried to be philosophical did I cook?

✷ This isn't beta read or grammar checked bcus its 130am and i dont currently have enough will to continue living

✷ I have started a go fund me for my mum (she's not sick or anything) you dont have to donate but sharing it with people who might or know people who might is also good so yea but a donation would be nice (no pressure)! its on my profile as my website

Chapter Text

The skin around Odette's eyes had grown raw and swollen from the hours she had spent crying, and all that was left was an empty numbness that somehow also felt painful. Her wand and the minimal luggage she brought with her lay sprawled across the ground.

The sun was low on the horizon, casting gold and rust over the land as Odette pushed herself upright from the mossy ground. Her limbs ached from the lack of use, and her vision blurred at the edges due to exhaustion. Night had been closely approaching, and according to subtle snarls and rustles from behind bushes, it would be best to find civilisation or at least shelter. While she knew she had to get up and pull herself together, her feet stayed rooted in the soil. It was exhausting to think, but all time seemed to do was pass, and all she could do was mourn and stay as pathetic as she always was.

Loneliness had sunk into the marrow of her bones, like rot; fantasies of what could have been left an indelible mark on her heart, like a brand. But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever. No one was going to come and save her, so the only thing she could do was to get up.

Using a Point Me spell, she followed north, dragging her feet in exhaustion. Twigs and rotted wood crunched and tripped her up, and every step felt like iron chains were bolted around her ankles. 

Eventually, the forest opened up to reveal a structure, shaped like a wound against the heavens—blackened stone etched with the breath of centuries. Twin towers clawed at the clouds, their spires jagged like the nails of a nail-biter. The façade was a forest of shadowed carvings: saints with greyed lines falling from their eyes due to erosion, angels with chipped wings, and grotesques that watched with knowing silence. Each statue seemed half-alive, frozen mid-prayer or scream, their features worn soft by time and storms.

A thousand windows, some no wider than a whisper, watched the world below like glass eyes. Odette could have sworn something was looking at her through one of them. Moss curled in the cracks of archways, and ivy clawed up the buttresses like veins of something ancient refusing to die. Bells slept above, hidden in the throat of the towers, waiting to scream again when the hour demanded it. 

The wind moved differently here—colder, slower like it too bowed in reverence. Silence clung to the stone steps, broken only by the echo of distant crows and the scrape of metal on old stone. 

Something in her stirred.

She crossed the shattered threshold, the air thickening around her. Magic pressed against her skin like humidity. Shadows shifted. The scent of moss, ash, and ozone filled her lungs. She took a step further inside, and the ground beneath her feet pulsed.

The attack was sudden. A low snarl — and then something lunged at her from the gloom. She barely managed to raise her wand.

"Protego!"

The beast bounced off her shield with a yowl. It resembled a mountain lion but with sleek fur and burning yellow eyes. A Wampus Cat.[1] More surrounded her — slithering, crawling, flapping. A winged serpent hissed above, its scales shimmering like oil. An Occamy.[2] She turned, circling, wand held firm.

"Wait," she whispered. "Please."

Another came. A creature with feathers that seemed to shimmer with cloud-like patterns, accompanied by its three wings.[3] Its eyes were thoughtful, and it stopped the others with a single low warble. The creatures stilled, watching. Curious now. Not ready to trust, but willing to listen.

Odette lowered her wand. "I won't harm you."

A silent moment passed.

Then, one by one, the creatures retreated, fading into the walls, into cracks, into the rafters. From the corner of her eye, she saw the large, shadowed form of a Runespoor[4] slowly slither away, its three heads faintly hissing.

Over the following days, Odette earned their tolerance. She found a dry chamber, scourgified it as best she could, and began to explore. The castle was vast, and the wild magic laced into its bones responded to her presence. Glow Bugs flashed secret messages at her.[5] Plants bent toward her. Stones shifted to make way. It faintly reminded her of Hogwarts, and a pang of depressive nostalgia drove itself into her heart.

The creatures — she came to call them Scamander's Suitcase as a little pun — watched from the shadows. A firedrake[6], small and covered by sooty patches, followed her everywhere. She named it Ignis. At first, it seemed a silent guardian, but soon, it warbled when she sang, curled around her fingers, and guided her through hidden corridors.

As she cleaned and repaired the castle, she began to restore its defences. Her magic was limited and unstable in this wild place, but she was clever, and the old spells remembered her. She rediscovered runes etched into the stone, enchantments half-whispered by the wind, and hidden relics buried beneath ancient rubble.

She wove veils and glamour and hid the castle from outsiders. She whispered to the stones, etched her power into every lintel, and called the creatures to guard her sanctum. They obeyed, not as servants but as partners. Affection was given even when she never asked for it. She began to dream again — of safety, of sanctuary, of rebuilding a life.

She began to smile again.

But safety was always borrowed, never owned.

She had just completed a strong perimeter ward when the warning cry came. The albino bloodhound[7] that watched the ridge let out a high, desperate howl. Odette froze.

Too soon.

Men in black tunics covered in leather and armour that looked like it had seen better days, armed with iron and runes, surged from the forest. Cuffs bolted and reinforced with cold iron, whips curled by their sides like snakes. Slavers.

She ran.

Not away — toward the courtyard. They will have to tear her apart if they think they can destroy everything she has fought so hard for.

"Guard the keep!" she cried.

The beasts responded with a fury she had not seen before. Spiked butterflies swooped down from above, both strangling and stabbing their poison into the men's guts with their spiked tails. A Cerberus tearing a man apart like a chew toy. Spells collided in the air like thunderclaps. Roots rose from the ground to ensnare boots. The trees bent as if angered.

Odette fought.

She wielded the castle's magic like a storm, trapping men in root cages, turning their heads purple, and directing their arrows right back at them. She screamed incantations she barely remembered. Her eyes blazed with light.

But there were too many.

A net flung high caught her. She burned through it. Another took its place. Cursed iron wrapped around her wrists, sapping her strength. A chilling feeling sank into the marrow of her bones, curling and knitting itself into the very fabric of her magic, like a disease. .it slowly wraps around you, coaxing you into believing it is nothing before it rips at you, and there is nothing left but a gaping wound.

"No!"

She flailed as they dragged her down. Ignis leapt at them, his tail crackling, but was kicked aside. Something heavy struck her skull.

Darkness.

Odette awoke to silence. Her head was currently going through the most mindboggling migraine it's ever had.

A carriage. Bound. Gagged. Her wand is gone. Wait, her wands gone!

Odette scampered around, her movements minimised due to the shackles on her hands and feet. Her head whipped towards every direction, looking for the familiar look of her wand.

She began to hyperventilate, her only hope of getting out of here and being rendered useless. Did she drop it? Or did they take it? She could try wandless magic, but there was a good chance it would just cancel out halfway through a spell.

"Don't bother." Odette looked up, a man riddled with scabbed-over whip marks. "It's cold iron. Any magic used is reduced to nothing, and all you get back is a whip to the back." He had similar shackles around his wrists, the area around them almost blackened due to infection. She's no healer, but she's pretty sure it's beginning to necrose.

The man groans in pain as he tries to get comfortable. he opens one of his eyes lazily. "But I gotta admit, you kicked their asses." He began to chuckle, his shoulders shaking before being sharply cut off with a tense of pain. "Fuck.." He curses, "It was satisfying to see those bastards get a taste of their own medicine. Cool trick by the way."

Odette furrowed her brows in confusion, and the man sighed. "Y'know? The beasts?" She nodded her head in understanding. She was about to respond, but she was hit with the realisation that she was still gagged, and she slumped in defeat.

He chuckled again before hissing in pain. "Crap, stop making me laugh." He breathed in for a few seconds. "The name is Rodrick." He was about to continue, but the carriage stopped, and he silenced himself and looked to the ground.

The slavers from before burst in, muttering amongst themselves before one of them—who she supposed was the leader of the small group—gestured to her, and once again she was hit with the hilt of his sword. The last thing she saw was Rodrick's face filled with shame as he looked away.

Days passed in a blur of cold and pain. She was fed gruel, barely spoken to. Every movement was watched. Her hands trembled constantly, her wrists bruised and rubbed raw from the enchanted shackles. Rodrick, with his continued glances of pity and shame, gave her a look over one more time before she was led into a fortress.

The fortress loomed above the valley like a scar carved into the mountainside—ancient, unyielding, and draped in the cold breath of early morning mist. Its walls, dark with age and battle-smoke, stretched wide and high, bristling with the jagged teeth of battlements. Moss crept between the stones like time itself had tried to reclaim it, but the fortress endured, defiant against the pull of centuries.

At its centre rose the keep, a towering block of iron-grey stone, its narrow windows glowing faintly with torchlight from within. Banners hung limp in the still air, their faded sigils barely visible, telling of a once-glorious house now worn thin by war and silence. Crows circled the watchtowers, their cries sharp and foreboding.

The gates—massive things of reinforced oak and black iron—stood closed, as if the fortress had turned its back on the world. Behind them, the courtyards were hushed, filled with the scent of damp earth and oiled steel. Soldiers moved like shadows, their armour clinking softly, eyes hard and tired. This was not a place of comfort. It was a place of last stands. Of oaths carved in stone and blood spilled without ceremony.

When she arrived in Mercia, she expected a cell. Maybe even put straight to work.

Instead, she was brought to a grand chamber—velvet-lined, gold-laced, absurd in its opulence. It smelled of rosewater and decay, a cloying mixture that turned her stomach. Silk drapes hung from the ceiling like clouds trying too hard to appear soft, masking the rot beneath. She could see moth balls not yet cleaned up, rat droppings peeking out from underneath the bed frame.

Hengist stood at the centre of it all, his smile slow and insidious. He sat draped in furs and arrogance, the weight of age doing nothing to dull the brutal cut of his presence. His bald head gleamed in the firelight, eyes like frozen steel peering out from a face carved by war and weather. A thick moustache framed his grim mouth, and a wolf's pelt hung from his shoulders as though he'd wrestled the beast himself.

Odette stood defiant, her chin lifted despite the bruises blooming across her cheek and the iron binding her wrists. Her silence was louder than any scream.

"You're beautiful," he said, his tone almost reverent. "But it's more than that. You glow."

He circled her slowly, a predator studying its prize and his eyes narrow in what seemed to be disappointment. "Do not pretend that you are some meek, pathetic little girl when I can see that vicious mind working behind your eyes." He reached toward her face, but she flinched before he could touch her. He chuckled darkly, finding amusement in the look in her eyes. "You must want very much to die. You look like a trapped animal." Odette does nothing but glare.

"I have uses for you," he continued. "You'll entertain. With magic. A pet illusionist. Swan-like and sorrowful. Beautiful and broken—the audience will eat it up." He leaned in, his mouth next to her ear. "If you even speak about escaping, I swear to you, not even the dogs in hell would be able to look at you."

He stopped before her, lifting a strand of her tangled hair. "You'll wear white. It suits you. Makes you look untouched, even when you're not. How amusing, you truly are a walking contradiction."

Her lips curled in disgust, and she spat at his feet. "I am under no obligation to make sense to you."

His guards tensed, but Hengist only laughed—a deep, amused sound with nothing human in it. "Fiery. Good. Fire lasts longer when it dies slowly."

Her chains changed, but they never disappeared.

Each morning, she was dressed like a doll. Silk and feathers, fine ivory ribbons cinched at the waist. Pale slippers that pinched her toes. Her hair brushed until it shone like moonlight. She was given just enough magic to perform—a sliver of her true strength, carefully filtered through the enchantments binding her.

At night, she was escorted into the opulent hall of performance. Gilded balconies shimmered in the glow of floating lights. Rows of nobles lounged in velvet chairs, fanning themselves with enchanted leaves, sipping nectar-laced wine. Laughter bounced off the high, domed ceiling—brittle, sharp, detached from consequence.

A great glass platform rose at the centre of the room. It was her stage. Transparent, suspended by magic, and beneath it—nothing. A void, swirling with illusion. A subtle reminder: perform, or fall.

Odette stood on it, spine straight, the cold seep of humiliation crawling up her neck as Hengist settled into his throne above.

"You may begin," he said lazily.

She closed her eyes, steadying her breath. The chains at her wrists hummed with control spells—but her soul, her fire, was not so easily shackled.

With a flick of her fingers, the air rippled.

White feathers burst into the sky like a thousand doves taking flight. The hall gasped. Each feather glowed faintly, trembling with soft magic. They spiralled above the heads of the crowd in slow, hypnotic dance.

Then came the swans. Spectral, regal, gliding through the air as if born of starlight and water. They trailed long veils of mist, brushing the brows of stunned nobles with ghostly elegance.

She conjured a lake beneath the glass floor—a mirror of silver moonlight. Trees sprouted around it, branches glistening with frost. Stars fell into the water, blooming into lilies.

Hengist leaned forward, enthralled. "Yes... yes. That sorrow. That beauty. It hurts to watch. Perfect."

But Odette's hands kept moving.

A single swan broke from the flock—larger, brighter. It descended to the lake, its wings wide, a crown of light upon its brow. It bowed once to the crowd and then opened its beak in a silent scream.

The illusion shimmered. For a heartbeat, the lake cracked, black veins spiderwebbing across its surface. The trees leaned, whispering something almost too ancient to hear.

And in the roots, hidden deep — a rune.

One no one in Hengist's court recognised. But Odette did. A signal. A message.

I am here. I remember. Come find me.

She wove the spell as though painting. No wasted movements. No trace of strain. And yet within every flick of her wrist, there was quiet rebellion.

A spiral of birds burst from her chest—an illusion of her heart breaking open, each feather a memory. They swirled through the air in a cyclone of grief, and then scattered, turning into shimmering dust that rained down over the nobles.

One woman sobbed quietly. A man gripped the edge of his seat as if struck by something he didn't understand.

"Remarkable," Hengist whispered.

The performance ended with Odette collapsing to her knees in the lake of light. The glass beneath her went dark. The hall roared with applause. Hengist rose to his feet, beaming.

"My Swan," he said. "You outdo yourself."

He called her his Swan. His favourite. His delicate, broken doll.

She endured.

But within every illusion, she hid something. A symbol in the light. A cry in the wind. A message, always different.

The beasts at the castle were ancient. Their senses were vast.

And she still believed. She was nothing but nausea, nothing but reverie, nothing but longing.

She is something very far removed, and she keeps going.

Time passed strangely in captivity.

She met other slaves—dancers, warriors, artisans. Most broken. Some are quietly rebellious. They spoke in half-truths, shared dreams in the dark.

She befriended Eyo, a mute glassblower, who taught her to use soundless spells. A fire-eater named Kory taught her sleight-of-hand. A silent bond formed between them all. Little tricks. Shared looks. Secrets folded into silence.

They plotted. Watched. Waited.

Her hope flickered but never died.

Then one evening, as she conjured a garden of light for Hengist's guests, something shifted.

A ripple—not seen, but felt. A tremor in the air. A tug in her chest, like a forgotten melody suddenly remembered.

She turned, ever so slightly, and there—just beyond the crowd, a tiny head peaking from the window—a pair of yellow eyes stared back at her. Calm. Steady. Watchful.

Ignis.

Odette's heart clenched. For the briefest moment, her breath hitched, but her face betrayed nothing. She didn't react. She didn't cry. She continued her performance, hands weaving spells of blooming ivy and glimmering petals. At some point in the performance, she was trying to communicate like a Glow Bug, signalling Ignis to leave.

But the garden changed. Flowers with thorns grew taller. Vines curled into spirals that twisted into old, forbidden runes. A pattern etched itself into the roots: a sigil from the old days—one that pulsed softly with ancient magic.

She prayed, begged that he would get the hint and just leave so that he wouldn't have to see her like this, that he wouldn't have to see the ugliness in humanity. He gives a low warble, his tongue peaking out, and her heart melts the slightest bit, but she continues to gesture for him to leave.

His head hangs low, and his tail lets off dying sparks, almost resigned and leaves.

It was during her fourth performance that week—a festival night, full of masks and indulgence. The audience was rowdier than usual, wine flowing like water, nobility flushed with laughter and decadence. The chamber thrummed with the heat of gluttony and greed.

Odette stood alone in the centre of the floating glass platform, dressed in snow-silver robes threaded with enchantments. Her hair was braided with pearls. Her wrists were bare—no cuffs tonight, but the rune-burns still lingered in faint red rings, reminders of the chains that waited just beyond the stage.

She was conjuring a snowfall—flakes suspended in still air like glass motes, twinkling around the crowd—when a sound caught her ear.

Soft.

A claw on tile.

A spark of fire.

Her heart stuttered.

She didn't dare turn, but she felt it—something watching from the edge of the hall. From the low arch just beside the minstrel alcove. Eyes.

Yellow.

Steady.

Ignis.

Odette faltered. Her hands stilled mid-gesture. The snowfall slowed.

Hengist noticed.

He sat forward on his throne, eyes narrowing. The crowd was still enchanted, but he watched her with that predator's instinct—a smile carved too thin to be human.

Then he saw it.

The firedrake had crept closer, sleek and silent, perched now upon the marble edge of a nearby fountain. Unnoticed by all except Odette and the slave trader. Its yellow eyes met hers.

A tremble passed through her—hope, wild and unguarded, for the first time in months.

Hengist rose.

The act was casual—the sweep of his fur cloak rough, the smile still in place. "Apologies," he said to the room. "It seems a wild creature has slipped past the wards."

Odette's heart turned to ice.

"No," she whispered, barely audible, the word lost beneath the muttering of the guests.

"A shame," Hengist continued, stepping down from his throne, "we can't have vermin wandering among our honoured guests. It could be dangerous. Who knows what disease it carries?"

The crowd murmured in agreement. Someone laughed nervously.

He raised his hand.

Odette reacted without thinking.

She stepped toward the edge of the glass. "Don't."

He looked at her, his gaze glinting like grease. "Don't?"

She tried to keep her voice even. "It's harmless."

A pause.

Then a smile. "You recognise it."

Her mouth went dry.

He turned his eyes back to Ignis, who, brave and still as ever, remained perched on the edge, watching him without fear.

"I know what it is," Hengist said quietly. "And I know what it means to you."

A flick of his fingers.

A bolt of arrowfire

Odette screamed.

The arrow struck Ignis in the chest—a clean shot, precise, cruel. The firedrake didn't make a sound. Just crumpled, folded in on itself like a firecracker being snuffed out, yellow eyes fading as the light left them.

