You’ve been hiding in the lower tunnels of Camelot for three nights now, cold stone beneath you, Merlin’s cloak wrapped around your shoulders, and a quiet fear pulsing under your skin like a second heartbeat. You never meant to set foot in Camelot. You only wanted to escape the bounty hunters who chased you through the forests for using magic you couldn’t always control.

Merlin found you first. He’d looked at you with startled recognition, as if he knew your story before you told it. “You’re safe here,” he had whispered. You didn’t believe him then. You’re not sure you believe him now.

A torch flickers somewhere further down the corridor, and Merlin rushes toward you, breathless. “Arthur’s coming.”

Your heart stops. You’ve heard stories about the Crown Prince: proud, stubborn, golden like the sun and twice as blinding. Not someone who would take kindly to Merlin hiding a sorcerer right under his nose.

“Just… be calm,” Merlin pleads. “He won’t hurt you.”

You’re not so sure about that.

When Arthur appears, the air in the tunnel shifts. His armor glints even in the dimness. His eyes land on you and something inside you sinks.

But then his expression softens, only a fraction. “Merlin said someone needed help,” he says, voice steady. “He didn’t mention who.”

You swallow, keeping your hands visible, empty. “I won’t hurt you,” you say before he can speak again.

Arthur studies you, his gaze lingering on the bruises around your wrists, the torn hem of your clothes. Something like anger flashes across his face, not at you, you realize, but for you.

“Who did this?” he asks quietly and you look away. “Bounty hunters. For… what I am.”

You wait for him to recoil. Everyone else has. He doesn’t.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, tone sharp. “Fetch blankets. And food.”

Merlin hurries off, leaving you alone with the future king of Camelot.

Arthur steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re safe here,” he murmurs, echoing Merlin’s words but somehow, when he says it, you believe it.

You shouldn’t. Uther’s laws hang above your head like a blade. “Arthur… if your father finds out-” “He won’t.” The certainty in his voice is almost frightening. “If you need protection, you have it.” He hesitates, then adds, “From me.”

Your chest tightens. “But why?” you whisper.

He looks at you then, not as a fugitive, not as a danger, but as a person. Someone he refuses to fear.

“Because no one should have to run,” he says. “And because you looked at me like you expected me to be a monster.” Your breath catches. “I didn’t.” “Good.” His voice gentles. “I’d like a chance to prove you right.”

In the dim light of the torch, Arthur Pendragon offers you his hand, not as a prince, but as someone choosing you, despite everything.