#gwaithesimp

"Gaius?" I frowned, wiping rain from my eyes. "Did Merlin drink a potion again? I told him the blue one looked suspect." 

"Just come." Leon turned and marched toward the citadel. 

I followed, the bad feeling in my gut twisting tighter with every step. I’ve lived a life of looking over my shoulder. When you leave your past behind, you always expect it to catch up with a knife in the dark. But Leon’s silence was worse than a knife. It was heavy. 

We moved through the lower town, up the stone steps, past the guards who nodded at us. By the time we reached the corridor leading to Gaius’s chambers, my heart was hammering against my ribs, a traitorous rhythm I couldn’t control. 

The door was ajar. I could hear low voices. Arthur’s authoritative baritone. Gaius’s calm, murmuring rumble. And a sound that stopped me dead in the corridor. 

A ragged, pained gasp. A female voice. 

I knew that gasp. I hadn't heard it in five years—not since a day in a humid garden in Caerleon when a girl fell out of an apple tree and tried to pretend she hadn't broken her wrist—but I knew it. 

I pushed past Leon, shoving the heavy oak door open so hard it bounced off the stone wall. 

The room smelled of antiseptic, boiling herbs, and the metallic tang of blood. Arthur was standing by the window, arms crossed, looking grim. Merlin was hovering near the patient cot, holding a basin of water that was stained pink. Gaius was bent over the figure lying there, blocking my view. 

"Gwaine," Arthur started, stepping forward. "Wait, we need to—" 

I ignored him. I ignored the King of Camelot. I took two strides into the room, my eyes locked on the sliver of pale hand hanging off the edge of the cot. A ring. A small, silver ring with a crude engraving of a wyvern. I made it for her out of a stolen spoon when I was twelve. 

The air left my lungs. The world narrowed down to that hand. 

"Can I see her?" 

My voice came out wrecked, harsh. 

Gaius straightened up, turning to face me. He looked grave. He held a bloodied cloth in his hand. "Gwaine," he said softly. "She has lost a lot of blood. The wound is deep." 

"Can I see her?" I repeated, louder this time, stepping around him. I didn't ask it as a question, really. It was a demand. A desperate, terrified demand. 

Gaius stepped aside. 

And there she was. 

She looked so small. That was my first thought. YN had always been a scrap of a thing, all elbows and knees and fierce, burning energy, but here, against the grey linen of Gaius’s cot, she looked like a ghost. Her dark hair was matted with rain and sweat, plastered against a forehead that was terrifyingly white. There was a bandage wrapped tight around her midsection, crimson blooming through the layers. 

"YN," I breathed. The name tasted like ash. 

"You know this girl?" Arthur asked. He sounded stunned. 

I didn't take my eyes off her face. I reached out, my hand trembling, and brushed a wet lock of hair away from her cheek. Her skin was clammy. Cold. "She’s not just a girl," I whispered. "She’s my sister." 

I heard Merlin intake a sharp breath. "Your sister? Gwaine, you never said..." 

"I never said a lot of things," I snapped, the anger flaring up to cover the panic. I dropped to my knees beside the cot, heedless of the hard stone floor. I took her hand—the one with the silver ring—and sandwiched it between my own calloused palms. It was so fragile. "Gaius, tell me. Tell me she’s going to be alright." 

"She was ambushed on the northern road," Gaius said, his voice clinical but kind. "Bandits. She took a sword thrust to the side. It missed the vital organs, but she was out in the rain for hours before the patrol found her. The fever is my concern now. If the infection sets in..." 

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. I knew what infection meant in this world. It meant a slow, burning end. 

"Who did this?" I asked, looking up at Arthur. My vision was blurring, hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Who?" 

"The patrol is tracking them," Arthur said. He looked shaken, staring at YN. "I didn't know, Gwaine. If I had known she was your blood—" 

I didn’t wait for him to finish before I turned back to her, squeezing her hand. "Wake up, YNN. Come on. You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up after five years just to die on me." 

"Gwaine," Merlin said gently, putting a hand on my shoulder. 

I shrugged him off. "Don't." 

I needed them to leave. I needed the King and his servant and the physician to vanish so I could scream, or pray, or bargain with whatever gods were listening. But they stayed, because they were good men, and that annoyed me almost as much as it comforted me. 

"She was asking for you," Gaius said softly, turning back to his mixing table. "Before she lost consciousness. She kept saying 'Tell the roving knight. Tell the fool.'" 

I let out a choked sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so wet. "The fool. Yeah. That’s me." 

I sat there for hours. 

Arthur eventually left to deal with the council, though he promised to send word the moment the bandits were caught. I knew what that meant. He’d let me execute them. It was a dark gift, but one I appreciated. Merlin stayed longer, sitting on a stool in the corner, pretending to read a book while watching me with those unnervingly wise eyes of his. 

"You should eat," Merlin said eventually, as the candle burned low. 

"Not hungry." 

"Gwaine..." 

"Why didn't she write?" I asked the room, not really talking to Merlin. "I told her not to follow me. The day I left Caerleon, I told her, 'Stay here, keep your head down, marry some boring Baron, and live a long, fat life.' I told her I was no good for her to follow.” 

"Maybe she didn't agree," Merlin said. 

"She never agreed with anything I said. Stubborn. More stubborn than a mule with a headache." I rubbed my thumb over the silver ring on her finger. "I left to protect her, Merlin. My father... he was a good man, but the nobility? The politics? It destroyed him. I saw it destroying me. I thought if I removed the stain—if the 'disgraceful son' just disappeared—she’d have a chance at a normal life." 

"Families are complicated," Merlin murmured. 

"I abandoned her." The truth of it sat heavy in the air. "I walked out the gate and I didn't look back because I knew if I saw her crying in the window, I wouldn't be able to leave. And now..." I looked at her pale face, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. "Now she’s here, bleeding out because she probably came looking for me." 