The court gasped. A few clapped, assuming it was part of the act.

But Odette dropped to her knees.

The snowfall shattered around her, every flake crashing to the ground in shards of ice. The lake illusion beneath the platform cracked and collapsed into black mist. The entire stage darkened.

Hengist stood above it all, serene.

"It was a threat," he said aloud, voice ringing out like law. "The guests must be kept safe."

He looked down at Odette, meeting her eyes with an almost intimate cruelty. "You understand, don't you?"

Odette said nothing.

Tears didn't fall. Not yet.

Her hands curled into fists so tight they shook, bloody crescents scarring her manicured hands. Magic sparked at her fingertips but fizzled—useless, as always, behind the seals and wards.

Hengist stepped back to his wooden throne.

"Finish your act."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Odette stood slowly. The platform groaned beneath her. Every eye was on her now, unsure if the performance had changed—if the grief on her face was real, or just another illusion.

She lifted her arms.

And for the first time, she did not give them beauty.

She gave them a storm.

The wind howled. The lights above shattered. The projection of the moon cracked and bled red across the ceiling. Swans burst into black-feathered crows. Thorns climbed the walls. Fire bloomed in the shape of wings.

Gasps. Panic.

But she never moved from her place.

And when she bowed—slow, mechanical—her eyes locked on Hengist's.

The illusion melted into smoke.

The room roared.

But the slaver only smiled, sipping from his goblet, as if the violence of her grief was the most exquisite performance yet.

"Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter..." He whispered at a volume that could only be heard by Odette.

She tries to muster up all the rage she feels, but it just slips through her fingers, as the only emotion she's not too tired to muster is grief.

Grieving, grieving, constantly grieving. Odette mourns what could have been, what will be, and what she can't save.

[1] Wampus Cat - Somewhat resembling the mundane mountain lion or cougar in size and appearance, the Wampus cat was native to the Appalachian Mountains. It could walk on its hind legs, outrun arrows, and its yellow eyes were reputed to have the power of both hypnosis and legilimency. The Wampus cat was fast, strong, and almost impossible to kill.

[2] Occamy - The Occamy was a winged, serpentine magical beast native to the Far East and India.

[3] Thunderbird - The Thunderbird was a large, magical avian beast native to North America, and most commonly found in Arizona in the southwestern United States. A close relative of the Phoenix, the Thunderbird could create storms as it flew and was highly sensitive to danger.

[4] Runespoor - The Runespoor was a magical three-headed snake native to the African country of Burkina Faso.

[5] Glow Bugs - Glow Bugs were small, luminescent, magical worms.

[6] Firedrake - Small flying lizards with long antennae. Firedrakes were sometimes mistaken for dragons, though they did not breathe fire. Instead, they emitted sparks from the ends of their tails, which could be used to set anything flammable alight.

[7] Albino Bloodhounds - Albino bloodhounds were bloodhounds with albinism: that is, they had no pigment in their eyes, fur, or skin.

Chapter Text

Days blurred together in Hengist's castle. After the spectacle of her magical performances, Odette had been stripped of the stage and returned to something far more humiliating — servitude.

She was no longer the Swan, no longer the favourite illusionist brought out to dazzle and distract. Now, she scrubbed floors with bloodied fingers, served wine she could never taste, and bowed her head so low her neck ached. Her collar returned, runes burning faintly beneath her skin, suppressing the magic that once danced in her bones. She enjoyed the unrestricted use of magic while it lasted. She just wished she had taken the chance to kill Hengist when she had it.

The castle bustled more than ever — nobles from all corners of the realm gathered in Hengist's court. War was coming, that much was clear. Political alliances, weapons trades, dark experiments carried out in rooms Odette wasn't permitted to see — she witnessed the edges of horror, enough to know the centre was far worse.

Her days were long and filled with humiliations. She wore plain, colourless garments, her hair cropped roughly at the neck so she might be "less distracting." She was ordered not to speak unless spoken to, and to smile when she served — a rule she broke daily.

But still, she hoped.

Morgause came on a day thick with storm clouds.

The hall was alight with laughter and gold, though Odette barely noticed. Her eyes were downcast as she approached the long banquet table, pitcher in hand, to refill the goblets of the guests. She moved automatically — one cup, then another — until a hush rippled through the gathered crowd.

She lifted her eyes.

The woman who had just entered the room strode like she owned the air. Cloaked in black and green, with a circlet of iron thorns resting lightly atop her blonde curls, Morgause was unlike anyone in the room — or perhaps, Odette thought, unlike anyone in the world.

Her eyes met Odette's.

Something in them flickered.

Shock. Recognition. And... sorrow?

Odette dropped her gaze, heart pounding.

Morgause sat beside Hengist, who offered her a smile too warm to be sincere. They exchanged pleasantries while Odette finished pouring the wine. But when she passed by Morgause, a gloved hand caught her wrist, gently.

"Your eyes," Morgause murmured. "They're like glass just before it shatters."

Odette froze. The guests laughed at some joke Hengist made, but that one sentence echoed in her ears. She bowed quickly and escaped. That night, while cleaning a corridor of tapestries, a whisper brushed her ears.

"Behind the statue. Midnight." She turned. No one there. Only the flickering torches and the weight in her chest.

At midnight, she slipped from the servants' quarters.

Behind the statue of the weeping queen, there was a sliver of space — a hidden stairwell once meant for guards or lovers. Morgause stood within, cloaked and waiting, holding a lantern doused in glamoured shadow.

"I thought you might not come," Morgause said.

"I thought you might not mean it," Odette retorted.

They stared at each other. Morgause took in her ragged state — the bruise blooming beneath her jaw, the limp in her step, the collar etched in cruel iron.

"You're not what I expected," Morgause said softly.

"Neither are you."

They talked in that hidden stair for over an hour. Morgause spoke of distant kingdoms. Of power unchecked. Of rebellion sewn in the silence of halls like these. And Odette, for the first time in weeks, allowed herself to laugh.

The sound startled them both.

It was a small, broken thing—not joyous, not whole—but it lived. Morgause's eyes crinkled as she heard it, and she reached out instinctively. Her fingers brushed the back of Odette's hand. Odette didn't pull away, her hands icy and frostbitten compared to the security and warmth of Morgause's.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was warm.

They sat down together on the cold stone steps, the lantern casting soft circles of glamour around them, cloaking them in a hush that made them feel like the last two souls in the world.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Odette asked, nodding toward the lantern.

"A hedge-witch in the north," Morgause replied. "I lived with her one winter. She told fortunes in bird bones and boiled beetles in cider to keep the dead away."

"That sounds—unpleasant."

"It was," Morgause smiled. "But she taught me how to see through lies. Yours are very pretty, by the way."

Odette blinked. "Lies?"

"The ones you tell yourself. That you're powerless. That you're used up."

A slow ache opened in Odette's chest. "I'm not lying to myself. You don't know what I've lost."

"I don't," Morgause admitted. "But I can see what you still carry." She curled her hands around Odettes as she looked her in the eyes. "Your shame and guilt will not cleanse you. There is no baptism of agony from which you will emerge pure."

Her hand moved to her cheek, maternal, in a way. "Believe me, I've tried. Oh, how I have tried. A whisper of confession." Her hands trailed to her shoulders, "A mantra of apologies bursting out of you until your throat is raw."

To her elbows. "There is no greater sin than hating yourself for being alive." Finally, Morgause's soft hands stopped at Odettes' hands, lifting them to cover her mouth. "No greater transgression committed than the act of violence against yourself."

She didn't press further. Instead, she passed Odette a folded square of cloth — something soft and lavender-scented. "For your cheek," she said.

Odette took it, holding it to the bruise beneath her eye. "You're not a guest here, are you?"

Morgause tilted her head. "Not exactly."

"And you're not just passing through."

"No."

"So what are you?"

"To define is to limit," Morgause said, grinning. "Just kidding. A problem, hopefully for Hengist."

That drew another ghost of a smile from Odette, who leaned back against the cold wall and exhaled slowly. She had forgotten what it was like to sit and be. Not a servant. Not a spectacle. Not a possession. Just Odette.

They met again the next night. And the next. Always behind the weeping queen, always after midnight.

Some nights they spoke in whispers about escape—when, how, where. Other nights, they talked about stars, about favourite foods, about the sound of ocean tides. Morgause told her stories of a sea kingdom where people wore moonlight like jewellery and danced on the backs of whales.

A friendship blossomed between them—strange, quiet, and deep. It gave Odette something she hadn't known she missed: the presence of someone who saw her as more than her collar, more than her pain. Morgause didn't look at her as if she were broken. She looked at her as if she were worth saving.

Odette, once reluctant, shared a memory of her father's green cloak, the one she had curled up in during thunderstorms. She told Morgause how she used to braid her mother's hair with peacock feathers. She spoke of Ignis, the firedrake who had once guarded her heart. He didn't stay long, but he was her only source of affection in a long time and having him ripped from her so suddenly was torturous.

"Where is Ignis now?" Morgause asked.

Odette looked away. "I don't know." Morgause lifted her hand to her chin and gently returned it to her gaze. She smiled softly in understanding. The grief was always close. But Morgause didn't treat it like a wound to be poked. She sat beside her in silence and let it pass like weather.

"I used to have a sister." Morgause said suddenly, "She's my half-sister, but still my sister nonetheless. She was taken from me when my father died. I believe she was two summers old at the time, it is likely she no longer remembers me."

Odette listened attentively, she looked back at the moon, and lay her head on her companion's shoulder. "Her name is Morgana." Odette's heart dropped to her stomach. She looked up at Morgause's unsuspecting face, which was still looking at the constellations.

In time, Odette began to crave the meetings not just for escape, but for connection. It was the only place in the world where she didn't feel like a ghost of herself.

One evening, Morgause brought bread and cheese wrapped in wax cloth. "Stole it from a banquet," she said proudly.

Odette tore into it with shaking hands.

"Slow down," Morgause teased. "You'll make yourself sick."

"I haven't had anything real in weeks," Odette murmured through a mouthful. "Gruel and ash water. I think the bread's trying to apologise for them."

Later, when Morgause reached to brush crumbs from her lips, Odette didn't flinch.

There was tension now—not dangerous, but delicate. The kind of thing that blooms when two people find themselves reflected in each other's cracks. The kind that dares to ask what if in a world full of never.

Morgause never pushed. But her fingers lingered a little longer. Her voice dropped a little lower. Her smile stayed just a beat too long. And Odette—careful, trembling Odette—started to meet her halfway.

On their twelfth meeting, Odette arrived late, panting, her apron stained with wine from a goblet spilled by a noble too drunk to remember her name.

Morgause looked her over, frowning.

"Did he touch you?"

"No," Odette said. "But he wanted to. Hengist stopped him."

"That doesn't make him a hero."

"I know."

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Morgause asked quietly, "Do you want to go through with it? The plan?"

Odette hesitated. "I'm afraid."

"I know." She traced runes into her palm like it was second nature.

"I don't know if I can make it. My leg still aches. I don't even know if I'll be able to run."

"Then I'll carry you," Morgause said.

"I'm tough," she whispers.

She nods passively. "I know you are."

"I can take care of myself." The bones on her ribs and wrists jutting out said otherwise.

"You have," she says. "You still do. You always will. I've just joined in, too.. Now we take care of each other."

Odette looked away gently. "I don't deserve you." Morgause once again guided her jaw back to her, her face stern.

"'Do I deserve this?' 'Am I worthy of this?'" She mimicked before looking her dead in the eyes, her hands on the sides of her head, leaving no room for argument. "So irrelevant. Do you want this?"

Odette looked at her then, really looked at her. The high cheekbones. The calloused hands. The stubborn set of her mouth. The stormlight in her eyes.

"How are you not afraid?" Odette asked.

"I am," Morgause said. "But I'm more afraid of staying."

And with that, Odette reached out — not out of desperation, but with intention — and took her hand.

The days that followed stretched long and slow, heavy with tension and secret glances. Odette continued her work in silence, polishing floors that gleamed like the ice she once skated clumsily across in her childhood in Hogsmeade, refilling goblets of wine for the bloated nobles who came to Hengist's halls, scrubbing the soot from curtains that would be dirtied again by nightfall.

But now, each task had weight. Each step, each breath, was one closer to escape. To possibility.

When she was lucky, Morgause would find her in the shadowed corridors or kitchens and speak with her in the hushed, coded language of the enslaved.

"Storm's coming," Morgause would say, handing her a pile of linens.

Odette would reply, "Then we'd best get ready," and their eyes would meet. Sometimes, though, they could speak plainly. Those moments—stolen like sweets before supper—felt like breathing after drowning.

One evening, Morgause found Odette washing goblets in the courtyard fountain. The dusk light shimmered on the water, painting the scene in copper and rose. No one else was nearby.

"I saw you last night," Morgause said casually, crouching beside her. "Your illusions. Even without magic, you find a way." Odette flushed slightly. She had been pretending—only pretending—shaping images from steam and candlelight, using sleight of hand and whispered charms not reliant on her power.

"It's all I have left," she said. "Little tricks."

"They're not little to the ones who see them."

Odette glanced sideways. Morgause had taken a cloth from the basket and was polishing goblets with long, graceful strokes. "You used to be a noble, didn't you?"

The older woman stilled for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Once. In the East."

"Why did you help me?"

Morgause didn't speak at first. She wrung out the cloth and stared into the rippling water. "You're a monster." Odette flinched, her eyes showing slight hurt. But how can she be hurt if Morgause is only speaking the truth? "But so am I, which is why I can't turn myself away from you."

Odette allowed the lump in her throat to completely block all noise that might come out of her. She knew Morgana was a sensitive topic, even when she was apart from her for all those years.

They sat in silence for a long time.

And Odette, in turn, began to feel like maybe, just maybe, she was.

But the castle had ears.

A boy no older than twelve, another slave, had seen them together. Curious. Jealous. Terrified. He didn't understand the stakes—only that he might gain favour.

He told the steward. The steward told the captain. The captain told Hengist.

And Hengist smiled.

On the morning of the escape, the air was heavy with mist.

Odette waited in the eastern corridor, disguised in a servant's clothes borrowed from the laundry. The brooch Morgause had given her now glowed faintly against her collarbone, its magic a soft hum against her skin. For the first time in weeks, she could feel the flickers of her power—restless, hungry, alive.

Morgause had gone ahead to prepare the wagon. The corridor was empty. The guard she had arranged to distract was gone, as promised.

Her heart thundered.

This was it.

She took a breath.

A step.

And then—

An arrow screamed through the air.

The pain was blinding. Her scream split the silence, and she fell hard, the world pitching around her. Her leg was pierced clean through by the black-fletched shaft, twisted beneath her. 

Footsteps thundered. Men. Three of them. Hengist's colours. One yanked the brooch from her throat and crushed it beneath his boot. Another struck her across the cheek, her vision going white for a heartbeat.

From down the corridor, a voice shouted.

"No!"

Morgause.

She was running, her expression twisted in horror and rage, as she used her magic to impale them on their own weapons. Wasting no time, she began to lift Odette on her back, her body sprawled and slowly slipping, weighing her down like a deer's carcass.

Odette met her gaze, panting through the pain. Her mouth was full of iron. "Go," she gasped.

"I can't—"

"You have to."

Hesitation. Fury. Grief.

Then Morgause turned and fled.

Odette's last glimpse of her was a blur of dark hair vanishing into the fog. She had told her to flee, yet she couldn't help but feel a bit hurt by how easily she was swayed to leave her behind.

There was something that burrowed into the smallest divets of her spine, sewing itself into it. Something that contained betrayal, sorrow, and fury, Odette was the one who told her to leave, and now she felt like this? It made no sense.

'There is nothing more humiliating to me than my own desires.'

The punishment was swift. She was dragged into the courtyard, bleeding and broken, her wounded leg trailing behind her. Hengist's court of bandits and slave traders gathered to watch, like crows scenting a corpse.

Her tunic clung to her, soaked in sweat and blood. Her collar had been re-forged, its runes glowing cold and sharp. Her wrists were shackled again, heavier than before.

They lashed her across the back. The whip cracked like thunder, over and over, until her spine was fire and her ribs threatened to snap. She made no sound—not even once—though her body trembled uncontrollably.

The wound burned—not with fire, but with something crueller. As sweat beaded along her brow and trickled down her spine, it crept like a thief into the open lash marks on her back. The salt, born of her own body, turned traitor. It kissed the raw flesh with sharp, unrelenting heat, the sting blooming like acid beneath her skin.

Each drop was a reminder: she was still alive, still suffering. Her breath hitched, her jaw clenched—but she made no sound. The pain was intimate now, a quiet companion, seeping deep into her bones where no magic could soothe it.

After the tenth strike, her knees buckled.

After the fifteenth, she collapsed.

They didn't stop until the stones beneath her were painted red.

And through it all, Hengist watched.

When it was over, he knelt beside her. His voice was a whisper of poison.

"You disappoint me, little Swan." She spat blood at his boots.

His eyes flared.

The crack of the whip surged—burning, debilitating. She arched, gasped, then slumped, unconscious.

The days that passed were in fragments.

Pain. Fever. Silence.

Her leg throbbed, an infection threatening to spread. A healer came, set the bone, and cleaned the wound without kindness. She was not allowed to rest. She was made to work the moment she could stand.

Each step was agony.

But she did not cry.

She did not curse Morgause.

She whispered her name in the dark, like a prayer—a promise.

More time passed. The court moved on. Hengist's guests returned. New ones arrived. The spectacle continued.

Odette was returned to her old duties—silent, careful, ever watched.

She could no longer perform in the great hall. Not for a while. The arrow wound left a limp, and Hengist didn't want to parade her until she looked like a swan again.

But she cleaned the floors. Polished the silver. Stood like a statue at the edge of the room.

She did what she must.

But every night, as she lay curled in the dark, she remembered the way Morgause's hand had brushed hers. The sound of her laugh. The weight of the brooch, of her promise.

She had said she would come back.

And Odette believed her.

Even if it took days.

Or months.

Even if it took years.

She believed.

Because in the end, hope was the only thing they hadn't yet taken from her. And when you give a broken girl a reason to believe—that's when the fire really starts to burn.

Odette could still hear the whistle of the arrow if she sat still long enough. It haunted her sleep, the sound that marked the end of her first genuine attempt at freedom. Her leg still throbbed, wrapped tightly beneath the layers of linen they had begrudgingly allowed her.

