The night was cold, the kind that seemed to press down on Camelot, heavy and unrelenting. Merlin paced the floor of Gaius’ chambers, his hands wringing together, his heart racing faster than his thoughts. Arthur lay upstairs, pale and burning with fever, his breaths shallow, his strength slipping away.

“He doesn’t have long,” Gaius said grimly, his voice a low tremor. “I’ve tried everything I know, Merlin. The only cure lies in the hands of a sorceress deep in the woods. She is… old, wise, and dangerous. But if anyone can save him, it’s her.”

Merlin barely paused. Old, young, dangerous or not, he would walk through fire itself for Arthur. So he set out before dawn, cloak drawn tightly around him as the forest swallowed him whole. The directions Gaius had given him led to a small clearing, where a hut stood half-hidden beneath tangled branches. Warm light spilled from the windows, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. It didn’t look dangerous. It looked… cozy.

Merlin hesitated, then knocked.

The door opened, and he found himself staring, not at a bent, wrinkled crone as he had imagined, but at a young person, no older than himself. Eyes bright with wary intelligence, and there was flour dusting your hands as though you had just been baking bread.

“You’re not what I expected,” Merlin blurted.

Your brow arched, equal parts amused and cautious. “Let me guess. You thought I’d be some hunched hag with warts and a crow on her shoulder?”

“Well…” Merlin’s ears went red. “Yes. Something like that.”

You gave a soft laugh, though there was a flicker of sadness in your eyes. “That was my mother. She’s been gone for some time now. I live here alone. But I know what she knew.” Your gaze sharpened, reading the desperation in his face. “You wouldn’t have come unless it was life or death. Who is it?”

“Prince Arthur,” Merlin said quickly. “He’s dying. Gaius said you, your mother, knew how to make the potion. Do you?”

“I do,” you said, after a pause. You stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in."