"You don't know that." 

"I know her." 

Gaius came over with a fresh poultice. "I need to change the dressing, Gwaine. It’s best if you step outside." 

"No." 

"Gwaine—" 

"I’m not leaving her. Not again." 

Gaius looked at me, saw the resolve in my jaw, and sighed. "Very well. Hold her shoulders. This will be painful, even in her sleep." 

It was a nightmare. As Gaius peeled back the blood-soaked linen, YN whimpered, her body arching off the cot. The sound tore through me. I leaned over her, pressing her shoulders down, murmuring nonsense into her ear. "Shh, YNN, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Gwaine. I’ve got you. I’ve got you." 

She thrashed once, a weak, disjointed movement, and then settled back into the dark rhythm of the fever. 

When it was done, and fresh bandages were applied, I felt drained, as if I’d fought a melee against twenty men. I slumped onto the floor beside the cot, resting my head near her arm. 

"She’s fighting," Gaius said, wiping his hands. "The fever hasn't broken, but she’s strong." 

"She’s the strongest person I know," I said. 

Merlin eventually left to tend to Arthur, leaving me alone in the flickering candlelight. The rain tapped against the windowpane, a rhythmic drumming that took me back to the nursery in our old estate. We used to sit under the window seat during storms, YN and I. She was terrified of thunder. I’d make up stories about dragons and knights to distract her. I’d tell her the thunder was just the sky moving furniture. 

"I’m sorry," I whispered into the silence. "I’m so sorry, YNN." 

I must have dozed off, my head resting on the mattress, because the next thing I knew, the light had changed. It was grey and thin—dawn. The rain had stopped. 

And there was a hand in my hair. 

I froze. I didn't breathe. 

The fingers moved, weak and trembling, tangling slightly in my locks. 

I shot up, blinking sleep from my eyes. 

YN was looking at me. Her eyes, the same dark hazel as our mother’s, were glassy and rimmed with red, but they were open. And they were focused on me. 

"Gwaine?" Her voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible. 

"I’m here," I said, leaning in close, my heart soaring. "I’m here, YNN." 

She blinked slowly, processing the room, the smell of herbs, and finally, my face. She tried to lick her dry lips. I grabbed a cup of water from the table, supporting her head as I helped her take small sips. 

"Easy," I murmured. "Slowly." 

She pulled away, coughing weakly. She winced, her hand flying to her side. 

"Don't move," I ordered gently. "You were stabbed. Gaius patched you up, but you need to be still." 

She looked at me for a long moment. The relief I felt was crashing into a wall of anxiety. What would she say? Would she scream at me? Would she tell me to get out? 

"You look old," she rasped. 

I let out a laugh that was half-sob. "And you look like you fought a badger and lost." 

A tiny, ghost of a smile touched her lips, then vanished. The hazel eyes hardened. "You left." 

The air left the room. There it was. 

"I know," I said, my voice dropping. I looked down at our hands. "I know, YNN." 

"Five years, Gwaine. Five years and not one letter. Mother died thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere." 

The words hit me like a physical blow. I reeled back. "Mother... she’s gone?" 

YN closed her eyes, a tear slipping out to track through the grime on her cheek. "Last winter. The fever took her." 

I felt a hollow pit open in my stomach. My mother. The woman who had tried so hard to keep us respectable, who had wept when I cut my hair, who had loved us fiercely despite our father’s debts. Gone. And I had been... what? Drinking in taverns? Flirting with barmaids? fighting in melees for coin? 

"I didn't know," I whispered. 

"Because you weren't there," she said. Her voice gained a little strength from the anger. "You just left. You left me with the creditors and the whispers and the empty house. I waited for you. Every day, I checked the road. I thought... I thought surely my big brother wouldn't just vanish." 

"I thought you were better off," I pleaded, the excuse sounding pathetic even to my own ears. "I was a weight around the family's neck, YNN. I was the brawler, the gambler. I thought if I left, you could marry well, restore the name..." 

"I didn't want the name!" she hissed, then gasped as the pain flared in her side. She squeezed her eyes shut, riding out the wave. When she opened them again, the fire was dimmer, replaced by a profound exhaustion. "I wanted my brother." 

I bowed my head, pressing my forehead against the back of her hand. "I was a coward," I admitted. It was the first time I’d ever said it aloud. "I told myself I was being noble, sparing you from my influence. But the truth is... I was running away. I couldn't handle the suffocation of that life, and I was too selfish to stay just for you." 

Silence stretched between us. Outside, the citadel was waking up. I could hear the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestones. 

"I came to find you," she said quietly. 

"I gathered that. You nearly got yourself killed doing it." 

"I had to tell you. About Mother. And... I couldn't stay there anymore. The house is gone. Sold to pay the debts." 

"Sold?" I looked up. 

"Everything. I have nothing, Gwaine. Just the horse I rode in on and the clothes on my back." She looked at me, her gaze searching. "So I came to find the only family I have left. Even if he is a heavy-drinking, irresponsible idiot." 

"I’m a knight now," I said, a desperate attempt to offer her something. "I’m a Knight of Camelot. I serve King Arthur." 

Her eyebrows shot up. "You? A knight? Did the King lose a bet?" 

"He’s a good man. He gave me a chance." I squeezed her hand. "Which means I have quarters. I have a stipend. I can... I can take care of you, YNN. You can stay here. In Camelot." 

She looked around the room, then back at me. The anger hadn't vanished—I knew it would take a long time to fix what I broke—but the wall had come down a little. "I don't need you to take care of me, Gwaine. I’ve been taking care of myself for five years." 

"I know," I said. "But let me try? Please. Let me be a brother again." 

She studied me. She looked at the cloak of Camelot red draped over the chair, at the callouses on my hands, at the lines around my eyes. 

"You do look different," she admitted. "Less... angry." 

"I found something worth fighting for," I said. "And now I have two things." 