It was not a wound meant to kill—just one designed to maim, to remind her of the cost of disobedience. Every time she limped across the guest quarters to refill wine goblets or scrub ash from the tiles, the pain echoed through her bones.

But what hurt more was the silence.

Morgause was gone.

The promise lingered in Odette's mind like incense in a temple—sweet, elusive, cloying. "I'll come back for you." It should have brought her comfort, but most nights it only felt like a fever dream, a whisper conjured by her aching mind to ward off despair.

Still, she clung to it.

Morgause had left behind more than just a vow. She had left behind a series of small, intentional acts—tiny rebellions tucked into Odette's routine like secret prayers.

Some days, it was an extra slice of honeyed pear in her supper, hidden beneath the bland gruel. On other days, it was a folded piece of parchment slipped under her cleaning rag, inked with a rune that Odette could trace but not yet decipher. There were no signatures, no proof, but Odette knew her touch. The magic felt different, pulsing with a kind of warmth that refused to fade.

She learned to read between the lines.

A flicker of candlelight at the right angle became a message. A phrase overheard in passing between highborn guests became a warning. A pattern traced in dust on a forgotten windowsill became a signal. Morgause had begun weaving a language between them, one that even Hengist's most watchful guards couldn't untangle. Odette was probably hallucinating it, anything to get through this hell.

And Odette clung to it like a lifeline.

The pain of her punishment, however, was not just in body or mind, but in soul.

The lashes had reopened scars she didn't remember earning. They had tied her arms high, her toes barely touching the ground. All of her weight was shoved onto the fragile bones of her wrist. Her blood had soaked into the wood beneath her, and each crack of the whip had stripped her a little more of herself. But she hadn't screamed. Not once. She wouldn't give Hengist the pleasure.

She remembered his face—calm, amused, like a man disciplining a wayward dog.

"She forgets her place," he had said to the gathered court. "But pain teaches best."

Now, with the suppression cuffs locked around her wrists once more, her magic lay dormant, like a sleeping beast starved into submission. She could barely feel its presence anymore, just the dull ache of absence where power used to sing.

And yet—Odette adapted.

Survival had become an art form. Each day, she trained herself to observe more, to endure longer. She began to memorise the rhythms of the castle: when the guards changed shifts, when the kitchens were busiest, which door hinges creaked and which didn't. Her ears, once attuned to whispers of magic, now listened for human flaws—breaths caught in lies, the weariness in a tired footstep, the crack in an arrogant voice.

Even in pain, her mind sharpened. Her hatred was stewing in silence, growing venomous by the hour.

Isn't funny? She's enjoying her hatred so much more than she has ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Sometimes Odette is okay with that because what's a little labour for love? But love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use.

Sculpt.

Wield.

Control. Something she had wanted throughout her life. Control over her actions. Control over how people thought of her. Control people to believe she actually mattered, that her existence wasn't just a thing of normality. She wanted to be special.

Love humiliates you. Hatred cradles you. And yet, even knowing this, people still continue to love, despite knowing the outcome. Odette continues to love, because what is the point of living when you hold onto hate?

And when Morgause returned—because she would—Odette would be ready.

Their friendship had been a slow-burning thing, built in fleeting glances and risky conversations.

Morgause had begun with curiosity. She had lingered after performances, asking Odette about her illusions as if they were paintings in a gallery. At first, Odette had responded with cold politeness, wary of traps. But Morgause had persisted, not with force, but with attention. Real attention.

One evening, after a particularly extravagant show where Odette had conjured a phoenix of molten light, Morgause had approached her backstage, her expression unreadable.

"That bird," she had said softly. "It wasn't just light."

Odette had blinked, startled. "No," she'd admitted. "It was memory. My mother used to tell me stories of a firebird who would only come to those who had suffered."

Morgause had been silent for a long time before she said, "You conjure like a poet, not a performer."

Odette had looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You don't create to please," Morgause said. "You create to remember. And to survive."

That was when Odette had first let her guard down—just a little.

Their friendship grew in cracks—between duties, in passing, under the heavy gaze of the castle's watchful eye. Morgause would ask small, meaningful questions: What kind of trees grew near your childhood home? What colour was the sky the day you left? Do you believe in prophecy?

And Odette found herself answering.

She told Morgause about the lake near her village, where swans nested, and about the first time she had used magic without a wand. About the last time she laughed freely. Morgause, in turn, shared stories of her homeland—windswept cliffs, temples carved into stone, the strange lullabies her mother used to hum in a language that no longer had a name.

They were very different women.

Morgause was all steel beneath velvet—sharp, calculating, composed. Odette was fire wrapped in silk—volatile, feeling too deeply, too openly. But something in their differences created balance, like water over stone.

Eventually, Morgause began slipping her coded messages—warnings, encouragements, a map drawn in salt behind a pantry shelf. The escape plan was developed slowly and meticulously over several weeks.

And then... it had fallen apart in a moment.

The betrayal still stung.

Odette never learned the name of the slave who had overheard them and run to Hengist, seeking favour. But she remembered the coward's eyes as she was dragged past them, chained and bleeding. They were filled with shame, yes, but not enough to deter them. Their eyes held a feeling of smugness that said, If we have to be enslaved, why should you go free?

Morgause had wanted to stay. Odette had begged her to leave.

"You can't save me if you're caught too," she had whispered through bloodied lips.

Morgause had hesitated for a full heartbeat, then nodded once.

"I'll come back for you," she'd said.

Now, Odette waited.

One evening, weeks after the failed escape, Odette was scrubbing the ornate floor tiles of the eastern hall, her leg still aching in the cold. Exhaustion laced every action and thought. She felt eyes on her.

When she looked up, Morgause was there—a hallucination.

But one Odette revelled in.

CREATED: 21.07.2025

EDITED: TBA

NOT PROOFREAD

Chapter Text

The cold stone walls of Hengist's fortress were always damp, no matter the weather outside. The chill seeped through Odette's bones as she wiped down the dusty floor of the guest chamber with a rag fraying at the edges. Her wrists ached from the iron restraints, still humming with faint magic, nullifying her own, ever since the day she had tried to flee.

It had been weeks since Morgause had escaped. Weeks since Odette had clung to the fading warmth of her presence, the last trace of a promise whispered beneath blood-stained lips: I'll come back for you.

But Odette was still here. Still a prisoner. Still hiding the spark of power that pulsed beneath her skin.

Today, though, there was a change in the air.

The clamour of iron boots on stone, the shouted orders from Hengist's guards, was louder than usual. There had been a capture, she overheard, a woman brought in with the grace of nobility and the fire of someone wrongly chained.

Odette stood in the corner of the hall as Hengist himself approached the new prisoner, his greedy eyes narrowing as he studied her face. He addressed Kendrick, standing from his animal skin throne. "Kendrick, I was beginning to think you failed me," he admitted, voice soaked in surprised satisfaction.

Kendrick, now filled with vigour, introduced, "May I present the Lady Morgana?" He looked into the woman's eyes, his filled with silent threat.

Odette's breath caught. Morgana? But the woman in chains was no high-born enchantress. She was darker in tone, humble in manner, and though her bearing was proud, the dirt underneath her short nails marked her as a servant. Odette narrowed her eyes, her heart beating faster. This isn't Morgana.

But Hengist believed otherwise. And in his fortress, that was all that mattered.

Hengist faintly bowed before her, chuckling in amusement. He rose once again, his smirk dropping as he inspected her. "Oh..." The woman stood quietly looking away in a subtle act of defiance. Hengist pulled down her red hood and shook his head in awe. "Oh! You're as beautiful as they say, Lady Morgana."

She looked him in the eye in an act of false bravado. "I demand you release me immediately!"

"Just as soon as Uther Pendragon pays your ransom." His eyes roamed over her figure, and the sun-kissed woman felt a shiver go up her spine. "In the meantime, you'll be my guest."

As much as the woman tried, Odette could see past her haughty words and proud demeanour, and somewhere deep down, Odette envied the real Morgana for having someone so loyal.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Do not flatter yourself. I am not your guest! I am your prisoner."

"As you wish." He spoke without glancing back, "Take her to the dungeon." And just like that, the woman's fate was sealed. Odette looked down, grimacing at the thought.

Later that day, Odette was summoned.

She stood in the lavish guest quarters—lavish in a crude, Hengist sort of way—where the so-called "Lady Morgana" had been brought, bathed, and forced into silks too fine for her weather-worn hands. Odette arrived carrying a silver tray of spiced wine and honey-dipped fruit, trying not to limp as the ache in her leg throbbed beneath the hem of her skirt. The iron cuffs that dulled her magic chafed at her skin, always cold, always biting.

"You," a guard barked. "You'll attend to the Lady Morgana. You'll entertain her—" He smirked, his voice twisting into a tone doosed mockingly sweet. "She's our guest."

The door slammed behind her, leaving Odette and the woman alone.

Gwen turned her head, eyes taking in the new servant—not with suspicion or condescension, but quiet awe. She sat stiffly in the ornate chair, clearly uncomfortable in the rich blue silks that clung too tightly to her shoulders.

But her gaze lingered.

The girl before her moved with an elegance Gwen had rarely seen, even in noble courts. She was a vision—tall and willowy, with golden, curling hair cascading like a waterfall down her back, her features carved with the softness of starlight and shadow. Her skin was kissed gold by candlelight, her eyes too bright and too sad to belong to a mere servant.

Gwen found herself breathless.

"Wow," Gwen said softly. "You're beautiful." She slapped her hands over her mouth in shock, while Odette blinked, still processing what the fellow servant had said.

The words escaped her before she could stop them. Realising what she'd just said, she slapped her hands over her mouth in shock, eyes wide. "Oh! I-I didn't mean to blurt that out!"

Odette froze for half a heartbeat, her fingers tightening slightly around the silver pitcher she carried. A faint flush rose to her cheeks, the kind of pink that crept up slowly and unwillingly, like sunlight through heavy clouds. Her gaze flicked to Gwen—startled, uncertain—and then quickly dropped to the floor.

"I... thank you," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's kind of you."

Gwen smiled, warm and sincere. "It's only the truth."

Odette turned away slightly, setting the pitcher down on the table with unnecessary care, as if the act might steady her. Compliments were rare in this place. Kindness rarer still. She wasn't sure what to do with either.

But for the first time in weeks, something softened in her chest. Odette said nothing, lowering the tray to the table with practised elegance. To feel anything deranges you, to be seen feeling strips you naked.

The silence hung warm and a little awkward between them. Gwen shifted in her seat, smoothing down the unfamiliar silk gown as if it might calm the storm of feelings she couldn't yet name. She wasn't sure if it was fear of Hengist, of being mistaken for Morgana, or the fluttering warmth that had taken root after seeing the girl with the waterfall hair.

Odette poured water into a goblet without looking up. Her movements were too graceful for a servant, Gwen noticed. Too measured. Like she'd been trained for something else entirely.

Gwen accepted it with a quiet "Thank you," then studied her more closely. "I'm Guinevere," she said at last, her voice hushed. "But I suppose... I'm Lady Morgana for now."

That made Odette glance up.

The smile Gwen gave was laced with unease. "It's... complicated."

"You're doing a poor job of hiding it," Odette replied evenly.

Gwen gave a soft, almost self-conscious laugh, the sound like a candle in the dark. "Well, I never claimed to be a good liar."

There was a pause between them, not quite awkward, just cautious."You're not like the others," Gwen said softly.

Odette's shoulders stiffened.

"I mean—" Gwen hesitated. "You don't look afraid."

At that, Odette looked up at her, the flicker of a tired smile touching her lips. "I'm always afraid," she replied. "I've just had longer to practice hiding it."

Gwen's brow furrowed, sympathy stirring in her chest. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to forget what the sky looks like."

A shadow crossed Odette's eyes, and Gwen looked away, guilt blooming in her chest. She didn't know what story Odette held, but something about her—her poise, her sadness—felt heavy, like a tale too painful to tell.

Gwen stood, adjusting the heavy velvet robe around her shoulders. "You could come with me. When I escape. You wouldn't have to hide anymore."

Odette's face didn't change. "You're awfully confident you'll escape."

"I have to be," Gwen said. "Otherwise, I lose everything."

There was no arrogance in her voice—just quiet resolve. That steady, unshakable strength that defined her.

"You could be free," Gwen continued. "We could find a place where you wouldn't have to pretend. You could—"

"No," Odette said sharply.

Gwen blinked, startled by the sudden edge in her tone.

"I can't leave," Odette said, turning away. "Not yet."

Gwen didn't press, but her voice turned gentle again. "You're waiting for someone?"

Odette hesitated. Then gave the faintest nod.

"Morgause?"

This time, Odette's hands froze on the thin cotton bed sheets she was folding. Her back was rigid. She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

"I heard the guards talking about what happened."

Gwen stepped closer, not to intrude—just to offer her presence. "If she promised to come back, she will. She seems like the kind who keeps her word."

Odette gave a short breath of a laugh—sad, tired. "You don't know her."

"No," Gwen agreed softly. "But I know loyalty. And I know waiting for someone you care about... It's the hardest thing in the world."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Before Gwen could speak again, the door to the chamber creaked open. A guard entered, eyeing them both like meat in different cuts.

"Hengist has called a feast," he barked. "The lady is to attend." His gaze shifted to Odette. "And you—he wants you there to perform."

Gwen frowned. "Perform?"

Odette lowered her eyes, already stepping back with her hands folded. "He means my magic."

Gwen blinked. "You're... you're a sorceress?"

Odette tilted her head with a strange smile—one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Not anymore. Hengist has ways of keeping that under control."

Before Gwen could ask more, the guard motioned for them to follow. Gwen rose, casting one last glance at Odette, who walked ahead with a gait both elegant and resigned.

Resigned, because this is her life now. Resigned, because even if she did escape, the memory will never fade.

Resigned because she couldn't be bothered to try anymore.

Over and over again, she has had to conquer infinite hopelessness. And now all she can do is endure. Because it does her no good, violence has changed her.

Her body has grown cold like the stripped fields; now there is one thing on her mind, cautious and wary, with the sense it is being tested.

Everything is possible, and yet nothing is. All is permitted, and yet again, nothing. No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. 

It is all the same whether you achieved something or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.

There is an explanation for everything, and yet there is none. Everything is both real and unreal, normal and absurd, splendid and insipid.

There is nothing worth more than anything else, nor any idea better than the other. Why grow sad from one's sadness and delight in one's joy?

What does it matter whether our tears come from pleasure or pain?

The hall reeked of roasted meat, sweat, and stale wine. Tapestries hung crookedly on damp stone walls, and torchlight danced unevenly on the banners bearing Hengist's emblem. It was a parody of nobility, all indulgence and threat.

At the long table at the front, Hengist sat draped in furs, his heavy eyes scanning the room like a vulture picking through bones. Gwen kept her chin high, remembering Morgana's grace at court, but her fists clenched in her lap beneath the table.

She didn't belong here. Neither of them did.

"Silence!" Hengist gestured to Gwen, who did not even glance at him. "Our royal guest, Lady Morgana, has grown bored." He placed his fattened hand on her shoulder, digging into her. Shoulder blade like a silent guarantee.

"She needs..." He paused, licking his lower lip mischievously, "entertaining."

The hall burst into laughter and cheers as Hengist nodded for them to open the gate in the pen. A burly man stepped out, raising his arms and roaring out a predetermined victory war cry. Drinking up the cheering, he growled playfully at the individuals who were holding onto the bars.

"Bring on the challenger." He beckoned.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the mentioned challenger appeared with a leaner figure who moved with a calm confidence. Gwen's breath caught when the torchlight revealed his face.

Hengist's smile sharpened. "Only one of you will emerge from the cage alive. Do you accept the challenge?" The man, caked with dirt and dressed in knight chainmail, lightly bowed, signalling his acceptance.

The mercenary growled, "Come on!"

Voices from the crowd shouted, "Yeah!" and "Kill! Kill!"

The fight began with the clang of steel. The brute swung his sword in wide, brutal arcs, each one meant to crush rather than cut. Lancelot ducked and twisted with fluid grace, letting the man's own momentum work against him. Steel rang out, feet shuffled against the dirt floor, the crowd's cries rising with each exchange.

From her place in the shadows, Odette watched intently. Her fingers twitched against her skirts, the urge to send a protective spell towards the man gnawing at her, but the cuffs burned cold against her skin in warning.

With a deft parry, Lancelot knocked the mercenary's blade from his grasp, sending it skidding across the pit. He pressed the tip of his sword to the man's throat—only to lower it.

The hall erupted in boos and jeers.

"You've proved yourself to be a skilful warrior," Hengist said, his voice carrying over the noise. "I believe you may even have impressed our royal guest, Lady Morgana."

Lancelot looked up, and for the first time, his eyes found Gwen. He masked his reaction well, but a flicker of recognition—and something softer—passed across his face. His gaze slid briefly to Odette beside her and lingered a heartbeat longer than it should.

"My lady," he said, bowing his head slightly.

"Next time you fight..." Hengist's voice hardened, "...do not expect any mercy." He waved his hand toward the beast's enclosure. "Release the wilddeoren."

"No!" Gwen gasped, turning her face away.

A guttural roar shook the floor as the barred gate was hauled open. The wilddeoren lumbered into the pit, its hunched, matted form heaving with each breath. Blind eyes rolled in its skull, but its nostrils flared as it scented the defeated mercenary. The man screamed as the creature lunged, dragging him down in a frenzy of snapping teeth and splintering bone.

Odette's jaw tightened, but she did not flinch. Gwen's knuckles whitened on the edge of her chair.

That night, the cell was colder than usual, the air heavy with the lingering stench of the hall. Gwen sat on the straw-covered floor, staring at the damp stone wall, when a whisper drifted from above.

"Gwen?"

Her head snapped up. "Lancelot!"

His face appeared in the small grate above, shadowed but unmistakable.

"I could not believe my eyes when I saw it was you," he said, voice low and urgent.

"I thought my mind was deceiving me." She spoke with relief.

"Why does Hengist think you're Lady Morgana?"

"He believes he's holding Morgana to ransom," Gwen replied, stepping closer to the wall. "When no ransom is paid, he'll realise the truth, and then he'll throw me to those beasts."