The door creaked open. Merlin poked his head in, holding a tray of food. He saw YN’s open eyes and his face lit up. "You're awake! That’s brilliant. Gaius said the fever might break by morning." 

He walked in, setting the tray down. "I brought broth. And some bread. And Gwaine, Arthur wants to see you, but he said it can wait if—" 

"It can wait," I said without looking away from YN. 

YN looked at Merlin, then back at me. "Who’s the skinny one with the ears?" 

Merlin looked offended. "I’m Merlin." 

I grinned. It felt rusty, but genuine. "That’s Merlin. He’s the King’s servant. And the only reason I’m not currently in the stocks." 

"He keeps you out of trouble?" YN asked, skepticism dripping from her voice. 

"He tries," Merlin said dryly talking about himself in the third person. "It’s a full-time job." 

YN looked at me, and for the first time, the ghost of her old smirk appeared. It was faint, but it was there. "Well, Merlin," she said, her voice raspy but resolute. "You can take a break. I’m here now. I’ll handle him." 

I felt a lump form in my throat. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed the knuckles, right over the silver ring. 

"Yeah," I whispered. "She will." 

She didn't pull her hand away. She let it rest there. And as the sun finally broke through the clouds outside, flooding Gaius’s chambers with golden light, I realized that for the first time in five years, I wasn't just drifting. I was anchored. 

"Now," YN whispered, her eyes drooping again as the exhaustion pulled her back under. "Tell me you have apples. I’m starving." 

"I’ll get you the whole orchard," I promised. 

"Just one will do," she mumbled, drifting off. "Don't... overdo it... fool." 

I stayed on the floor, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. I knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy. I had five years of abandonment to atone for. I had to tell her about the magic, about the dangers of Camelot, about the life I led. But as I sat there, holding my little sister’s hand, I knew one thing for certain. 

No one was ever going to hurt her again. Not while I drew breath. 

I looked up at Merlin, who was smiling softly. 

"She’s terrifying," Merlin whispered. 

The woman spotted him. Her grin widened, losing none of its manic energy. She marched across the sawdust-strewn floor, dripping a trail of rainwater as she went, and slammed a heavy canvas sack onto Gwaine’s table. It landed with a metallic clank that sounded suspiciously like expensive silver. 

She grabbed his tankard, drained the remaining ale in one impressive gulp, and slammed it down next to the sack. 

"You look terrible," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of a gloved hand. "Have you gone soft? I heard the silk sheets in the castle turn your brain to mush." 

Gwaine stared at her. He looked at the empty tankard. He looked at the mysterious, clanking sack. Finally, he looked back at his sister. 

"What the hell did you do this time?" 

YN’s laugh was a sharp, barking sound that drew several glares from nearby tables. She pulled out the bench opposite him and straddled it, leaning forward conspiratorially. "That is not the greeting I expected from my favorite brother. After three years, Gwaine? No hug? No ‘YN, my favorite sister, light of my life, how I’ve missed you’?" 

"You’re my only sister," Gwaine corrected, rubbing his temples. "And the last time I saw you, you were setting fire to a Duke’s stables in Caerleon. So, excuse me if I skip the pleasantries and go straight to assessing the damage. Why are you in Camelot?" 

"Camelot is lovely this time of year," she deflected, drumming her fingers on the canvas sack. "Apart from the rain. And the smell. And the self-righteous knights." She flicked her eyes toward his red cloak, which was folded on the bench beside him. "Though, I suppose you’re one of the 'good ones' now." 

"YNN," Gwaine warned, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The sack." 

She sighed, feigning disappointment. "You used to be fun. You used to be the one starting the tavern brawls." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I may have played a game of cards." 

"Cards," Gwaine repeated flatly. 

"With a certain Lord Berenger. He was passing through the Lower Town. Flashy carriage, guards who looked like they’d rather be asleep, too much gold on his fingers." 

Gwaine’s stomach dropped. Lord Berenger was a visiting dignitary. A man Arthur was currently trying to negotiate a grain trade treaty with. A man known for his temper and his dislike of losing. "Please tell me you didn’t cheat him." 

"I didn't cheat!" YN looked genuinely offended, placing a hand over her heart. "I am simply better at deception than he is at observation. There is a difference. I won fair and square. But..." She grimaced slightly. "He didn't have the gold to cover his final bet. So he put up his family seal." 

Gwaine closed his eyes again. "You stole a lord’s signet ring." 

"I won a lord’s signet ring," she corrected sharply. "And then he realized that perhaps betting his identity wasn't the smartest move, so he accused me of witchcraft. Witchcraft, Gwaine! Me! I haven't got a drop of magic in me, just good sleight of hand." 

"So you ran." 

"I made a strategic retreat. With the winnings." She patted the sack. "Which, incidentally, contains not just the ring, but about four hundred gold coins and a very nice silver candelabra I grabbed on the way out of his tent for good measure." 

Gwaine groaned, sliding his hands down his face. "Berenger is going to tear the Lower Town apart looking for you. If he finds you, he’ll have you executed. If Arthur finds out I’m related to the thief who ruined his trade negotiations, I’ll be mucking out the stables for the rest of my life. Or exiled. Again." 

"So help me get out," YN said, the humor vanishing from her face. Her eyes, so like his own, hardened. "I need supplies, a fresh horse—mine threw a shoe three miles back—and a way past the patrols. I’m heading for the border of Escetir." 

Gwaine looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the bravado and the rainwater, she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her leather armor was worn thin in places. She was living the life he had lived for years—the life of a ghost, drifting from town to town, never belonging, always running. 

He hated that life. And he hated that she was still stuck in it. 

"You can't go tonight," Gwaine said, standing up and grabbing his cloak. "The storm is getting worse, and the patrols are doubled because of the delegation. You’ll be caught before you reach the tree line." 

"I can handle a few guards," she scoffed, though she didn't resist when he grabbed the heavy sack. 

"Not Camelot guards," Gwaine said, a touch of pride in his voice. "Come on. I know a place." 

The "place" was a hayloft in one of the unused storage barns near the citadel walls. It wasn't the castle guest chambers, but it was dry, warm, and smelled of sweet hay rather than stale beer. 

Gwaine set the sack down and tossed YN a blanket he’d pilfered from a supply crate. She stripped off her soaked cloak and sat heavily on a bale of hay, shivering slightly now that the adrenaline was fading. 

"You live in a castle," she noted, looking around the dusty barn. "And you bring me here?" 

"My chambers are in the heart of the citadel," Gwaine said, leaning against a support beam and crossing his arms. "To get there, we’d have to pass a dozen guards, three servants, and knowing my luck, Merlin. And Merlin asks too many questions." 

"Merlin," YN tested the name. "The servant boy you wrote about? The one with the big ears?" 

"He does not have big ears," Gwaine defended automatically, then frowned. "Wait, I wrote to you?" 

"I check the dead drops, Gwaine. Just because I don't reply doesn't mean I don't read them." She began unlacing her boots. "You sound... happy. Here." 

The word hung in the air, heavy and strange. Happy. It was a dangerous thing for people like them to be. 

"I have a purpose," Gwaine said quietly. "It’s different." 

"Is it?" YN looked up, her expression challenging. "You’re serving a noble. A King. After what Father—" 

"Arthur is not Father," Gwaine cut her off, his voice sharp. "And he is not the King who betrayed him. Arthur is... he’s a good man. He cares about his people. He judges a man by his actions, not his blood." 

"Easy for you to say," YN muttered, pulling a dagger from her boot and beginning to clean the mud from the blade with a rag. "You’re Sir Gwaine now. You wear the red cape. You sit at the table. You’re one of them." 

"I am not one of them," Gwaine snapped, pushing off the beam. He paced the small space of the loft. "I am still me. I still drink too much, I still hate pompous windbags, and I still care about you. But I found a place where I don't have to look over my shoulder every ten seconds. Is that so wrong?" 

YN stopped cleaning the knife. She looked down at the blade, the metal reflecting the dim light of the lantern Gwaine had lit. 

"I’m tired, Gwaine," she whispered. 

The vulnerability in her voice broke him. Gwaine crossed the distance between them and sat on the hay bale beside her. He bumped his shoulder against hers. 

"I know," he said softly. "I know you are." 

"I thought... when I came here," she started, hesitant. "I told myself it was just for the mark. Berenger was an easy target. But... I think I wanted to see if it was true. If you’d really turned into a lapdog." 

"And?" Gwaine asked, bracing himself. 

She turned to him, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "You haven't. You look stronger. Less... angry. It suits you." 

Gwaine let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a rough embrace. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into it, resting her head on his shoulder. 

"Stay," Gwaine said. "I can talk to Arthur. We can return the ring, make up a story about finding it. He listens to me. You could stay in the city. Get a fresh start." 

YN laughed, but it was a soft sound this time. "A fresh start? Me? I’m not knight material, brother. I don't do orders. And I certainly don't do curtsies." 

"You could learn," Gwaine joked weakly. 

"No." She pulled back, her eyes clear. "I can't stay. This world... walls and rules and kings... it fits you, Gwaine. It doesn't fit me. The open road is the only place I can breathe." 

Gwaine nodded slowly. He knew she was right. They were two halves of the same coin, but they had landed on different sides. He had craved belonging; she craved freedom. 

"Then we get you out at first light," he said. "Before Berenger realizes his ring is gone." 

The plan was simple. Use the pre-dawn shift change to slip out the grain gate. It was a route Gwaine had used plenty of times to sneak back into the castle after a night at the tavern, so he knew the blind spots. 

The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones slick and the air thick with mist. Gwaine led the way, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. YN moved like a shadow behind him, the heavy sack strapped securely to her back. 

They were fifty yards from the gate when disaster struck. 

"Halt!" 

The shout came from an alleyway to their left. Three guards—wearing the blue and silver livery of Lord Berenger, not the crimson of Camelot—stepped out. They looked tired, wet, and incredibly angry. 

"There she is!" the lead guard shouted, pointing a spear at YN. "The witch who robbed the Lord!" 

"Oh, for the love of..." Gwaine muttered. He stepped in front of YN, flashing his most charming smile. "Gentlemen! Good morning. Bit early for shouting, isn't it? People are trying to sleep." 

"Move aside, Knight," the guard spat. "That woman is a thief." 

"This woman," Gwaine said, his hand tightening on his sword, "is my... prisoner. I caught her trying to sneak out. I was just taking her to the dungeons myself." 

YN let out an indignant squawk behind him. "Prisoner?!" 

"Shut up, scum," Gwaine threw over his shoulder, winking imperceptibly. He turned back to the guards. "So, you see, I have the situation under control. You lads can go get some breakfast. I’ll handle the paperwork." 

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Lord Berenger wants her head. We’re taking her." 

He lunged. 

Gwaine didn't even draw his sword. He sidestepped the spear thrust with fluid grace, grabbed the shaft, and used the guard's momentum to send him sprawling into a stack of empty crates. 

"YNN, go!" Gwaine shouted. 

"Not without you!" she yelled back. 

The other two guards drew their swords. Gwaine drew his own, the steel singing in the damp air. "I’m not going anywhere! I live here! Just get to the gate!" 

One guard swung at Gwaine’s head. He parried, the clang of metal ringing through the quiet street. He kicked the guard back, spinning to block a strike from the third man. 

But the first guard—the one in the crates—was scrambling up. He bypassed Gwaine entirely, lunging for YN. 

YN didn't look panicked. She looked bored. As the guard reached for her, she dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him. As he fell, she spun, drawing her dual daggers. She didn't kill him—Gwaine had taught her better than that, or perhaps she just didn't want the heat—but she delivered a pommel strike to his temple that ensured he wouldn't be waking up until noon. 