"I will not allow that to happen." His voice had the same unwavering conviction she remembered from Camelot.

"What are you doing here? Are you one of Hengist's men?" Her brows furrowed at the thought.

"No," he said firmly. "There are few opportunities for men like me, so I've been earning a living the only way that I know— with a sword in my hand."

He smiled, but it held no humour, "It seems it's my destiny to entertain men like Hengist."

"I don't believe that of you," Gwen said. "You were so full of hope."

"I was wrong. The world is not like that."

"I still see the hope in you. I do not accept it is gone."

His gaze softened. "I have thought of you often. Have you thought of me at all?"

"I thought I'd never see you again."

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the silence holding more weight than words.

Then Gwen stepped back slightly and gestured to the woman sitting quietly in the corner. "This is Odette. She's been... looking out for me."

From above, Lancelot leaned forward, and in the dim light, his eyes widened. "She's... radiant," he murmured, almost to himself. Somehow, even in the terrible lighting of the cell, she looked ethereal. What little moonlight seeped from the bars of her window cradled and caressed her face like a veil.

Odette shifted, meeting his gaze with polite composure, though there was the faintest spark of amusement in her eyes.

Someone's footsteps echoed down the corridor.

"Someone's coming," Lancelot said quickly. "No matter what it takes, I'll find a way to get you out of here. I will."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows above, leaving Gwen and Odette alone with the cold stone walls and the fragile promise that help might yet come.

The hours that followed Lancelot's whispered promise passed slowly, the drip of water from the ceiling marking each minute with maddening precision. Odette sat in the far corner of the cell, her back against the rough stone, golden curls catching the dim light from the single torch outside their bars. Gwen sat closer to the door, legs drawn up to her chest, gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the corridor.

Neither woman spoke at first. Odette's mind was elsewhere, caught between the quiet thrill of Lancelot's words and the dangerous ache of hope. She knew what hope could do in a place like this—it could sharpen the knife of disappointment to a killing edge. And yet... she had seen the look in his eyes when he'd promised. He was the sort of man who meant what he said.

But she did not deserve his kindness. She was not good. She was not virtuous. She was not sympathetic. She was not generous.

She was merely and above all, a creature of intense, passionate feeling.

She felt everything.

It is her genius.

It burns her like fire.

Gwen, too, replayed their conversation. She could still hear his voice, steady and sure, and she clung to it like a rope in a storm. But when she glanced over at Odette, she noticed something guarded in her expression, as though the other woman were already bracing for the plan to fail.

"Why wouldn't you tell him about Morgause?" Gwen asked quietly.

Odette's eyes flicked to her, sharp for just a heartbeat, before softening again. "Because it wouldn't matter. He doesn't owe her anything. And she... she'll come for me, in her own time."

"You sound so certain."

"I have to be," Odette replied, her voice quiet but fierce. "It's the only thing that's kept me breathing this long."

Before Gwen could answer, the sound of boots on stone made them both go still. A guard appeared, keys jangling at his belt, his expression unreadable. "Lady Morgana," he said, gesturing for Gwen to rise.

Odette's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as Gwen was led out.

The great hall was emptier than it had been the night before. The trestle tables still bore the remains of the feast—bones picked clean, overturned tankards, the heavy smell of smoke and grease. Hengist sat in the high‑backed chair at the head of the room, one leg thrown lazily over the arm, his fingers tapping idly on the hilt of the dagger at his side.

They brought Gwen to a halt before him. She stood tall despite the chains, her chin lifting a fraction higher as she met his gaze.

"I have not yet received word from Uther that he intends to pay your ransom," Hengist said, his tone almost conversational. "I was informed that the King was extremely fond of his ward."

Gwen kept her face calm, but her heart beat faster. "Are you not surprised he's content to leave you here to die?" Hengist pressed, leaning forward.

"How can I know the King's mind when I'm locked in your stinking cell?" Gwen returned, her voice level but edged.

A few of the men nearby chuckled under their breath at her boldness. Hengist's eyes narrowed, the faint amusement on his face curdling into something colder.

"If I do not hear from Uther by dawn tomorrow," he said, rising to his feet, "this stinking cell will be the last place you ever see."

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Gwen forced herself to meet his gaze for another heartbeat before the guards jerked her backward. They turned her around and marched her from the hall, her chains clinking against the stone floor.

She was shoved back into the cell so hard that she stumbled. Odette was already on her feet, crossing the straw‑strewn floor in quick strides to steady her.

"What did he say?" Odette asked quietly.

Gwen's lips pressed together. "That if Uther doesn't pay by dawn tomorrow, I'm dead."

Odette's expression didn't change, but Gwen saw her knuckles whiten where her hands gripped the other woman's arms. "Then dawn will not find you here," Odette said softly, her voice almost a vow.

Gwen searched her face, uncertain whether it was bravado or truth. "Do you... Think Lancelot can really get us out?"

Odette hesitated. "I think he will try. And I think you should let him."

Gwen frowned. "You're still not coming?"

"I told you," Odette said, moving back to her corner, "I'm waiting for someone."

Gwen's frustration flared, but she bit back the words on her tongue. She knew from experience that pressing someone to leave before they were ready only pushed them further into stillness. Instead, she asked, "This person you're waiting for... do they even know you're here?"

A shadow of a smile touched Odette's lips. "She knows. And she promised."

The hours after Lancelot's visit to the grate dragged on in heavy silence. The faint hum of distant voices in Hengist's hall was the only sign of life beyond the cell's damp stone walls. Gwen sat cross-legged on the thin layer of straw, trying not to think about the wilddeoren, or the hopelessness that threatened to seep in like the cold.

Odette remained in her corner, knees drawn up, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She hadn't spoken since Lancelot's promise to free them both, but Gwen could feel the restless energy radiating from her. She was watching the door, her eyes narrowing each time footsteps echoed distantly.

It was late afternoon when the familiar creak of the floor above sounded again. Gwen looked up sharply, hope surging before she could stop it.

"Gwen?" The voice was a whisper, but it carried the same mix of relief and urgency she had heard earlier.

Her heart leapt. "Lancelot!"

He crouched at the small opening, his face partly shadowed by the failing light from a high window. His eyes darted briefly to Odette, acknowledging her presence, before settling on Gwen again.

"I was terrified I might find your cell empty," he admitted.

"There's been no word from Uther," Gwen told him, her voice low but steady. "I fear Hengist is growing suspicious."

Lancelot's jaw tightened. "You must keep up the pretence. I will not allow you to die here."

"What about you?" she asked.

His gaze shifted downward, shadowed. "I have little to live for."

Gwen's expression softened, her voice laced with gentle reproach. "Do not say that."

"It's the truth," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "For all my words, for all that I believed, I've come to nothing."

Odette, listening in the shadows, tilted her head at the raw honesty in his voice. There was no performance here, no bravado—only a man laid bare by his own failures. But that's love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.

Gwen reached up toward the grate as if she could bridge the distance between them. "You are everything that is right with this world."

Lancelot's breath caught. "I did not know you felt that way. I didn't even know I could... feel this way about someone."

"Who am I without you?"

Gwen smiled, poking her fingers through the holes of the grate to rest hers on his. "Yourself."

Odette lowered her gaze, suddenly aware she was witnessing something intimate. But she couldn't help noticing how their voices softened, how the air between them seemed to still.

"Then you have given me a reason to live," Lancelot said, his voice warm now, the earlier shadows lifted. "Be ready. I'll come for you before nightfall."

Their eyes held for a moment longer before he slipped away from the grate, his presence fading into the creak of retreating footsteps.

When the sound was gone, Gwen released a long breath. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed for a moment, as if to hold onto the warmth of his words.

Gwen turned to her. "Odette—please. Come with us."

For a long moment, Odette only looked at her. Then she shook her head. "I can't. Not yet."

"But you'll die here if you stay!"

Odette's voice was steady. "Some things are worth the risk. And some people are worth waiting for."

Gwen said nothing but curled up to Odettes shoulder, offering some sort of comfort.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," she hesitated. "Like you could love me."

The cell door slammed so hard it rattled on its hinges, and Gwen stumbled forward into the straw-strewn gloom. Her wrists were raw from the rope, her cheeks streaked with tears she hadn't been able to stop.

Hengist's voice still rang in her ears—sharp, mocking, relentless. His questions had been the same over and over, demanding names, allegiances, secrets she didn't have. Each time she told the truth, his patience grew thinner, his cruelty thicker.

She sank against the far wall, curling in on herself as her body trembled. The sobs came hard and sudden, muffled behind her hands. Gwen rarely allowed herself to break—especially not where someone might see—but this time the effort to hold it together had shattered under Hengist's unyielding stare.

Odette was there before Gwen had even registered her presence, kneeling beside her in the dim light. The golden fall of her hair caught the flicker from the torch in the corridor, a soft halo against the filth of the cell.

"Guinevere," Odette said quietly, her voice warm and low, like a blanket drawn over chilled skin.

Gwen shook her head. "I'm sorry," she choked out, embarrassed by her own weakness. "I just... I can't—"

"You don't have to be sorry," Odette murmured, cutting her off gently. She reached out, tentative at first, then set a steadying hand on Gwen's shoulder. The pressure was light, but the message in it was firm: you're not alone.

Gwen tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Odette's other hand lifted, brushing away one of the hot tears that streaked Gwen's cheek. "He wants to break you," she said, her tone calm but edged with something sharp—something protective. "That's all this is. It isn't about truth or lies. It's about making you feel small."

Gwen's breathing hitched, but the sobs slowed. "He... he won't believe anything I say," she whispered.

Odette's gaze softened. "Then stop speaking for him. Save your voice for someone who deserves it."

For a moment, Gwen just stared at her—really stared. Even in the half-light, Odette's beauty was undeniable, but it wasn't what struck her most. It was the steadiness, the unshaken core that seemed to hold despite every chain, every blow.

"I don't know how you do it," Gwen said, her voice thick. "How you can stand here and still... be you."

Odette gave the faintest smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Because someone's still waiting for me. And until she comes, I can't let him win."

She shifted closer, drawing Gwen into an embrace, careful, protective. Gwen leaned into her, closing her eyes. The warmth of another person, the solid weight of Odette's arms around her, was enough to loosen the knot in her chest just a little.

They stayed like that in silence for a long while, until the sound of footsteps returned to the corridor. Odette eased back, but her hand lingered briefly on Gwen's, a silent promise that she'd be there again when it was needed.

The fortress slept uneasily. Wind howled faintly through cracks in the high stone walls, carrying with it the smell of damp and the occasional scrape of boots on patrol. In the darkness of her cell, Gwen lay against the wall, her thoughts a tangled snarl of fear and resolve. Odette sat near the bars, her hands folded in her lap, eyes half-closed as if she could dream her way out.

A muffled clink broke the stillness.

Odette's eyes opened. She tilted her head, hearing it too—a low, deliberate scraping above. The small metal grate in the cell door shifted once, twice, before finally lifting free. A shadow dropped lightly to the floor.

"Lancelot!" Gwen breathed, scrambling to her feet.

He gave her a quick, urgent smile, then turned to the lock on the cell door. "Follow me. Quickly." His eyes flicked to Odette, lingering for half a heartbeat, before focusing back on the task.

The corridor outside was dim, lit only by a guttering torch in the distance. The air was thick with the scent of earth and stone. Lancelot led them down the passage until they reached a narrow opening in the wall, barely tall enough for a man to stoop through.

He turned to Gwen, speaking in a low voice that carried all the weight of command and desperation.

"Follow this tunnel. It will take you out beyond the castle walls."

Gwen's brows knit. "And you?"

"I will buy you as much time as I can."

Her eyes flashed, defiant. "I'm not leaving you."

"You must."

"No."

"I will not leave you here to die," Gwen said, her voice breaking with conviction.

Lancelot stepped closer, his gaze softening even as urgency tightened his words. "I would die for you one hundred times over. Live for me, or everything that I am has been for nothing."

Gwen's breath caught. In the dim light, the truth in his eyes was undeniable.

"As long as I live," he said quietly, "my feelings for you will never fade."

Gwen," Lancelot urged, his tone firm now, "don't stop running until you are well away from here."

He stepped aside, gesturing to the darkness beyond the tunnel. "Run."

Gwen hesitated one last moment, torn between love and loyalty. Then Lancelot's voice, quiet but commanding, came again.

"Run."

This time, she obeyed, vanishing into the tunnel's shadows.

Lancelot watched her go, every muscle in his body taut with the urge to follow. But he turned away, squaring his shoulders, ready to face the storm of steel that would surely come.

The sound of boots on stone grew louder, the harsh echo bouncing off the damp walls. Lancelot stood at the corridor's bend, sword in hand, every muscle coiled like a bowstring. The torchlight beyond flickered, then split into three separate glows—three men, then five, armoured and ready.

They came at him fast. The first guard lunged; Lancelot met his blade with a sharp parry, twisting to drive his elbow into the man's jaw. The next struck from the side—Lancelot ducked low, sweeping his opponent's legs from under him. But for every man he dropped, two more seemed to fill the space.

Steel clanged, boots scuffed, and his breath came ragged. Still, he fought on—not to win, but to give Gwen and Odette those precious moments of escape.

A club caught him across the back. Pain flared, but he didn't falter—until the weight of three men crashed into him at once, dragging him down. His sword clattered to the floor. Iron-cuffed hands yanked his arms behind him, and a knee drove into his ribs until the fight was wrenched from him by sheer force.

They bound him tight and hauled him to his knees before Hengist, right in the middle of the cage he originally fought in.

The mercenary stepped forward, his heavy boots leaving damp marks on the stone. His smile was a blade in itself.

"Before you die," Hengist said softly, "I can promise you the most unimaginable pain."

Lancelot lifted his chin, defiance burning in his eyes. "You can do what you will with me. I do not care. You can do no harm to Guinevere."

"Oh!" Hengist's brows rose with mocking interest. "Was that her name?"

There was a rustle in the darkness behind him, and Gwen was shoved into the light, her arms bound, hair tumbling loose around her face. Two guards held her fast. Odette was nowhere in sight—Hengist's men hadn't found her.

"A serving girl," Hengist went on with a sneer. "And you really believe she's worth dying for?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "She is worth more to me than you will ever understand," Lancelot said, his voice low and unwavering.

The crowd began to jeer and point behind him, and he turned as the gate rose like a death sentence.

Gwen.

His face dropped as she was dragged into the same cage as he was. She looked down in shame.

Hengist circled the cage like a wolf, his boots scraping the floor. "You thought she'd got away? No!" He turned, grabbing the bars and leaning his head on them as if this was a casual conversation. "You've failed her, and that must hurt you more than I will ever understand." His voice turned into a mockery of mimicry of Lancelot's voice.

Lancelot's jaw clenched. Gwen shook her head slightly, as if to tell him she didn't blame him.

In the shadows above, unseen by them all, Odette crouched in the narrow crawlspace of the tunnel, watching through a gap in the stones. Her hands gripped the cold wall, nails biting into the mortar. She had followed as far as she dared before slipping into hiding, waiting for the right moment.

Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the knowledge that this was spiralling toward something worse than she'd imagined. Hengist's cruelty was never quick, and whatever he planned for them would be long, ugly, and possibly final.

For now, all she could do was watch and wait... and be ready.

The hall was silent but for the slow, deliberate echo of Hengist's boots against the stone floor. Gwen and Lancelot stood bound at the centre, the torchlight throwing their shadows long and thin. Around them, the crowd had gathered again—faces eager, eyes glinting with cruel anticipation.

Hengist stopped before them, sweeping his gaze across the onlookers. "What do you say?" he called. "Shall I spare them?"

The answer was instant and unanimous, the chant swelling until it rattled the rafters.

"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

In the shadows of the hall's upper alcove, Odette watched through a narrow gap between two stone columns. The cuffs on her wrists still bit into her skin, but the old magic inside her stirred like a faint pulse. Her eyes flicked to Gwen—pale but steady—and to Lancelot, who stood like a man already reconciled to death.

"I'm sorry," Gwen said, her voice breaking as she turned to him. "This is my fault."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Lancelot replied. "You reminded me of who I am."

Her eyes glistened, and he softly smiled at her. "I will die with faith in my heart. That is worth more than anything."

Hengist's grin was all teeth. "Release the wilddeoren!"

The heavy gate creaked open, the sound deep and grating, like a groan from the earth itself. The beast emerged slowly, its blind eyes white and cloudy, nostrils flaring as it tasted the air. The crowd fell to a tense hush.

Odette closed her eyes. She could not conjure fire or lightning in her current state, but she could still coax the smallest threads of magic through the cracks in her restraints. She whispered to herself, a breath no one could hear, and let her magic seep outward like mist.

The beast halted mid-step, its head swinging as if distracted. Its nostrils twitched toward the wrong direction, buying seconds—seconds they would desperately need. Arthur took that chance to vault over the cage and into the pit, along with Gwen and Lancelot and cut their bindings off.

He threw the extra sword at Lancelot, and immediately they launched an attack on the beast, trying their hardest not to let it breach their pointy defences.

"What are you doing here, Lancelot?"

"I came to save Gwen," Lancelot answered without missing a beat.

Arthur's brow lifted. "What about you?"

"Likewise."

Arthur moved quickly, shoving Gwen behind him. "Get behind us." They began maneuvering towards the tunnel that the very same beast came out of. The mercenary began to load up a crossbow, prepared to end one of their lives for good.

And he would have if not Merlin using his magic to drop a chandelier above him, Hengist moved out of the way as he saw it drop, allowing it to crush one of his poor lackeys. Merlin darted towards the cage, only to trip right in front of it.

Arthur's eyes darted to the advancing beast. "The tunnel—it's our only chance."

The wilddeoren let out a guttural roar, shaking the ground. Arthur slashed at it to keep it back, while Lancelot ducked to grab Gwen's arm.

"Merlin!" Arthur barked, his eyes darting around the room for his manservant before landing on the mess on all fours.

He scowled. "Don't sit there cowering. Let's go!"

Merlin wasted no time, lifting himself over the cage's bars and into their escape route.

"After them!" Hengist roared, and four men followed after him, attempting to corner them, only to get attacked by the beast.

They backed toward the far wall, fighting their way to the narrow passage.

"Take Guinevere, I will hold them off!" Lancelot shouted.

"No!" Gwen cried, but Arthur was already tugging her toward safety. "Guinevere, we have to go."