"Nice right hook," Gwaine called out, currently locking blades with the largest of the three guards. 

"You’re leaving your left flank open!" she critiqued, vaulting over a rain barrel to flank the man attacking Gwaine. 

They fought the way they always had as children practicing with sticks in the yard: a chaotic, perfectly synchronized whirlwind. Gwaine was the anchor, the power, holding the line with heavy strikes and solid defense. YN was the storm, darting in and out, using speed and dirty tricks to unbalance their opponents. 

Gwaine parried a high strike, shoving his attacker backward. In the same beat, YN slid between them, tripping the man so he fell flat on his back. Gwaine leveled his sword at the man's throat. 

"Stay down," Gwaine ordered, his voice cold. "Unless you want to explain to King Arthur why you attacked one of his Knights." 

The guard froze, eyes wide. 

The third guard, seeing his comrades defeated, hesitated. YN threw a dagger; it didn't hit him, but it embedded itself in the wooden post an inch from his ear with a terrifying thwack. 

He dropped his sword and raised his hands. 

"Wise choice," YN panted, retrieving her blade. 

"Gwaine?" 

The voice came from the main street. Gwaine froze. He knew that voice. It was deep, authoritative, and usually exasperated. 

Arthur. 

Gwaine looked at YN. Her eyes went wide. If Arthur saw her, saw the resemblance, saw the stolen goods... 

"Go," Gwaine hissed at her. "Now." 

"But—" 

"I'll handle Arthur. Go!" 

YN hesitated for a fraction of a second. She looked at him, a fierce gratitude burning in her gaze. She grabbed his arm, squeezed it hard, and whispered, "Don't let them change you, brother." 

Then she turned and sprinted toward the wall. She didn't use the gate. Instead, she scrambled up a pile of refuse, found a handhold in the stone, and hauled herself up with practiced agility. Within seconds, she was over the parapet and gone. 

Gwaine turned around just as Arthur and Leon rounded the corner, followed by a patrol of Camelot guards. Arthur looked from the unconscious guards in blue livery, to Gwaine’s drawn sword, to the empty street behind him. 

"Gwaine," Arthur said, crossing his arms. He looked tired. "Care to explain why you’re brawling with Lord Berenger’s men at dawn? And where you’ve been all night?" 

Gwaine sheathed his sword with a flourish. He ran a hand through his hair, flashing his trademark grin. It felt a little more genuine than usual. 

"Well, Princess," Gwaine drawled, "I caught these ruffians harassing a poor, defenseless maiden. You know me. I couldn't just stand by." 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "A maiden?" 

"Very fast runner," Gwaine nodded. "Terribly shy. She ran off before I could even get her name." 

Leon looked at the unconscious guards, then at the crates smashed to kindling. "It looks like she put up quite a fight." 

"Feisty one," Gwaine agreed. "My type." 

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. He looked at the direction the 'maiden' had fled—toward the walls, not the safety of the town. He looked at the muddy boot print on Gwaine’s shoulder that definitely didn't belong to a guard. 

Arthur sighed. "Lord Berenger is claiming a thief stole a significant amount of gold and a family ring." 

"Terrible news," Gwaine said sympathetically. "Crime in the city is getting out of hand. You should really talk to the Captain of the Guard about that." 

"I am the Captain of the Guard, Gwaine," Arthur said flatly. 

"Then you have your work cut out for you." 

Arthur shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He knew Gwaine was lying. He always knew. But he also knew Gwaine’s heart. If Gwaine had let someone go, they probably deserved it. Or, at the very least, they weren't a threat to Camelot. 

"Clean this up," Arthur ordered, gesturing to the groaning guards. "And get some sleep. You have training at noon. And Gwaine?" 

"Sire?" 

"If you see that... maiden again," Arthur said, turning to leave. "Tell her she dropped this." 

Arthur tossed something through the air. Gwaine caught it reflexively. 

He opened his hand. Resting in his palm was a silver coin—not Camelot currency. It was an old coin from their father’s lands. YN must have dropped it during the scuffle. It was a lucky charm she’d kept since they were children. 

Gwaine looked up, shocked. Arthur didn't turn back, just kept walking with Leon, discussing the day's patrol routes. 

Gwaine looked at the coin, then at the wall where his sister had vanished. He thumbed the silver surface, feeling the worn edges. 

"Safe travels, YNN," he whispered to the wind. 

He pocketed the coin, adjusted his cloak, and turned back toward the castle. The hangover was starting to kick in, and he had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, but as he walked through the waking streets of Camelot, Gwaine realized something strange. 

He wasn't just happy. He was home. 

And somewhere out there, running free under the rising sun, his sister was safe. That was enough. 

Ahead of us, Arthur halted, raising a gloved hand. "We need to find shelter. The river is rising, and the path ahead is washed out." 

"There’s a ridge of caves to the east, Sire," Leon called out, his voice barely audible over the wind. "About a mile." 

"Lead on," Arthur commanded. 

I shifted in my saddle, my gaze drifting—as it always did—to the figure riding just behind Arthur. Merlin looked like a drowned rat. His oversized jacket was soaked through, hanging heavy on his slender frame, and his neckerchief was clinging to his throat. He was shivering, his knuckles white where they gripped the reins. 

I nudged my horse forward, falling out of step with Gwaine to trot alongside Merlin. 

"You look like you’re contemplating treason," I murmured, leaning over. 

Merlin jumped slightly, then looked up at me. His blue eyes were bright despite the gloom, framed by wet, dark lashes. A slow, tired smile spread across his face, the kind that made my stomach do a traitorous little flip. 

"Just contemplating how much dry wood it would take to warm Arthur up enough to stop him complaining," Merlin whispered back. "I’m estimating half a forest." 

"Optimistic," I noted. 

"I try." 