The guards and Hengist were still preoccupied with the Wilderrogen. Only for Hengist to turn towards them and prepare to run.

"Learh fearnancai," His eyes glowed that familiar gold colour Odette had seen Morgause's eyes turn from time to time. At the tunnel's mouth, Merlin turned suddenly, his hand raised. The gate's heavy iron bars slammed shut with a clang, trapping Hengist and the beast inside the hall.

Using Harry's invisibility cloak, Odette manages to slip underneath the gate just as it shuts without alerting either male.

Hengist barreled after them, shouting, "Open the gate!" as the wilddeoren lunged in pursuit.

Hengist's eyes widened as the creature turned toward him.

"I see you're still up to your old tricks, Merlin," Lancelot muttered, smirking.

Merlin smirked faintly. "It's probably best you don't tell anyone about that."

The last thing they heard before the tunnel swallowed them into darkness was Hengist's scream, cut short by the wet, sickening sound of the wilddeoren feeding.

The tunnel's air was damp and close, each footstep echoing along the narrow stone corridor. The roar of the wilddeoren and Hengist's final scream faded behind them, replaced by the pounding of their own breaths and the scrape of boots against stone. Gwen kept close to Arthur, glancing back only once to make sure Lancelot was still there. Odette followed silently at the rear, her skirts brushing the cold wall, heart hammering not from fear, but from the aftershock of using magic so close to discovery.

At last, the passage widened into a dim, torchlit chamber. The stale air was laced with another sound—a low murmur of voices, heavy chains clinking faintly.

Merlin stepped ahead, holding his torch aloft. The light spilled over the hunched forms of a dozen prisoners, their wrists bound with the same rune-etched iron Odette wore. Some looked up with weary hope, others barely stirred at all.

Arthur moved to pass them, his focus fixed on getting Gwen to safety, but Merlin's hand shot out, stopping him.

"We can't just leave them," Merlin said, his voice low but firm.

Arthur hesitated only a moment before sighing. "Alright."

Arthur knelt beside the first prisoner, pressing the sharp tip of his sword to the iron cuff. He made small practice swings before lifting the sword above his head and striking the cuffs, and the metal split with a sharp crack. The freed man stared in disbelief, rubbing his wrists. Both Merlin and Arthur moved to the next, and the next, the chamber slowly filling with murmurs of astonished relief.

Arthur turned at the sound, his gaze landing briefly on Odette before scanning the rest of the freed captives. "You're all clear. Get as far from here as you can."

The prisoners didn't need to be told twice. Some bolted immediately into the night, others limping but moving with the desperation of people who knew freedom might only last if they were swift. In moments, the chamber was empty but for Arthur, Gwen, Lancelot, Merlin, and Odette.

Odette stood in the shadows, watching. Part of her wanted to step forward, to help free the others—but she dared not draw attention to herself. Not yet. She had survived Hengist's fortress by staying invisible when it counted, though it was hard considering she was used as a spectacle.

But Merlin's gaze caught her, his torchlight cutting across her face. He paused mid-spell, studying her as though trying to place her.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated, unsure whether to speak her name. "Odette," she said at last.

Merlin's eyes flicked to the cuffs on her wrists—runes etched deep, meant to strip magic from its bearer. "These are Hengist's doing?"

She inclined her head.

Without a word, Merlin reached for her. The heat of magic flared against her skin, and the cuffs split with a ringing crack. She rubbed her wrists, the faint sting where the iron had bitten into her skin already fading.

Arthur turned at the sound. His eyes moved from Merlin to Odette, and for a moment, something unreadable passed over his expression, taking in her posture, her calm despite the chaos, the way the freed prisoners seemed to give her space.

"Another captive?" Arthur asked.

Merlin hesitated. "She's... not dangerous."

Arthur's brow arched, but he didn't press. "Does she have anywhere else to go?"

Odette blinked at him, surprised, but shook her head anyway. 

"She comes with us."

"You don't even know me."

Arthur adjusted his grip on his sword, already turning toward the tunnel's far exit. "I know Hengist kept you in chains. That's enough."

They moved as one through the last stretch of the tunnel, emerging into the cool night air. The sky above was streaked with clouds, the moon half-hidden but bright enough to silver the wet grass.

The camp came together quickly in the small clearing—Merlin gathering wood, Arthur unrolling bedrolls for Gwen and the freed captives, Lancelot keeping watch on the treeline. The cool night air carried the scent of wet grass and smoke as the first sparks from the fire crackled into life.

Gwen sat near the flames, her hands stretched toward the heat, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the chaos of the escape. She replayed the moment in the tunnel again and again—Odette disappearing somewhere in the dark, the press of guards behind them. She had assumed the worst.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the camp drew her eyes. There, half-hidden in the shadows, stood Odette. Firelight caught on the gold of her hair, casting a warm halo around her face. The sight hit Gwen like a rush of air after being underwater too long.

"Odette?" Gwen breathed, already getting to her feet.

Odette turned, startled, just as Gwen closed the space between them. Without hesitation, Gwen threw her arms around her, pulling her into a firm embrace. "You came with us," she said, her voice trembling with relief. "I thought-" Her breath caught. "I thought you didn't make it out."

For a moment, Odette froze, then slowly returned the embrace, her hands resting lightly against Gwen's back. "I slipped into the tunnel after you," she murmured. "It seemed... foolish to stay."

Gwen pulled back just enough to search her face, her hands still on Odette's shoulders as if to reassure herself she was real. "I'm so glad you didn't. I couldn't have borne knowing you were still in there."

Her fingers brushed one of Odette's wrists, noticing the raw marks where the cuffs had been. Her brows knit, and she smoothed her thumb over the tender skin in a quiet, instinctive gesture of care. "These must hurt."

Odette glanced down, almost embarrassed by the attention. "Not as much as they did before."

"They won't again," Gwen said firmly, her voice low with promise.

Odette tilted her head, her gaze softening as it lingered on Gwen's face. "Safety feels... strange. I'm not sure it belongs to me anymore."

"It will," Gwen said, her hands giving Odette's shoulders one last, gentle squeeze. "And you're not alone in finding it."

The two women stood together for a moment longer, framed by the glow of the fire, the rest of the camp fading into the background.

The fire popped softly, sending sparks drifting into the dark. The forest pressed in around their small camp, the air cool and damp. Gwen sat near the flames, pulling her cloak tighter, while Merlin busied himself with the packs. Lancelot sharpened his sword a little way off. Odette lingered just beyond the firelight, arms folded loosely, watching the embers shift.

Arthur's gaze had been flicking to her all evening, and now he finally spoke. "Why were you in Hengist's hall?" His tone was casual on the surface, but there was weight behind it.

Odette met his eyes, her expression calm. "I was made to attend the one you call Lady Morgana," she said. "To serve her meals, to clean her chamberpot, the things servants are expected to do."

Arthur leaned forward slightly. "And before that? How long have you been in his fortress?"

"Long enough to know there's no escaping without help," Odette replied evenly. "And long enough to know his brand of cruelty."

His brow furrowed. "You weren't chained in the cells with the others. Why?"

"Because he thought he could make use of me," she said simply. "It's easier to keep someone under your thumb when you let them think they have some measure of freedom."

Arthur studied her for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether she was lying. "So why follow us out? You could have vanished into the forest like the others."

At that, Gwen lifted her head, her eyes flashing. "Because she risked herself to help me more than once. Hengist might have kept her close, but she was no ally of his. If it weren't for Odette, I might not be here."

Arthur's gaze shifted to Gwen. "And you're certain of that?"

"Yes," Gwen said firmly. "I trust her."

Arthur let the matter drop, though the weight of his scrutiny lingered. He turned back to the fire, prodding at it with a stick. Gwen's shoulders eased, though she caught Odette's glance and offered her a small, grateful nod.

Lancelot, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped forward slightly, the firelight catching the planes of his face. "I am surprised you would undertake such a rescue mission with just the two of you," he said to Arthur.

Arthur glanced at him. "Father would not risk the lives of his knights for a servant."

"And yet you disobeyed him and came here anyway?" Lancelot asked.

Arthur's mouth twitched faintly, somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. "Truth is, I only came because Morgana begged me."

Gwen's eyes flickered at that. She stood abruptly. "I think I'll get some rest," she said quietly, moving toward the shadows beyond the fire.

Arthur watched her go, then addressed the group. "We should all get some rest."

"I'll stand guard for a while," Lancelot offered, already reaching for his sword.

"I'll just... sit here, then," Merlin said, settling himself near the flames with his knees drawn up.

When the camp had fallen mostly quiet, Lancelot glanced at Merlin. "Is it true that Arthur came to rescue Gwen because Morgana begged him?"

Merlin said nothing and looked away. "He has feelings for her, doesn't he?"

"What about you?" Merlin pressed after a pause. "Do you have feelings for Gwen?"

"My feelings do not matter," Lancelot said, his voice quiet but steady. "I will not come between them. Tell Gwen..." He hesitated, the words weighing heavily in his chest. "Tell Gwen that she has changed me forever... but some things cannot be."

He took a breath, adjusting the strap of his scabbard, ready to slip away into the night as he had once before. But as he turned, Odette stepped from the shadows, her golden hair catching the faint glow of the fire.

"You're leaving," she said, not as a question.

"I am," Lancelot replied. "It's better this way."

"For her?" Odette asked.

He met her gaze. "For everyone."

She took a step closer, her voice low so as not to wake the others. "You fight for people you care about, even when it costs you everything. That's rare. And... it's not something I've seen in a long time." She hesitated, like it was a secret she thought no one knew. "You are a brave knight, Lancelot."

Something softened in his expression. "I think you've seen more of it than you realise. You risked yourself for Gwen, for people you barely knew."

Her lips curved faintly. "Maybe I just thought she was worth it."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "And what about me?"

Odette's eyes held his, steady and warm. "I'll decide that if you ever come back."

For a moment, they simply stood there, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Lancelot's hand twitched as though he might reach for hers—but instead, he gave her a small, solemn nod.

"Goodbye, Odette."

"Not goodbye," she said. "Just... until then."

He turned and slipped into the darkness, the firelight fading from his armour until he was gone. Odette stood watching the place where he'd disappeared, the faint trace of a smile still on her lips.

The journey back to Camelot was long, but the pace Arthur set was steady. The sun rose slowly behind them, painting the horizon in pale gold. They passed through sleeping villages, frost still clinging to thatched roofs, and the soft sound of hooves on frozen earth was the only constant.

Arthur rode ahead, his posture straight despite the exhaustion in his shoulders. Gwen kept pace behind him, her back hunched with exhaustion and eyes swollen from the tears she tried to hide upon the news of Lancelot's departure.

Merlin trailed slightly behind, his eyes flicking now and then to Odette as if he still wasn't entirely sure what to make of her. Odette herself kept to the rear, letting the others form their own rhythm. Her thoughts wandered, not to Hengist's fortress or her time in chains, but to the look in Lancelot's eyes before he left.

By the time the towers of Camelot came into view, the day was bright and cold. The great gates opened at Arthur's command, the clatter of chains and creak of hinges giving way to the echo of hooves on the courtyard stone. Servants and guards turned to look, their murmurs following the small party as they dismounted.

Arthur didn't pause to greet anyone. He took Gwen's arm gently and led her up the steps toward the royal wing. Odette followed at a measured distance, her boots clicking softly on the stone, her gaze roaming over the familiar-yet-foreign grandeur of Camelot's halls.

They reached Morgana's chambers. Arthur opened the door without ceremony, ushering Gwen inside.

Morgana was there, seated near the window, her long dark hair catching the morning light. At the sight of Gwen, she rose at once, her eyes wide.

"Gwen!" Morgana's voice trembled as she crossed the room in a few swift strides. She pulled Gwen into a fierce embrace, holding her as though she might vanish if she let go. Gwen clung back, her face buried against Morgana's shoulder, tears breaking loose at last.

Odette stopped just inside the doorway, her hands clasped before her. She felt the warmth of the reunion from where she stood, yet it was a warmth she could not share. No one in Camelot would rush to embrace her so tightly, with such unguarded joy. Even Morgause's promise felt distant in this moment, more shadow than certainty.

Arthur, standing beside her, glanced between the women and then at Odette. His brow furrowed faintly, as though he could sense the thoughts she kept hidden behind her composed expression.

"Not everyone has someone waiting for them," Odette said quietly, catching his gaze without flinching.

He seemed about to speak, then stopped. Whatever words had come to him, he swallowed them back. She gave him a faint, knowing smile and stepped out into the corridor, leaving him in the threshold with the sound of Gwen and Morgana's reunion spilling softly into the hall.

Arthur remained there a moment longer, watching her retreat before turning back into the room. But the image of Odette's golden hair disappearing into the shadows, and the quiet weight of her words, followed him long after.

sorry it was so long guys i was honestly going to split it up but i didnt really feel like it.

Chapter Text

"Not everyone has someone waiting for them," Odette said quietly, catching his gaze without flinching.

He had looked at her then—not just seen her, but looked. Whatever words he might have said died in his throat. Instead, he watched as she stepped silently into the corridor, her golden hair vanishing like sunlight into mist.

Now, as she stood in the great hall awaiting an audience with the king, her hands were cold despite the heat of the braziers. She was alone again, her magic still bound beneath the iron cuffs hidden beneath her sleeves, her voice locked behind the weight of guilt.

She had not waited.

Not for Morgause.

And now the memory of her promise pulsed at the edges of her mind like a wound that would not close.

"You'll return for me," Odette had whispered that night, shackled and bruised, as Morgause kissed her temple before vanishing into the storm.

"I will. I swear it."

But Morgause had not come before the raid. Odette had been taken. And she had escaped—if it could be called that—without waiting.

What if Morgause came back to the ashes of the cell, only to find her gone?

What if she thought Odette had given up?

The guilt sat behind her ribs like a stone. She touched her cuffed wrist beneath her sleeve and said nothing.

The doors opened.

"His Majesty will see you now," announced a guard with ceremonial stiffness.

Arthur led the way. Gwen walked beside Morgana, close as ever, and Odette followed at a respectful distance. The throne room was cavernous, all echo and stone and firelight. Uther Pendragon sat on the throne, cloaked in crimson and fur, his crown casting long shadows over his stern face.

He looked tired.

Uther's gaze turned toward his son, and pride curled subtly at the corners of his mouth. "You disobeyed me."

Arthur stood firm. "And I'd do it again."

"Of course you would," Uther muttered, but it lacked heat. He sat back down. "No doubt the reports will tell me more later."

Only then did his eyes land on Odette.

She hadn't prepared for this moment. She dipped into a practised, elegant curtsy. Her expression was neutral, but her heart beat with the sound of thunder.

There was a pause.

Uther's eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but... recollection.

"You," he said slowly. "Who are you?"

"She was among the slaves," Arthur explained. "She's not from the Midlands, not one of Hengist's regular captives. She helped Gwen survive in the dungeons." Arthur was certain it was best that he leave Lancelot's name out.

Uther stepped forward, studying her face. "Your name?"

"Odette," she said quietly, lifting her eyes to his.

Something flickered across his face then—something that did not belong in the usual courtly register of politics or distrust—a shadow of memory.

"You remind me of someone," he said finally, voice quieter. "A woman I once knew."

Odette said nothing. She didn't dare ask who. But she could tell she was important to him, considering his once detached tone now had regret and softness soaking into it like honey.

Uther was shaking fists and trembling teeth, but he was human just like she was, just like how she had been.

Grief had twisted around his heart like a vice and dug its teeth into it at every thought of the woman he once loved.

20 years had passed, and yet his grief had not yet wavered. If anything, it had grown stronger. Every part of his being had grown claws, ripping and tearing at his chest in order to get to her.

His Igraine.

His yearning was not gentle or tender; it's raw, visceral, and self-destructive. And it seems he is halfway there.

He does not mean to be cruel. He swears he is good, he is kind. He has love inside him.

In a place, far, far away.

Because what is love if not the culmination of grief? Humans, for all that they are, open their fragile hearts to it, despite knowing the inevitable. To grieve deeply is to have loved fully.

But Uther does not believe he loved her enough.

What is grief if not love persevering?

If all he can do as a human is to grieve, then he will grieve until the evening star burns out, he will grieve until he is consumed by time, because what else can he do?

There is a reason why love is considered the most twisted curse of all.

Maybe that is why Uther is the most human of everyone here.

Morgana stepped forward. "She's been through a great deal, My Lord. And she's... kind. She helped Gwen in ways most wouldn't."

Gwen, from beside her, added gently, "If not for her, I might not have survived at all."

Uther turned, pacing slowly. Ignoring the head of pride, raring to spit venom at the act of insolence.

Arthur said, "I vouch for her."

Uther gave him a look, then looked back to Odette.

"We cannot afford to open our gates to every stray misfortune," he said, though not unkindly. "But perhaps... perhaps Camelot could benefit from kindness such as hers. And from what I see, she has earned her place."

His tone changed. "You may stay, so long as you serve in Lady Morgana's household."

Odette bowed again. "Thank you, sire."

Uther waved her off. "Let her be clothed and fed. The rest can be decided later."

And with that, she was dismissed.

Outside the throne room, Gwen touched her arm. "That went better than I expected."

Odette tried to smile. "I think he thought I was someone else."

"Still," Morgana chimed in, "you've been given a place. And that's not nothing."

Odette turned to look back at the tall doors.

No—it was everything. It was safety. It was a sanctuary. At least compared to Hengist's domain, what it used to be, however. Camelot had no love for the use of magic. A thing that had been the only reason she had not been desecrated.

And yet, as the warmth of their kindness touched her, she could not shake the hollowness at the centre of her chest. That soft, aching voice inside her head.

You didn't wait.

Morgause had kept her word. She would have come.

Would she?

The silence offered no answer.

Later that evening, as Odette was being shown to her quarters—modest but clean, with a hearth already lit—she stood by the small window, staring out over the torch-lit courtyard.

Far below, she saw Arthur speaking with a stable hand. Morgana and Gwen walking arm in arm past the garden. She was part of something now. Or at least near it.

But it didn't erase the past.

She reached for her cuffed wrist again, feeling the weight of metal no longer there—though its memory still ached.

The stars above Camelot were different. Sharper. Colder. But still beautiful.

Still watching.

She pressed a hand to the glass.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to no one.

And somewhere in the silence, perhaps far beyond the reaches of Camelot, something shifted.