The path to the caves was narrow, winding up a steep, rocky incline that the rain had turned into a slip-and-slide. The horses were nervous, their hooves clattering against loose shale. I stayed close to Merlin. He wasn't a bad rider, not anymore, but he lacked the natural balance of the knights, and the terrain was unforgiving. 

"Careful here," I warned as we navigated a sharp turn. "The ground is giving way." 

"I'm fine, YNN," he said, though he looked anything but. "Worry about Gwaine. He's eating while riding." 

I glanced back. Gwaine was indeed finishing his apple. "He has the balance of a mountain goat and the brain of one, too. He’ll be fine." 

Suddenly, a crack of thunder shook the ground beneath us—or at least, I thought it was thunder. Then came the grinding, terrible sound of earth surrendering to gravity. 

"Look out!" Arthur shouted from the front. 

Above us, the hillside was moving. A slurry of mud, boulders, and uprooted trees was sliding down the slope, cutting a line straight through our column. 

"Merlin!" Arthur screamed. 

The slide hit just behind the King, severing the line. I saw Gwaine pull his horse back violently, his eyes widening in horror as he looked at me. I was on the wrong side of the divide. 

"YN!" Gwaine’s voice cracked, raw panic replacing his bravado. 

But I wasn't looking at Gwaine. I was looking at Merlin, whose horse had reared in panic, throwing him backward. He hit the mud hard, rolling toward the edge of the ravine that dropped away into darkness. 

I didn't think. I just moved. 

I vaulted off my horse, my boots sinking into the shifting earth, and lunged for him. My hand caught the rough fabric of his jacket just as the ground beneath him crumbled away. I slammed my body weight backward, digging my heels in, but the mud offered no purchase. 

We slid together. 

The world became a blur of brown and grey, the sensation of falling, the brutal impact of rocks, and the terrifying weight of debris. I felt Merlin’s arm wrap around my waist, pulling me into him, shielding my head with his hand. 

Then, darkness. 

Consciousness returned in throbbing waves of pain. My left shoulder ached, and my head felt like it had been used as a drum by a goblin band. I groaned, shifting, and realized I was lying on something relatively soft—moss and dirt. 

"YNN?" 

The voice was rough, anxious. 

I forced my eyes open. It was pitch black, save for a faint, grey light filtering from somewhere high above. We had fallen into a fissure, a deep crack in the earth that likely led into the cave system Leon had mentioned. 

"I'm here," I rasped, pushing myself up. "I'm... mostly intact." 

A hand found my shoulder—warm, gentle. Merlin. "Don't move too fast. We took a long drop." 

"Where are we?" 

"Some kind of subterranean gallery," Merlin said. I could hear him shuffling around. "The landslide sealed the top. We slid down a chute into this cavern." 

I blinked, my eyes adjusting. I could see the outline of him now. He was sitting close to me, clutching his side. 

"You're hurt," I said, the instinct to protect flaring up instantly. I reached out, my fingers brushing his ribs. He hissed in a sharp breath. 

"Just bruised, I think. Landed on a rock." 

"Or three," I muttered. I looked up. The opening we’d fallen through was a good forty feet up, a jagged tear in the rock ceiling. Rain was dripping through it, but we were sheltered by an overhang. "They’ll come for us. Gwaine saw us go over. Arthur won't leave you." 

"Gwaine won't leave you," Merlin corrected softly. "He'd dig through the mountain with a spoon if he had to." 

I let out a dry laugh. "True." I shivered then, the adrenaline wearing off and the damp cold seeping into my bones. "But until then..." 

I looked at the dark, damp expanse of the cave stretching out behind us. The air was frigid, smelling of wet stone and old earth. We were soaked, injured, and alone in the dark. 

I sighed, leaning my head back against the stone wall. "It's gonna be a long day." 

Merlin chuckled, a sound that quickly turned into a cough. "And a longer night, if we don't get warm." 

"Right. Survival first. Panic later." I patted my belt. My dagger was still there. "I’m going to see if there’s any driftwood or dry moss further back in the cave. You stay here." 

"I'm coming with you," he protested, starting to stand. 

"Merlin, your ribs—" 

"Are fine. I'm not invalid, YN. Besides," he paused, and even in the dark, I could feel the weight of his gaze, "I don't want you wandering off into the dark alone." 

My heart did that traitorous flip again. "Fine. But lean on me." 

We moved slowly deeper into the cavern. It opened up into a wider chamber where the floor was dry. We managed to scrounge up some old root systems that had broken through the ceiling and some dried bracken that must have blown in during previous storms. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a small fire. 

I piled the meager fuel in the center of the dry patch. "I have flint," I said, reaching for my pouch. My hands were shaking from the cold, making it hard to grip the steel. I struck it once, twice. A few sparks died in the damp air. 

"Here," Merlin said quietly. "Let me." 

He knelt beside me. His shoulder brushed mine, and the contact sent a jolt of warmth through me that had nothing to do with fire. He took the flint and steel from my numb fingers. 

He didn't strike them immediately. He hovered his hands over the pile of wood. I watched him closely. I had suspected for a long time—little things, coincidences that defied explanation, the way enemies seemed to trip over their own feet when he was around. Gwaine thought Merlin was just the luckiest man in the entire realm. I thought he was something else entirely. 

I saw his eyes flash—a brilliant, molten gold—just for a fraction of a second. 

Fwoosh. 

The wood caught instantly, not with a sputtering spark, but with a robust, healthy flame that shouldn't have been possible with such damp tinder. 

Merlin sat back quickly, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes, waiting for the accusation. He held the flint and steel up as if they were the cause. "Lucky strike," he stammered. 

I looked at the fire, then at him. The golden light danced across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the fear in his expression. 

I reached out and took his hand, the one still clutching the flint. His skin was cold, his fingers long and calloused. "Very lucky," I whispered. "Thank you." 

I didn't ask. I didn't accuse. I just held his hand. 

The tension in his shoulders slowly drained away. He didn't pull his hand back. "You're freezing," he said, his voice dropping an octave. 

"So are you." 

We moved closer to the fire, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The warmth was agonizing as it returned sensation to my extremities. I started to unlace my boots to dry them, and Merlin did the same. 

"YN," he said after a long silence. The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows on the cave walls. 

"Yeah?" 

"You're... you're not afraid?" 

I stopped wringing out my socks and turned to him. "Of the dark? I grew up with Gwaine. He used to hide in my wardrobe and jump out wearing a sheet. I'm immune." 

"No," Merlin said, his gaze intense. "Of... everything. The situation. The..." He gestured vaguely at the fire. 

I softened. "Merlin, I've watched you for two years. I've watched you walk into fire for Arthur. I've watched you stand up to things that make trained knights wet their breeches. Why would I be afraid of the thing that keeps you safe? That keeps us safe?" 

He looked stunned, his mouth slightly open. "You knew?" 

"I suspected," I admitted. "Gwaine sees what he wants to see. But I watch you. I always watch you." 

The admission hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. I felt heat rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire. 

Merlin looked down at his hands. "I wanted to tell you. I just... I couldn't risk it. Arthur—" 

"Arthur is a good man," I interrupted. "But he is his father's son in some ways. I understand why you hide. Your secret is safe with me, Merlin. On my life. On Gwaine's life." 

He looked up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression broke my heart. "Thank you, YNN." 

We fell into a comfortable silence. The cave felt smaller now, intimate. The storm outside was a distant rumble, a world away. Here, in the circle of firelight, it was just us. 

"My ribs are killing me," he admitted after a while, wincing as he shifted. 

"Let me see." 

He hesitated, then slowly unbuttoned his tunic and lifted the wet linen shirt beneath. The skin of his side was already turning a mottled purple and blue. 

"Nasty," I murmured, my fingers hovering over the bruise. "Nothing feels broken, though. Just deep bruising." 

"Good to know," he breathed. He was shivering again. The wet clothes were sapping his heat. 

"We need to share body heat," I said, trying to sound pragmatic and failing. My voice sounded breathless. "If we stay in these wet clothes apart, we'll get sick." 

Merlin swallowed hard, his eyes locked on mine. "Okay." 

We shifted, moving to lie down on the driest patch of moss near the fire. I lay on my side, and Merlin settled behind me, curling his body around mine. It was innocent, purely for survival—that’s what I told myself. But when his arm draped over my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. 

I could feel every breath he took. I could feel the solid thump of his heart against my back. He was warmer than I expected, a furnace of energy. 

"Is this okay?" he whispered, his breath ghosting over the back of my neck. 

"It's... good," I managed. 

"YN?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I watch you, too." 

The words were so quiet I almost missed them. I went still. "You do?" 

"Yeah. The way you laugh at Gwaine's terrible jokes just to make him feel better. The way you handle a sword better than half the knights. The way you look at me when you think I'm not looking." 

I turned in his arms, shifting so I was facing him. We were inches apart. The firelight flickered in the blue of his eyes, turning them into deep pools of indigo. 

"And what do you see when I look at you?" I whispered. 

Merlin’s gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. "I see someone who sees me. Not the servant. Not the idiot. Just... Merlin." 

"Just Merlin is all I ever wanted." 

He raised a hand, his fingers grazing my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw. His touch was electric, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. 

I didn't pull away. I closed the gap. 

His lips were soft, tentative at first, then firmer as I kissed him back. He tasted of rain and woodsmoke and something distinctly Merlin—something like ozone and magic. He groaned low in his throat, his hand tangling in my damp hair, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. 

It was a kiss of relief, of pent-up longing, of secrets finally shared. It was the promise of a thousand unspoken conversations. 

When we broke apart, we were both breathless. Merlin rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. 

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," he confessed. 

"Since the Beltane feast?" I guessed. 

He laughed breathlessly. "Since the day Gwaine introduced us and you told him to shut up or you'd drown him in a trough." 

I smiled, tracing the shell of his ear. "He deserved it." 

"He usually does." 

We lay there for a long time, just breathing, existing in the safety of each other’s arms. The fire burned low, casting a warm glow over us. I felt safer here, in a hole in the ground with a sorcerer, than I ever did in the stone halls of the citadel. 

"How are we going to explain this to Gwaine?" Merlin asked eventually, sleep thickening his voice. 

"Explain what? That we survived?" 

"That his sister is snuggling with his best friend." 

"Technically," I yawned, burying my face in his chest, "Arthur is his best friend. You're just the servant." 

"Ouch. Brutal." 

"I'm keeping you for myself, Merlin. Gwaine will just have to deal with it." 

He tightened his hold on me. "I like the sound of that." 

We must have dozed off, lulled by the warmth and the exhaustion. I dreamed of golden dragons and silver swords, of a future where magic didn't have to hide in the dark. 

I woke to the sound of rocks shifting and a familiar voice echoing down from the fissure above. 

"MERLIN! YN!" 

I jolted awake. Merlin was already stirring, wincing as his ribs protested. 

"Up here!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet. "Gwaine!" 

A face appeared in the jagged opening above—Gwaine, looking more terrified and dishevelled than I had ever seen him. When he saw me, his face crumpled in relief. 

"Thank the gods," he shouted. "Are you hurt?" 

"Battered, but alive!" I called back. "Merlin's ribs are bruised." 

"Hang on! We're dropping a rope!" 

A thick coil of hemp rope tumbled down through the opening. Merlin stood up, kicking dirt over the remains of our magical fire until it looked like nothing more than charred wood. He looked at me, a question in his eyes. 

I squeezed his hand. "Ready to go back to the real world?" 

"Not really," he admitted. "But I suppose Arthur can't dress himself." 

I laughed, dusting off my tunic. "Ladies first?" 

"Always." 