Something—someone—listened.

The corridor outside the royal chambers was dimly lit by lanterns that flickered in the draft like tiny flames caught in thought. A servant had offered her a room, but she had refused politely—she needed silence more than sleep.

The stone beneath her bare feet was cold, grounding her in the present. But her thoughts drifted, always, to the past.

She had not waited.

Odette curled her knees up against her chest where she sat tucked in a corner of the lesser-used gallery, the tapestries on the walls fluttering softly with every gust. Her eyes, raw from the smoky torches and sleepless nights, were fixed on the curling moon beyond the stained-glass arch. It sat high, glowing pale and steady, indifferent.

Morgause had said she would return. She had promised.

But Odette had left. No—escaped. Fled like prey in the night.

She hugged her arms tightly around herself, pressing her cheek to her shoulder.

"I didn't mean to break it," she whispered, voice shaking. "I just didn't want to die in a cage."

Her heart squeezed. Somewhere in her soul, she still believed Morgause would come. But the shame sat heavy in her chest—bitter and cold like iron. She had lost faith, and in doing so, she'd betrayed the one person who had once tried to set her free.

She didn't know how to make that right.

A footstep echoed. Then another.

She straightened quickly, lifting her chin and schooling her face into calm. It wasn't a guard. The footfalls were too light, too thoughtful.

Morgana appeared at the end of the hall, dressed in an emerald green night robe with her hair falling in a braid over one shoulder. Candlelight danced over her cheekbones as she paused at the corner, her brow furrowing at the sight of Odette seated alone in the dark.

"Odette?" she asked gently. "You didn't come back with the others."

"I needed air," Odette replied, her voice quiet but clear.

Morgana hesitated, then stepped closer, careful not to intrude too deeply. "You've had a hard few days. We all have. You don't have to be alone in it."

Odette looked up at her, blinking slowly. "Some things are easier that way."

Morgana smiled, not unkindly, and offered her hand. "Come. At least stay with me tonight. You look like a ghost."

After a pause, Odette took it.

Morgana's chambers were grand but warm, a place of colour and softness layered over the harsh lines of stone and politics. A bowl of rose oil burned by the window, and a velvet chaise was cluttered with embroidery hoops and sketchbooks. The woman who ruled this space was clearly passionate and sharp, far more than the jewels and brocade she wore in court.

"You'll sleep here tonight," Morgana said simply, drawing back the coverlet on the daybed near the fire. "No arguments. You've earned it."

"I don't think I have," Odette murmured, but sat anyway.

Morgana narrowed her eyes. "You carried Gwen to safety. You risked your life for her. That counts for a great deal in this house."

"I wasn't the only one."

"No. But still." Morgana tilted her head and then smiled, lowering herself to a chair across from her. "You remind me of someone."

Odette flinched. "Who?"

"I'm not sure," Morgana admitted, studying her. "A memory I can't name. But it lingers when I look at you. Your strength... your presence. It's quiet, but unshakable."

Odette looked down at her hands. She didn't feel strong. She felt like a thousand tiny fractures barely held together with thread. And magic. And regret.

Morgana leaned forward. "Tell me—what do you want, Odette? You saved Gwen. You could have slipped away during the chaos. But you came back with us."

Odette looked into the fire.

"I want to believe in people again," she said at last.

The flames crackled, and neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then Morgana gave a soft sigh and stood, crossing to her dresser. "Well. Since you're staying, you'll need something proper to wear tomorrow. You're not going to look like a stray cat at my side."

"I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"Hardly." Morgana threw her a silken gown in sapphire blue. "With your face, you could wear a sack and still make the knights forget their names."

Odette caught it, startled. "You flatter too easily."

"I state facts," Morgana said, smirking. "Come. Let me braid your hair."

Odette hesitated—but nodded. Something in Morgana's tone made her chest loosen for the first time in weeks.

She sat before the mirror. As Morgana moved behind her, drawing fingers gently through her long curls, Odette watched their reflection. The two of them—noblewoman and servant. Sorceress and exile. Yet in the candlelight, they looked like kin.

Maybe, Odette thought, this place wasn't such a prison after all.

Maybe something new could grow here—if she let it.

Maybe.

The next morning began like any other in Camelot, brisk winds swirling down the stone corridors, the sound of steel on steel echoing from the training yards, servants rushing through narrow halls with baskets and bolts of fabric. But for Odette, everything felt like a delicate balancing act. Every moment spent walking through the citadel's endless corridors with her hands clasped in front of her was a gamble. She was not just a newcomer, but one with a secret heavier than iron.

Magic.

She hadn't used it since the escape—not openly. Not since she had bought Gwen and Lancelot those few precious seconds to flee the Wilderöugen. It had been instinct, not thought. A flick of her fingers. A shield of illusion. Just enough to confuse the beast before Arthur's sword met its hide.

Now, in this place where sorcery meant death, her fingers ached to be still.

She found herself tucked into a quiet corner of Morgana's wing, tasked with arranging fresh lavender in the Lady's bath. Morgana had offered her shelter under the guise of companionship, claiming she had grown weary of courtier prattle and desired "someone with a mind." But it was more than that. Morgana had taken a liking to her.

Still, Odette tried to remain invisible. She hummed softly as she worked, letting the sound mask the tremble in her breath. Her magic—it pulsed like a trapped bird within her chest, fluttering against ribs, begging for release.

One bloom floated from the basin and began to swirl gently in the air—delicate, hypnotic. She watched it, entranced, forgetting for a moment the risk. Another joined it, then a third. Petals danced like falling stars, spinning in lazy circles through the golden shafts of morning light.

The lavender floated in the air like falling stars, their dusky purple catching the gold of morning light that streamed through the narrow windows. For a breathless second, Odette watched the blossoms dance. She had not meant to summon them. It had happened the way memories did—effortlessly, painfully, a whisper of who she had once been.

She reached to still the spell, but—

"Odette?"

The voice froze her more effectively than any enchantment could have.

Morgana stood in the doorway, wrapped in a pale robe of gossamer linen, her dark curls damp from the morning. Her brow was furrowed not in fury, but in stunned disbelief. Her gaze darted between Odette's trembling hand and the three petals still spinning in the air.

The magic shattered with a breath—petals falling to the bathwater with gentle plunks, like stones dropped into silence.

Odette's voice caught in her throat. "I-it was just a trick of the wind."

But Morgana was not fooled.

"No, it wasn't," she said slowly, stepping further into the room. Her eyes narrowed, though not in suspicion. Something softer lurked there—curiosity, wonder, even a flicker of hope. "That was magic."

Odette backed away, heart hammering against her ribs. "Please... don't tell anyone."

"I won't." Morgana stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "Do you know how long I've wanted someone—anyone—to speak to about this?"

Odette blinked. "What do you mean?"

Morgana's voice dropped to a whisper. "I dream of things before they happen. I feel storms days in advance. Sometimes, I see people in my sleep I've never met, only to meet them later." She took a step closer. "And I've had to hide all of it. Uther would have me burned."

Odette stared at her, eyes wide. "You...?" But her surprise was false; of course, she knew that Morgana had magic; she went to Hogwarts for Merlin's sake. Wait.

'I guess I can no longer say that anymore.'

Morgana gave a small, breathless laugh and nodded. "I've hidden it for years. Not even Gwen knows—not really." Her voice grew quieter, the weight of her confession pressing into the space between them. "Sometimes, it terrifies me. Sometimes, it sings in my blood like fire. But it's always there."

Odette's voice caught in her throat. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I saw how careful you were. How you risked yourself for Gwen. I know you won't betray me. And I won't betray you either." Morgana stepped even closer, her tone becoming almost conspiratorial. "Will you teach me?"

Odette hesitated.

"I don't know if I should..."

"Please," Morgana pressed. "There's no one else I can ask. No one who understands. No one I trust."

The sincerity in her voice was piercing. It rang with the same ache Odette had once known—desperate not to be alone in what she was.

Odette looked down at her hands, then back at Morgana. "All right. I'll teach you what I can."

Morgana grinned. "Tonight, then. After the castle quiets."

The fire in Morgana's chambers had long since burned low, throwing the room into a hush of amber flicker and deep shadow. Outside, Camelot slumbered—stone halls silent, guards rotating with half-lidded eyes. From the balcony, the moonlight pooled over the floor like spilled milk, casting both women in a pale, almost sacred glow.

Odette stood by the hearth, arms crossed, her long hair tied back with a simple ribbon. There was no glamour to her now, nothing theatrical about her beauty—only the quiet seriousness of a teacher about to take a step she could not undo.

Morgana sat cross-legged on a thick rug, her dark curls falling over one shoulder, her face alert with nervous excitement. She was wearing her nightgown still, overlaid with a cloak for warmth, but her eyes were wide and expectant. "What do I need to do?" she whispered.

Odette knelt opposite her, drawing a finger over the rug between them, tracing a small circle with ancient precision. "First, understand this isn't a game," she murmured. "Magic listens. It responds. But it demands intent. Discipline. Consequence."

Morgana nodded, suddenly grave.

"Now," Odette said, gently placing a withered leaf in the centre of the circle, "we begin with motion."

She drew her wand—not a wand of Camelot make, but one forged elsewhere, slim and willow-dark—and set it gently on Morgana's palm. "For now, I want you to feel, not force. This wand knows me, but tonight, I'll let it listen to you."

Odette wasn't entirely confident that it would work, considering that it was her wand that Morgana was using. And as Ollivander always used to say, 'The wand chooses the wizard.'

Morgana's breath hitched slightly. She curled her fingers around the wand. "What am I trying to do?"

"Will the leaf to rise. Not by strength, but by connection. Breathe with it. Focus your thoughts on lifting—not pushing or pulling, but becoming one with what you lift."

"Oh, and say Wingardium Leviosa."

Morgana shut her eyes.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

A long, silent moment passed. The air grew heavier.

Then, just as Odette leaned in to correct her posture, the leaf fluttered. Once. Then stilled.

Morgana gasped. "Did you see that?"

Odette's lips curved into a proud, cautious smile. "I did." The truth was that the attempt was pathetic, but to give Morgana credit, magic has evolved over the years; she wasn't using a wand made for her, and she is a priestess of the old religion.

Morgana looked down at her hand, then at Odette, wonder lighting her features. "Teach me more."

Odette hesitated. The room felt full of fate, of unseen eyes, of risks mounting like tides. But there was something in Morgana's expression—earnest, raw—that cut through the fear.

"Tomorrow night," Odette said softly. "And the night after that. But we must be careful. Not even Gwen can know."

Morgana reached forward and clasped her hand. "Thank you."

Odette nodded, squeezing back once before rising to her feet, taking the wand along with her. "Sleep. You'll need it. Magic takes from you just as much as it gives."

Morgana, whose hands were still curled into the same position she was holding Odette's hand, lay back on the cushions as Odette extinguished the candles one by one, the shadows drawing long around them.

"I'm glad you're here," Morgana whispered at last, her head resting back against a velvet pillow.

"I shouldn't be," Odette said honestly. "I shouldn't have left. Morgause..."

Morgana turned toward her. "You speak of her often."

"I was waiting for her. I swore I would. But I left. I didn't mean to. I just—"

"She would forgive you," Morgana said quietly. "If she truly cared for you, she'd understand."

Odette swallowed. "I hope you're right."

Noticing her silence, Morgana shuffled a little closer, tilting her head on the woman's shoulder. "So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence."

Odette rested her head on hers.

Camelot's corridors were restless that evening, alive with murmured whispers of gossiping servants and rustling silk. Odette trailed behind Morgana through the sweeping stone halls, her soft slippers silent against the flagstones. The torchlight painted the walls gold and amber, throwing Morgana's elegant shadow long beside her own.

Odette caught something in her peripheral vision.

Merlin. Being grabbed by what appeared to be a servant and a hooded figure standing behind him.

She narrowed her eyes, willing herself to see closer.

The figure unveiled herself, revealing a woman with hair that seemed to shine with just as much brilliance as a bronze statue.

"Arthur said Father is expecting guests," Morgana explained in a hushed voice, turning her head just enough that Odette caught the faint gleam of her earrings. "Some noblewoman from afar. Camelot thrives on pageantry, after all."

Odette nodded faintly, gesturing her head towards the window. "I believe that might be her."

Morgana looked down the window, incredulously, "Truly? Wait, that's not Lady Anabeth." She turned her head back to Odette before snickering, "But from what I can tell, she must be beautiful."

She led Odette's chin with her fingers, pulling her back to Merlin, who was staring, transfixed at the woman. "Look at Merlin." Odette snorted a bit, but her mind drifted.

Despite Uther's unexpected kindness in allowing her to stay—because, as he put it, she reminded him of someone—guilt still clung to her like a phantom. She hadn't waited for Morgause. She should have. Every step she took through these corridors, every polite smile to passing knights, felt stolen somehow, as though she was living in someone else's shoes.

Before she could linger on the thought, the herald's voice carried through the vaulted hall:

"Presenting the Lady Catrina of Tregor!"

Odette walked alongside Morgana down the sweeping staircase into the council chamber, her pale hands clasped tightly before her. Despite her months in Camelot, she still wasn't used to these formal occasions—the weight of gold and expectation, the hush of dozens of noble gazes.

At the centre of the room, Uther Pendragon rose from his throne. His expression, usually carved from iron, softened instantly as his eyes landed on the woman entering the chamber.

Lady Catrina swept in like a vision, draped in bronze. Her gown shimmered with the gleam of molten sunlight, every embroidered thread catching the light. Her hair spilled down in burnished waves, and a jewelled circlet glittered against her curls. She walked slowly, every step measured, the perfect picture of a noblewoman steeped in tragedy and grace.

Odette's stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with unease. She'd learned to feel the subtle hum of magic, and something in Lady Catrina's aura thrummed faintly wrong. Too polished. Too carefully crafted.

"Lady Catrina, is it really you?" Uther's voice, usually so commanding, carried a surprising tenderness.

Catrina lowered her lashes modestly. "I can hardly believe it myself."

"We had tidings from the north," Uther continued, descending the dais to greet her personally, "that the House of Tregor had fallen to invaders."

"All that you heard was true, my lord—and worse."

She told the tale of her father, the King of Tregor, falling beneath overwhelming odds, her voice soft and heavy with practised sorrow. Odette watched her closely, trying to decide if the tremble in Catrina's tone was grief or something else entirely.

As Catrina swayed suddenly, Uther was there in an instant, catching her hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Your sufferings are beyond imagining, my lady," he murmured. "It would be an honour to help you in any way we can."

Catrina smiled faintly, a fragile thing designed to tug at the heart. "A bed for the night would be most welcome."

"And consider yourselves our esteemed guests," Uther declared, raising his voice so the court could hear. "It is the least we can do."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the chamber, but Odette felt a faint chill creep up her spine.

Beside her, Morgana leaned closer, whispering just for Odette. "She's impressive, isn't she?"

"Perhaps too impressive," Odette murmured back, her voice careful.

For just a moment, Lady Catrina's gaze swept across the chamber and landed on her. Their eyes locked, and Odette felt her breath catch. There was something sharp behind that warm, courtly smile—like a predator appraising prey.

Odette dipped her head respectfully, but she could still feel the weight of Catrina's gaze lingering on her, cold and deliberate, long after the noblewoman looked away.

Morgana, noticing her silence, clasped her shoulder. "Is everything alright, Odette?"

The said woman never tore her eyes off the "Lady Catrina". "Yeah," She shook her head abashedly, "Yeah, everything's peachy." She excused herself and quietly left, her slippers barely making any sound as she glided down the hallway to her quarters.

"Peachy. Peachy?" Morgana mouthed to herself as she turned to return to her own quarters.

The corridors of Camelot were quiet save for the distant echo of boots against stone and the soft hiss of torchlight. Odette was on her way back from Morgana's chambers when she noticed Lady Catrina standing alone near one of the tall arched windows, her bronze gown spilling like molten metal around her feet.

"Ah," Catrina said without turning, her voice smooth, velvet over steel. "You must be the mysterious young woman Uther has taken such... interest in."

Odette froze for only a heartbeat before stepping closer and bowing slightly, her stomach churning slightly at the hint of her implications. "I am Odette, my lady. I was recently brought to Camelot by Prince Arthur's company."

Catrina finally turned, her face bathed in moonlight, the perfect mask of courtesy. "How fortunate," she said softly, though her eyes held an edge. "Uther rarely opens his gates so freely, especially to those... not of noble blood."

Odette kept her voice even, careful. "I owe the Pendragons a great debt."

Something about the way Catrina studied her made Odette's skin prickle—as though the woman could see beneath her skin, peeling back layers she didn't want exposed.

"You must forgive me," Catrina murmured, leaning just a fraction closer. "I have travelled far, and yet even exhausted, I can always tell when someone carries... secrets."

Odette's breath caught, her heartbeat quickening beneath her ribs. She forced a polite smile. "We all have secrets, my lady."

Catrina's lips curved—not kindly, but knowingly. "Indeed. I suspect yours are far more... interesting than most."

Before Odette could answer, Jonas, Catrina's stooped servant, appeared at the end of the corridor. "My lady," he rasped, bowing. "Your chambers are ready."

Catrina didn't move at once. Instead, she held Odette's gaze a moment longer, her smile never wavering, but her eyes sharp enough to cut. "It was... a pleasure to meet you."

Odette dipped into another small bow, holding her composure until Catrina swept away, bronze silk whispering across the stone floor.

Only when she was alone did Odette let out a shaky breath, the unease settling like a stone in her chest. There was something about Lady Catrina—beneath the grace, beneath the sorrow—that was terribly, terribly wrong.

hey guys am i cooking? we're at season 2 episode 5 beauty and the beast part 1

all my assessments have started to pile up on top of each other and ive also got like 2 jobs so i might not be able to update as frequently for another 3 weeks until then im as free as a alcatraz prisoner.

do guys like this new format or do you prefer the spaced out paragraphs?

Chapter Text

The hall shimmered with candlelight, and Odette's breath caught in her throat.

She had turned a corner too sharply, the hem of her gown whispering against the smooth stone floor, only to be met with the sight of King Uther Pendragon standing far too close to Lady Catrina. The woman's hands were draped across Uther's forearm with the leisure of someone long accustomed to power. Her laughter, airy and musical, belied a confidence Odette couldn't quite place—one that sent a chill spiralling down her spine.

Their flirtation was an unspoken opera: glances exchanged like stolen letters, words dipped in honey, silences filled with breathless expectation. Uther leaned in closer.

Odette could watch no longer.

She turned, her steps quick and frantic, her mind an avalanche of unease. It wasn't jealousy that gripped her—Uther meant nothing to her—but something older, deeper. There was something wrong with Lady Catrina. Something unseen, yet foul. Like rot beneath perfume.

She was so consumed in her thoughts that she didn't notice the shadow rounding the next corridor.

Their shoulders collided.

"Oh—!" she gasped, stumbling backward.

Arthur steadied her reflexively, his hands gripping her arms to keep her from falling. And then he saw her.

Truly saw her.

She was not the waif who had trailed behind Gwen, nor the girl shrouded in candlelight on their journey from Hengist's hold. No—Odette, in this moment, was ethereal. Her moonlit hair glowed like starlight spun into silk. Her pale gold dress clung gently to her frame, a breath of elegance among Camelot's stone austerity. Her eyes, twin storms of sorrow and resilience, blinked up at him, startled.

Arthur opened his mouth. No words came.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, dipping her head. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I—No, I was—I mean—" He cleared his throat and stepped back, heat rising up his neck. "Are you... Alright?"

"Of course," Odette replied, though her voice carried a tremor. "Just heading to Lady Morgana's chambers."

Arthur nodded. "Right. Good. That's... good."

It had been barely a full day since they had met, and yet the way she looked at him made him feel as if she knew what would become of him.

Her face was neither angelic nor mortal—it was a ruinous poetry carved from some forgotten cathedral's prayer. The delicate arch of her cheekbone, the mournful lull of her lashes, the sweep of her golden hair like fields of wheat trembling before a storm—all sang of beauty, but with a dirgeful grace, as if her loveliness had been won at great cost.

Her eyes—Gods above—her eyes.

Twin sepulchres of ancient light. Pools not of sapphire, but of midnight glass, where stars were once drowned and now flickered faintly in echo. They held within them the gaze of a woman who had seen love and death in equal measure and had learned, somehow, to smile through both.

Arthur could not speak. Could not move. For in that moment, he saw her not merely with the eyes of a prince, but with the dread awe of a man who had accidentally glimpsed the divine.

Not a flame, not a tempest, not even the sword had ever struck him so deeply.

She turned her head and offered him the faintest nod—no more than a breath against the stillness. And yet it cut him. Deep. Silently. Invisibly.

Arthur knew then that she would haunt him. 

When Odette entered Morgana's chamber, the sorceress was curled in her usual seat by the fire, combing through her chest of embroidered silks. She looked up with a sly grin.

"Did I hear your voice in the corridor?"

Odette flushed. "I bumped into Arthur."

Morgana raised a brow. "He didn't faint, did he?"

Odette snorted, easing into a nearby chair. "Not quite. But he looked... surprised."

"Surprised?" Morgana said, eyes narrowing mischievously. "Or enchanted?"

Odette shook her head, but a smile tugged at her lips.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where morning light spilled across the sill.

Odette exhaled and sank into the cushioned seat near the window. "I saw the king... with Lady Catrina."

Morgana rolled her eyes. "You mean our noble lord practically drooling into her lap?"

Odette laughed, surprised. "It was... something like that, yes."

"I walked in on them earlier," Morgana said dryly, reaching for her nightdress. "It was all 'My lady this' and 'Your eyes outshine the stars' that. Honestly, I thought I would choke."

Odette let herself laugh again, this time deeper. But it was a bitter kind of laugh—one that Poe might've said was tinged with "the fever of the soul." It was the laughter of a girl who had seen too many gilded lies and romantic decay. She glanced toward the fire, its glow licking the stone like golden tongues.

"I don't trust her," Odette whispered.

"Neither do I," Morgana said. "But Uther's bewitched."

A pause.

"I don't mean literally," she added, though doubt flickered in her voice.

Odette said nothing.

They changed for bed, and for the first time in weeks, Odette let her shoulders soften. Morgana was a comfort—sharp, clever, unafraid. It reminded her faintly of Morgause, and that thought burned like iron in the back of her throat.

They fell into comfortable silence after that—Morgana curling into her bedding, Odette tidying the ends of the chamber. The hours wore on, the castle quieting under moonlight.

Odette fell asleep beside the fire, a book open across her lap.

Until the scream shattered the stillness.

Morgana convulsed beneath the tangled sheets, caught in the grip of a nightmare that clawed at her with unseen hands. Her limbs jerked, caught like prey in a trap, and her breath came in panicked gasps. Her murmurs were broken and desperate, like a child lost in the dark.

Odette was at her side before she could think. The soft rustle of silk barely announced her movement. She fell to her knees, grasping Morgana's hand with both of hers. It was slick with sweat and trembling.

"Shhh..." Odette whispered, her voice shaking with concern. "I'm here. I've got you."

But Morgana thrashed harder, tears slipping from the corners of her closed eyes. "Don't let them take him," she moaned, her voice breaking. "Not him... please..."

The words pierced Odette like a dagger. Not because she knew who "him" was—but because of the raw grief in Morgana's voice. It was too familiar. Too much like her own.

She glanced at the door—locked, silent.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she gently laid a hand on Morgana's forehead. The fevered heat made her stomach turn. She shouldn't. It was too risky. But...

Odette closed her eyes and released a breath so big that she had faintly wondered how she did not turn blue.

The magic stirred within her, slow and reluctant, like a wounded animal. She coaxed it out, cradled it in trembling hands, and whispered the old words of the Bewitched Sleep charm, Dumbledore had once murmured to a student during the Triwizard tournament.

A faint golden glow shimmered beneath her fingertips and spread across Morgana's brow like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds. The tension in Morgana's body eased. Her limbs stilled. The furrow in her brow relaxed.

And then, silence.

The kind of silence that feels holy.

Odette let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Her shoulders sagged as she brushed back strands of soaked, dark hair from Morgana's pale forehead.

"You're safe now," she whispered. "I promise."

And for the first time that night, Morgana slept without fear.

Odette stayed where she was, kneeling beside the bed like a devoted sentinel, her thumb absently stroking Morgana's wrist in rhythmic circles. The exhaustion in her bones screamed to lie down, to rest, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Not while Morgana looked so peaceful.

Not while the magic still hummed faintly in her blood, tender and dangerous.

Behind the door, unseen and silent, a shadow lingered.

Merlin.

He had come bearing Morgana's sleeping draught—but froze the moment his hand touched the door handle. He had seen the flicker of light under the crack, had felt the pulse of enchantment like a heartbeat against the air.

And then—he saw the door click shut on its own.

Magic. Quiet and controlled, but unmistakable.

He didn't barge in. Didn't call out.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows.

His thoughts were tangled with uncertainty—but one thing had become unmistakably clear: Odette was not who she appeared to be.

And magic, in Camelot, never stayed hidden for long.

The next morning, he said nothing to Gaius—but he carried the image with him to Arthur's chambers, where the prince sat sharpening his sword and pretending not to be watching the door.

Merlin entered quietly and placed the breakfast tray on the table.

"She stayed in Morgana's room last night," he said casually, wiping at a spot on the table that had been cleaned five times already.

Arthur blinked. "Who?"

"Odette."

Arthur tried—and failed—to look uninterested. "So?"

Merlin shrugged. "She's... interesting."

Arthur gave him a look.

Merlin leaned against the wall. "She has a strange presence about her. Don't you think?"

"She's a guest," Arthur said curtly.

"A guest with secrets."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

"I don't know yet," Merlin muttered. "But I'll find out."

Arthur stood up from his chair, clasping Merlin's bony shoulder in a grip that nearly hurt. He smiled, thinly, lined with mischief."Learn when to shut your mouth, will you?"

And just like that, Merlin was sentenced to becoming the Knights' training dummy for the evening.

The stars above Camelot seemed too still. Odette sat alone on a high balcony nestled against the library's spired turret, the wind brushing her hair into her face as if the night itself were whispering to her.

In her lap sat a broken chain and two delicate, fractured glass discs encased in scorched bronze—what had once been her Time-Turner.

She held it gently, reverently, as if touching it too harshly would scatter the memory of where she'd come from.

Hogwarts.

The sound of laughter in the Great Hall. The crackling fire in the Ravenclaw common room. Flitwick's kind eyes. The faint echo of incantations bouncing off stone.

All of it unreachable now—ghosts of a life receding like ink in water.

Her thumb brushed the cracked edge of the central hourglass, once capable of twisting time itself. Now, it shimmered faintly, like a dying heartbeat.

She stared at the runes engraved along the edge.

Tempus tangere non sine pretio.

Odette exhaled slowly, curling her knees up to her chest.

She had spent every spare moment these past weeks ruminating over it, chasing theories and magical principles she'd only ever studied in theory. She had thought magic was rules and balance—but here in Camelot, where even the mention of sorcery could earn you death, she had begun to understand: magic was instinct. Magic was feeling.

And feeling hurt.

Still... a solution was forming. Not solid, but misty at the edges. Hypothetical. Fragile.

If she could extract enough magical resonance from the leylines beneath Camelot...

If she could bind that raw energy to a fixed temporal anchor—perhaps the comet that had passed overhead days ago...

If she could reconstruct the bronze disc to act not just as a temporal manipulator but a transdimensional conductor...

Her thoughts spiralled faster than her quill could follow. Her notes, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in Morgana's chambers, had grown steadily more erratic—half magic, half madness.

But none of it mattered if she couldn't find the final key.

Chronosapience.

A spell so old it was banned in the Department of Mysteries—the ability to commune—not just with time—but with Time as a sentient force.

It was the last thing she remembered researching before the spell in the Room of Requirement backfired—hurtling her here, to a world of swords and kings and dragons.

She clenched the broken chain.

"I just wanted to fix it," she whispered to the night.

A sob clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it back.

She couldn't afford weakness—not now.

A soft voice from memory rose like smoke:

"Time is not a corridor, Odette. It is a tide. You cannot outwalk the sea."

But she had to try.

She turned her eyes to the sky again, speaking aloud to no one.

"Even if I repaired the hourglass, even if I found a way to cast Chronosapience without being torn apart, even if the stars aligned and the spell didn't kill me—there's still the question of when."

Her voice trembled.

"Do I go back to the night I cast the spell? Do I try to warn myself? Do I stop it all? Or..."

She looked down at her hands.

"Or do I leave it broken?"

Because what was waiting for her there? A Ministry that hunted her kind? A war? A world that never wanted her in the first place?

Here, at least, there was warmth.

Behind her lids, she saw Gwen's laugh, Lancelot's silent awe, Morgana's careful smiles. Arthur's voice—soft and uncertain. The way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice.

A breath hitched in her chest. She didn't know anymore where she belonged.

But she knew where she was.

And she knew who she used to be.

Stillness settled over her like falling ash. For a long moment, she stood there in the hallway—breathing in the dust of time, the silence of magic unspoken.

The heavy wooden doors to the council dining chamber were not quite closed.

Beyond the gap, firelight flickered, warming the stone walls and dancing in the goblets of wine resting before King Uther Pendragon and Lady Catrina. The chamber, often filled with the clamour of nobility, now sat still—intimate in its silence, broken only by murmured conversation and the occasional clink of silverware.

Unseen in the shadows just outside the threshold, Odette pressed her back against a column, hidden by heavy velvet drapes. Her breath was caught in her throat, not out of fear, but dread—the kind that prickled beneath the skin like an omen.

Catrina's voice, silken and indulgent, rose softly through the space.

"Isn't this perfect?" she purred. "You and me together. A toast. A toast to us."

There was the soft sound of goblets meeting.

Odette's brows knit.

"Us?" The word felt unnatural coming from the woman's mouth. Since her arrival, Catrina had oozed charm, yet something about her presence stirred the hairs on Odette's arms. It was like looking into a pool of water and seeing only a reflection—never depth.

Uther chuckled faintly, though his tone was uncertain.

"I'm not sure everyone sees it that way."

Odette could imagine the look on his face: stern brow furrowed, lips pressed in thought. Ever the king, calculating not just emotion, but legacy.

"Well, there will always be those who resist change," Catrina said sweetly. "That's to be expected."

There was a pause. A clink of glass, then a longer silence.

"We must be mindful of public opinion," Uther finally said.

Odette blinked. That wasn't just caution. That was hesitation.

"What are you trying to say, my lord?" Catrina's voice didn't falter, but there was an edge beneath the silk.

"Perhaps... if you were to visit your cousins for a while," Uther said slowly, "To show people that we're not rushing into anything."

Odette leaned forward slightly, heart thudding. Was he trying to send her away?

But Catrina—oh, Catrina—recovered quickly.

"You would let yourself be bullied by some petty-minded fools?" A pause. Her voice softened to near-sorrow. "But of course. Of course, my lord. If that is what you wish, then that is what I shall do."

Odette felt her stomach twist.

She could hear the false humility in Catrina's tone—measured, calculated. A woman who was too agreeable. And Uther, to Odette's alarm, seemed to be falling further into her snare.

"It is as you said," he murmured. "We have all the time in the world."

"Before I go," Catrina said suddenly, "there's something I want to give you. It belonged to my father... and his father before him."

Odette's lips parted. Her instincts screamed.

"Catrina, I couldn't possibly—"

"No, no, no, my lord. I want you to have it." Her voice was low now, intimate. "Perhaps when you look at it... it will remind you of me."

Odette inched closer to the edge of the doorway. Through the crack, she caught sight of the pendant—a dull metal chain bearing a heavy, weathered talisman.

Her blood went cold.

That was not a gift. That was a spell.

She could feel the magic—rotten and sickly, like the scent of decay hidden beneath perfume. Dark magic.

Catrina leaned forward, fastening the necklace around Uther's neck.

"And of the times that we have spent together."

As the pendant settled against his chest, Uther's eyes glazed—just slightly. His posture softened, his shoulders slumped. Odette, who had grown up seeing the subtle marks of enchantment, recognised it at once.

"I shall wear it always," he murmured, voice dull and heavy.

And then, Catrina changed.

Not in body—though the glint in her eye sharpened, the curve of her lips stretched just a bit too far.

It was in the air.

It was as if a second voice whispered just beneath her words.

"That is as well, my lord," she cooed, her voice now deeper, greedy. "For while others doubt me... You must not. You cannot doubt me. For am I not beautiful, my lord?"

Odette shuddered.

Something inside her said Run. But her legs wouldn't move.

Uther answered, as if bound.

"You are beautiful."

"Am I not your heart's desire?"

"You are my heart's desire."

"Then seal it, my lord." Catrina leaned in, close enough that Odette could hear her breath hitch. "Seal it with a kiss."

"Yes... a kiss."

Odette could bear it no longer.

She turned and fled, heart hammering, her breath catching in her throat. She stumbled into the corridor's shadows, lungs burning with rage and fear and something else—something darker.

She didn't notice the other figure in the hallway until she nearly collided with him.

Merlin.

He stood frozen a few paces away, face pale, his expression unreadable. Clearly, he had heard it too. Seen what she had seen.

But he wasn't looking at the door.

He was looking at her.

Surely, he had also seen the same situation as her. In fact, he was probably already making a plan as they stared at each other.

Though judging from the greatest sorcerer in the history of magic's face, a plan was the last thing on his mind.

He was looking straight through her, and Odette sidestepped and walked past him, never taking her eyes off his narrowed gaze.

He was trying to read her, unravel all of her secrets like they belonged to him.

She could only hope she was an open book.

Unluckily for her, Merlin is illiterate.

In the forgotten wing of the castle library, buried behind rows of crumbling texts and long-ignored scrolls, Odette sat curled in on herself, her golden hair pooled like sunlight around her shaking shoulders. The silence was thick—almost reverent—broken only by the brittle scratch of wind against the stained-glass windows and the occasional sound of her quiet, bitter sobs.

It was here she came when the walls of Camelot felt too bright, too filled with laughter that didn’t belong to her. Where servants whispered with ease, where knights clattered by with sure steps, and where the King—so proud and foolish—chose monsters to warm his throne. She could not breathe there. Not without remembering the chains. Not without remembering the child she had once been.

She had tried once—truly tried—to believe in something beyond herself. In a god, a purpose, a balance to the suffering. But no salvation had ever come. And when the bruises darkened her skin, when the magic was torn from her veins and her cries echoed unheard in that cold, gilded dungeon, she learned the truth.

There is no god.

At least not a loving one.

A loving god wouldn't have let it happen.

A loving god wouldn't have just sat back and watched.

Watch his children die for him, to lick at the scraps he had given them like they were the first meal they had had in months.

She rubbed at her wrists, phantom pain bringing back the itching that gave her a visceral urge to dig into the marrow of her bones and scratch until exhaustion had been taken from the marrow of her bones and pain had become a wandering thought stuck in the deepest depths of her mind.

A loving god wouldn't have hurt an innocent child.

His child.

Again and again and again and again.

Her nails dug into the stone floor, half-moon indents blooming in her palms. Her tears burned hot on her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. There was no one to see them. No one to judge her for crumbling. For once, she allowed herself to break.

If there was a god, he would have to beg for forgiveness.

Not the other way around.

And yet—had Arthur followed her at that moment, had he not turned away with duty clouding his mind—he might have seen her not as the mystery cloaked in golden light and sharp wit, but as she truly was: small, shaking, and utterly human.

He might have seen the girl who still remembered how to pray—but had long since forgotten why.

But he did not follow. And so she wept alone. And the wind, that ancient witness, carried her sobs up to the rafters like a funeral hymn.

Later, when the storm of grief quieted into trembling stillness, Odette pulled her knees closer and buried her face in the folds of her skirt. She did not feel strong. She did not feel magical. She felt hollow—like a candle burned too long, flickering in the dark with nothing left to give.

But still… she endured.

And in that silence, she whispered a curse not in spellwork but in memory.

A promise.

That if no one came to save her, she would save herself. Not with faith. Not with hope. But with fire.

She was afraid to accept it—accept that Morgause was truly not coming for her.

So she will continue to hang on to that wire of certainty, because if she did not, what other reason had she survived until now?

I had no idea what i was yapping about in this chapter but i hope it was good.

Chapter Text

Odette's feet ached from the stone steps, her joints stiff from having fallen asleep on the cold library floor hours earlier. Dawn had come like a knife shoved through stained glass, slicing the world back into motion, and though she had wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair, she still felt like a shadow wearing a girl's shape.

Not that she could afford to look fragile.

Not today.

When she rejoined Gwen and Morgana in their chambers, both already dressed and waiting, Odette sensed the tension immediately. Morgana paced in white linen, pacing so sharply her hem snapped like a banner in a storm.

"They summoned us," Gwen said quietly. "Uther called a full council meeting. Everyone is expected. Even the servants attending the ladies of court."

Meaning them.

Odette swallowed.

Meaning she would have to see Catrina again.

The beast behind the silk.

Her hands trembled as she helped Morgana tighten her bodice. Morgana's fingers brushed hers.

"Are you alright?"

Odette forced a nod. "Just tired."

Not entirely a lie.

But the moment they entered the upper hall leading toward the council chamber, Odette's fatigue burned away. A cold dread settled in its place.

The great doors swung open.

And there Uther stood—beaming. Completely oblivious to the tension of the room. Morgana swore she heard someone cough; she caught Odette's eye and gestured to them unamusedly.

Catrina's hand wrapped around his arm like a parasite hugging a vein.

Knights flanked the room. Lords and ladies murmured. Arthur stood near the front, jaw set, eyes tight, as if bracing for something he already dreaded.

Uther raised his hands.

"Thank you all for coming. You are, no doubt, wondering why I have gathered you here today." Odette's heart sank. Surely, this wasn't going to turn out the way she thought, right? Uther, blind to the obvious discomfort of the woman standing beside his ward.

"Though we live in dark times, today I bring you light, and love. It gives me greatest pleasure to inform you that the Houses of Tregor and Pendragon are to be united in the closest bond of all. I am to marry Lady Catrina of Tregor." Uther tenderly grasped the false hand of the supposed woman he was in love with. His voice was soaked with a sickly sweetness that made the acid in both Morgana's and Odette's stomachs curdle. 

It was the voice dedicated to someone you could trust with your heart, even in its visceral, gory glory. He no doubt saved it for Ygraine, and only Ygraine. It was pitiful to be aware that the person you would think would lick the grief from your lips and drink every ache you had, would tear and devour every last remaining thing that kept you standing, from collapsing in, until nothing remained, and the only thing you'd be left with is a raw wound that will never heal.

Your tears mean nothing.

They won't change anything.

"I am to marry Lady Catrina tomorrow. This union heralds a new dawn for the kingdom, a new beginning...

From the outside, he seemed mature with a philosopher's mind. But it was clear to see, on the inside?

He's just a child, lost in a sweet delusion.

Odette swallowed hard, watching Merlin carefully as he stepped forward among the crowd, his lips shaping words of revelation.

Hierste þæt íecen sóna.

The spell shimmered faintly in the air—subtle, cleverly woven.

And Catrina felt it.

Odette sensed her recoil—an invisible pushback of foul magic. It burned like rot in the air. She saw the shimmer buckle, twist, distort.

Merlin pushed harder.

Odette felt panic rise.

If Merlin's spell failed completely, Catrina would know someone was attacking her magically.

Worse—someone else might sense it too.

Someone with authority to execute them all.

Her breath hitched as the spell flickered dangerously.

She raised her fingers at her side, hidden in the folds of her skirt, and whispered the softest sliver of magic.

Revelio.

The spell leapt from her fingertips like a spider's thread. It hit Catrina square in the chest—clean, swift, sharp. Nearly unnoticeable.

Catrina staggered.

Her glamour flickered like a dying candle flame.

For a heartbeat, Odette saw the bulging nose, the mucus-slick skin, the hunched troll frame beneath the human shape.

But the creature snarled, clawing against the spell—its magic thick and monstrous, ripping through Odette's.

The glamour re-solidified.

Merlin's eyes flew to Odette.

And in that moment—she knew.

He had felt her interception.

He thought she had blocked him. She cursed herself. Why couldn't she have bloody taken legilimancy. She had half a mind to apparate out of there so she could go back to Forgotton Court, now that she thought about it that name gave her secondhand embarrassment. She perked up.

Why couldn't she apparate back?

Because that'd mean abandoning Morgana, as Morgause did to you, her brain helpfully supplied.

No. If she left, she would obviously take Morgana with her. If she didn't want to go? She could always visit.

His expression twisted—not with anger, but betrayal.

Uther's speech concluded amid applause.

Odette clapped woodenly.

Catrina clung to Uther, smiling with monstrous satisfaction.

And Merlin stared holes through Odette—every breath screaming:

Spy.

Traitor.

Magic-user on the wrong side.

If she stared one second longer, she was positive he would have made her regret her false crime; she shuddered at the thought.

The council was dismissed.

Odette barely remembered the walk back toward the servant corridors. Morgana muttered curses under her breath. Gwen whispered that everything was moving too fast. Servants gossiped in clusters.

But Merlin?

He stalked out of the hall long before any of them, jaw tight, eyes dark.

And every few steps—

He looked back.

At her.

Even though she had done no wrong and only tried to help, being clearly disliked by the greatest wizard in history made shame creep up her bones.

It is so exhausting. Trying to constantly communicate something incommunicable, to explain something so inexplicable, to tell about something only she feels in her bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.

She sighed and continued walking, this time without looking back.

Catrina's guest chambers were dim and close, the air thick with perfume that failed to fully hide the sour musk of the creature beneath her glamour. Jonas shut the door behind them with a frantic shove, his breath uneven and his forked tongue peaking out between each shaky breath.

Catrina—or rather, the troll wearing her skin—rounded on him at once, demanding to know what had happened. Her voice was sharp enough to cut through stone.

Jonas wrung his hands. He had faced knights, thieves, and worse, yet nothing frightened him quite like disappointing his mistress. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I was not prepared."

She snapped her fingers, ordering her potion, and Jonas scrambled to the coffer where she kept her vials. As he retrieved the bottle, he continued, voice trembling.

"It was the girl. Odette."

At the sound of that name, the troll's eyes narrowed, the glamour flickering at the edges before smoothing again.

Jonas placed the potion into her outstretched hand and hurried to explain. "She interfered. She—she disrupted the moment. There was something about her, Mistress. Not... ordinary. She might ruin everything."

Catrina uncorked the vial with a dismissive flick of her clawed thumb, as though Odette were nothing more than an inconvenient draft rustling her curtains. "Do not concern yourself," she said. "I resisted her easily enough."

But Jonas could not let it go. Panic pressed at his throat. "There's no telling what she'll do next! She could ruin everything!"

The troll's glamour rippled again, this time with irritation rather than strain. The idea of her plans unravelling—her access to Uther, her growing influence, the kingdom so nearly within reach—that was unacceptable.

"That cannot be allowed to happen," she growled.

Jonas swallowed and dared to ask, "What would you have me do, Mistress?"

Silence stretched. Catrina's eyes glowed faintly with something ancient and hungry as she considered the problem. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and decisive.

"I think," she said, "it's time we set a trap."

The words slithered through the chamber like smoke.

A trap meant for Odette—the strange girl who had appeared from nowhere, the girl Uther pitied, the girl Arthur had begun to notice, the girl who, in the troll's mind, threatened the entire scheme.

Jonas bowed his head, already terrified of what the day ahead would bring.

Merlin stormed into the room.

"I'm sorry," he said, pacing, hands trembling. "I tried. I gave it everything I had."

Gaius put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Merlin."

But Merlin shook him off.

"No. Someone blocked me."

Gaius frowned. "Blocked you? Who could—"

"Odette."

The word fell like a stone.

"Odette stepped in," Merlin continued. "She used magic. Strong magic. She stopped my spell."

Gaius' expression darkened with exasperation more than alarm, his eyebrow curving to form his signature look that made anyone feel like a fool.

"Merlin. Really."

"I saw her!" Merlin insisted. "I felt her spell intercept mine. She's working with Catrina—I know she is."

"Merlin," Gaius said, slow and stern, "you've known that girl for a handful of days."

"And she's been lying the entire time!" Merlin snapped.

Gaius sighed. "Or you misunderstood what happened."

"I know what magic feels like," Merlin said, quieter now. "And I know when someone's trying to hide something."

Gaius pinched the bridge of his nose.

But Merlin didn't give him time to answer. He grabbed his scarf and ran.

"To see Arthur!" he called over his shoulder. "He's our only hope!"

Gaius looked skyward.

"Merlin—do NOT—"

Too late.

"Heaven help me." He gave a long-suffering sigh

Morgana shut her chamber door with more force than necessary, the echo rattling the bronze sconces. Odette followed behind her, the edges of her skirt brushing the stone like a sigh.

The tension was thick enough to touch.

Morgana spun, eyes blazing the way only hers could.
"I cannot believe him. Marrying her? Tomorrow? Has he completely lost his mind?"

Odette stayed quiet a moment, letting the storm roll.
She'd seen many tempests in her life — some roaring across the sky, others trapped behind ribs. Morgana's were the second kind.

"She did arrive with impeccable timing," Odette murmured softly. "Almost... too impeccable."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Morgana paced, hands slicing the air. "He doesn't see it. He never sees anything unless it fits his idea of the world. And that woman—" she stopped, throwing her hands up, "—she has him wrapped around her finger! A marriage? Tomorrow?! It's absurd."

Odette moved further into the room, letting her fingers skim the velvet cushion on Morgana's bed. "He seemed... very certain."

"Oh, he's enchanted, that's for certain," Morgana snapped. "And I don't mean romantically."

Something in her tone made Odette pause—not because Morgana was wrong, but because even without magic sensing, even without knowing the truth of Catrina, she could feel that something in the great hall had been wrong. Heavy. Cloying. Like swamp air.

"Are you worried about him?" Odette asked gently.

Morgana scoffed, but it was brittle. "Worried? I'm furious. And—" she exhaled sharply, rubbing her forehead, "—I don't know. Maybe a little worried, yes. He's not himself. I've seen him blindsided before, but never like this."

With a small, cautious step, Odette approached her. "He is your guardian," she said quietly. "Anger and worry are not opposites."

Morgana stilled, lips parting as if she'd been caught in something too vulnerable to name.
Then, with a groan, she collapsed onto her bed and buried her face in her hands.

"Why must men be such fools?" came her muffled, exasperated voice.

Odette let out a soft, warm laugh—the kind that made Morgana's heart clench, and her eyes dilate.

"Because they are human."

"Uther is barely that right now," Morgana muttered.

Odette sat beside her, careful, gentle. "I understand why this unsettles you."

Morgana lifted her head, a lock of hair falling loose.
"Do you? Truly?"

Odette hesitated—not because she doubted, but because some truths hurt to speak.

"Yes," she whispered. "When people in power make choices blinded by... affection, or desperation, it often ends with others suffering." Her voice dropped, eyes going distant. "I've seen it more times than I can count."

Morgana studied her, the anger in her expression softening into something quieter—curiosity, maybe. Concern. Connection.

For a heartbeat, they simply breathed in the same stillness.

Finally, Morgana exhaled a long, tired sigh. "I just wish he would think. For once. Just once. Without letting his heart make a mess of everything."

Odette smiled faintly. "If his heart is making the choice... perhaps it is because he has spent too long ignoring it."

That earned her a small, reluctant laugh. "Oh, don't make excuses for him."

"I'm not," Odette said softly. "Just observing."

Morgana flopped back on the pillows, staring at the canopy as though it could answer the world's questions. "This marriage will be a disaster."

"Probably," Odette admitted.

Morgana peeked over with a short snort. "At least you're honest."

"I try to be."

Silence settled again—softer now, like the room had exhaled with them.

Morgana rolled onto her side, facing Odette. "Stay with me tonight?"

The question was casual on the surface, but something in it trembled underneath.

A searching.

A reaching.

A needing-not-to-be-alone.

Odette nodded. "Of course." Her chest warmed as she smiled.

Merlin paused in the upper corridor, drawn by the faintest sound of weeping. It was soft, shaky, like someone trying to stifle their sobs. He followed it, calling out cautiously.

"Hello?"

A figure flinched in the shadows. Jonas lifted his head, tear-streaked and trembling.

"Master Merlin," he said, choking on the words. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong with you?" Merlin stepped closer, uneasy.

Jonas's voice crumpled. "I'm a slave. A prisoner."

Merlin frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"My mistress... she's not as she seems. But you know as much." He looked around nervously, as if expecting punishment at any second. "She is a cruel, wicked creature. She keeps me in chains. She hurts me. Her magic— I can't escape it." He leaned closer, whispering, "She twists my mind, as she is twisting the mind of your king."

Merlin tensed. Something didn't feel right, but Jonas's tears looked real enough.

"And Odette?" He questioned unsurely. 

"And Odette... she plays her part as well. Enchanting Prince Arthur, softening him. So he will not resist the marriage."

Merlin froze. "Odette? No—she wouldn't—" What is he thinking, of course she would?! She's already bewitched Morgana, so who's to say she's not doing the same to Arthur? The only positive was that Arthur still seemed to be smitten with Gwen.

"She already has," Jonas insisted. "Why else do you think the prince has accepted this union so easily? Her magic helps her cause."

"Why are you telling me this?" Merlin asked carefully.

"I can help you," Jonas said. "If you wish to help your king."

"How?"

"Below the castle, where she sleeps, she keeps her potions there. Every night she must take them. It is the magic that transforms her from beast to beauty. If you were to take those from her, she would remain as a beast... and then your king would not be so keen, I think."

Merlin hesitated. "Tell me, Jonas... why should I believe any of this?"

"You must do as you think fit, Master Merlin," Jonas murmured. "But if my mistress is not stopped, by morning she will be queen."

Merlin turned to go, the information given corrupting any good thought he had about Odette.

It hurt. It confused him. And it made him angry enough to act.

Merlin descended into the depths of the castle that night, slipping into Catrina's foul sleeping nest. He searched frantically—shelves, crates, bundles of cloth—but found nothing that resembled the potions Jonas described.

A deep voice rasped from the darkness behind him.

"You won't find anything in there."

Merlin spun as the troll stepped into view, hulking and hideous.

"You may possess some magic, wretch," she sneered, "but you are no match for me."

Her hands slammed against the earth. Magic surged. The tunnel behind Merlin collapsed in a roar of stone and dust. He shouted, shielding his face as the ceiling fell and sealed him inside.

He was trapped.

Above, the castle moved toward dawn.

Morning light poured across Catrina's chambers. The troll, wearing her human glamour, stood before the mirror, carefully adjusting her veil. She turned, grinning.

"Jonas, have I ever looked more revolting?"

"No, Mistress," he replied obediently.

"Oh, Jonas," she giggled. "You always say the right thing."

Their voices floated into the corridor—right where Odette was passing with folded linens in her arms.

She didn't mean to listen. She didn't want to. But when Jonas said, "By nightfall, you shall be queen of Camelot," her blood ran cold.

Then the troll purred, "And once the wedding is sealed, the prince will be easy enough to remove. No more interference. No more little birds fluttering around him."

Odette's hands shook violently. The linens slipped from her arms.

She ran.

She sprinted straight to Morgana's chambers, breathless, pale. Morgana caught her by the shoulders the second she stumbled inside.

"Odette? What is it? What's happened?"

Odette shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. "They—Catrina and Jonas—they're not what they seem. They're planning something, I overheard them—Morgana, they're not human, and they want the wedding to happen so they can—"

The bells began to ring.

Morgana's face sank. "No... we're too late."

The throne room swelled with nobles and knights. Arthur entered stiffly, trying to understand why everything felt wrong. Uther stood tall beside Catrina, his expression dazed with devotion.

Geoffrey’s voice carried:

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen of Camelot, we are gathered here today to celebrate, by the ancient right of handfasting, the union of Uther Pendragon and Lady Catrina of Tregor.”

Far across the castle, the walls shook as Merlin burst from a servant’s stairwell, covered in dust and panting. He sprinted toward the ceremony—

Only for Jonas to step calmly into his path.

“Master Merlin,” he said politely. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”

Merlin shoved him. “Step aside, Jonas.”

“The king’s wedding is by invitation only,” Jonas replied, blocking him again.

“I said, get out of my way!”

Jonas’s smile sharpened. “So sorry. But I regret to say… You are not invited.”

Behind the doors, Geoffrey’s voice echoed:

“Do any say nay?”

Odette stood near the back, half-hidden behind a pillar, her fingers trembling as she twisted the edge of her sleeve. Morgana stood beside her, stiff with barely restrained fury.

Up front, Geoffrey lifted the ceremonial garland with both hands.

“With this garland,” he declared, placing it gently over Uther and Catrina’s joined hands, “I do tie a knot, and by doing so, bind your hands and your hearts for all eternity.”

The audience murmured in approval. Uther looked blissfully enchanted. Catrina looked hungry—not for love, but for power.

Odette swallowed hard. This isn’t right. None of this is right.

And somewhere in the castle—

Jonas lunged after Merlin, voice shrill with false loyalty.

“Leave my mistress alone!”

But Merlin raised his hand, magic crackling beneath his breath.

“Ic þé wiþdríf!”

Jonas was blasted backward, sliding across the stone floor.

Merlin didn’t stop running.

Uther squeezed Catrina’s hands lovingly, completely oblivious to the horror unfolding.

“I, Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot,” he said with reverence, “I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee as I respect myself.”

Arthur shifted uneasily beside him, still unsure of Odette’s earlier panic, still trying to understand why everything felt wrong.

Odette felt her stomach twist. Please, someone, stop this. Please—

Merlin sprinted through the halls, lungs burning, cape flying behind him. The bells were already chiming.

He was too late.

He ran faster. His lungs felt like they were collapsing on themselves due to the lack of air.

Geoffrey lifted his voice over the crowd.

“I now pronounce you to be husband and wife.”

Merlin exploded into the room just as Uther leaned in and kissed Catrina.

A wave of applause filled the hall.

Odette flinched, feeling the sound like a blow.

Catrina’s smile twisted, her eyes snapping open just long enough to see Merlin — filthy, breathless, and very much aware.

Her expression curdled into a scowl, sharp as a blade.

Arthur noticed Merlin, confused.

“Merlin? What in the—”

But Merlin didn’t answer. He was staring straight at Catrina.

And Catrina, for the first time, looked nervous.

Odette stood frozen in the back, heart pounding painfully in her chest, realising the nightmare she’d tried to warn Morgana about had already taken root.

Camelot had just married a monster.

hey guys did i cook