He helped me secure the rope around my waist. Before I signaled to be pulled up, I grabbed the lapels of his jacket and kissed him again, hard and fast. 

"For luck," I said. 

He grinned, that goofy, lopsided smile that melted my knees. "For luck." 

The ascent was jerky and scraped my elbows, but emerging into the grey, drizzling daylight felt like a rebirth. I had barely cleared the lip of the ravine before I was tackled. 

Gwaine crushed me in a hug that drove the air from my lungs. He smelled of wet horse and sweat. 

"You idiot," he muttered into my hair. "You absolute idiot. Don't you ever scare me like that again." 

"I missed you too, brother," I wheezed, patting his back. 

He pulled back, holding me at arm's length, scanning me for injuries. "You're okay? Really?" 

"I'm fine. Merlin saved me from the worst of the fall." 

Gwaine looked past me as the knights hauled Merlin up. Arthur was there instantly, clapping Merlin on the shoulder, hiding his relief behind a mask of annoyance. 

"About time, Merlin," Arthur said. "I've been carrying my own sword for three hours." 

"Apologies, Sire," Merlin said, breathless but smiling. "I was busy falling down a mountain." 

Gwaine walked over to Merlin and, to everyone’s surprise, hugged him too. Merlin looked terrified, flailing slightly in Gwaine’s grip. 

"Thanks for keeping her safe, mate," Gwaine said, his voice thick with emotion. 

Merlin looked over Gwaine’s shoulder at me. His eyes twinkled. "She kept me safe, mostly." 

Gwaine pulled back and looked between us. He narrowed his eyes. He looked at Merlin’s dishevelled state, then at mine. He looked at the way I was standing, unconsciously leaning toward Merlin. 

A slow, knowing grin spread across Gwaine’s face. 

"Right," Gwaine said, draping an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. "Let's get you two back to Camelot. Gaius needs to look at those ribs, and I need a drink. A very large drink." 

"I think I'll join you," I said, falling into step beside them. 

Merlin fell in beside me, our hands brushing as we walked. He hooked his pinky finger around mine—a subtle, secret gesture. 

"It was a long day," Merlin murmured as we trudged through the mud toward the horses. 

"You love it," she countered, her voice dropping to that quiet, observant tone that always made me feel like she was reading the inside of my skull. 

"I love the food. I tolerate the exercise. I endure the snoring." I leaned forward, lowering my voice. "Speaking of the boy wonder, how’s he holding up? Mordred seemed… distracted on the training field today." 

YN’s expression tightened, just a fraction. If you didn't know her, you’d miss it. But I’d spent the last six months charming my way into her orbit, mostly because she was the only person in the citadel who could beat me at dice without cheating. 

"He’s adjusting," she said carefully. "The knighthood… it’s a lot of pressure. He wants to prove he belongs." 

"He wears the cloak, doesn't he?" I took a swig of the terrible ale. "That’s proof enough for most. Though, between you and me, he’s got a bit of a hero complex. Takes everything too seriously. Needs to learn the fine art of shirking duties." 

"He’s not like you, Gwaine," she said, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "He can’t afford to be careless." 

That stung, though I didn't let it show. "Careless is a harsh word. I prefer 'spirited.'" 

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing the rough wool of my sleeve. It was a sisterly gesture, grounding and firm. "You know what I mean. He feels… watched. All the time." 

"He’s a knight of Camelot. We’re all watched." 

"It’s different for him," she whispered. 

And there it was again. The Shadow. The unspoken thing that hung over YN and Mordred like a storm cloud that never quite broke. I’d seen it in the way they huddled together in the corners of the courtyard, speaking in hushed tones that stopped the moment anyone approached. I’d seen it in the way YN scanned every room she entered, counting the exits. 

I recognized the look. It was the look of a stray dog waiting for the kick. 

"Well," I said, putting on my best grin, the one that usually got me free apples in the market. "If anyone gives him grief, you tell me. I’ll trip them during sparring. Accidental-like. I’m very clumsy." 

YN laughed, a genuine, bright sound that made the murky tavern feel a little warmer. "You’re a good man, Gwaine. Even if you try very hard not to be." 

"Don't spread that around. Ruins my reputation." 

The door to the tavern banged open. Leon stood there, looking apologetic but firm. He scanned the room, spotted me, and sighed. 

"Gwaine. Arthur needs us. Now." 

I slumped against the table. "I haven't even finished my despair-ale." 

"Now, Gwaine. There’s been a report from the Northern borders. Saxons." 

YN went rigid. Her hand retracted from my arm as if she’d been burned. She looked at Leon, then back to me, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic. 

"Is Mordred going?" she asked. 

Leon nodded politely to her. "Sir Mordred is already at the armory, my lady." 

She stood up abruptly. "I’m coming." 

"YNN," I started, standing up to block her path. "It’s a patrol. A skirmish. It’s not a place for—" 

"I’m coming," she repeated. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of a stone dropping into a deep well. "You’ll need a medic. You usually do." 

"We have Gaius—" 

"Gaius is old and can’t ride hard. I can." She looked me dead in the eye. "I am going, Gwaine. Either I ride with you, or I follow you on a stolen horse and get myself killed. Your choice." 

I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was terrified, shaking slightly, but her jaw was set in granite. It wasn't about the adventure. It was about Mordred. She was protecting her pack. 

I sighed, draining the last of the ale. "Fine. But you ride next to me. And if Arthur yells at me, I’m blaming your stubbornness." 

The ride north was grueling. The weather had decided to turn against us, spitting a freezing rain that soaked through cloaks and chilled the mail against our skin. 

We were a grim party: Arthur, Leon, Percival, Elyan, Mordred, myself, and a handful of guards. And YN, riding a mare near the rear, bundled in a grey cloak, her eyes fixed on her cousin’s back. 

Mordred rode near the King. He looked pale, his posture stiff. Every few miles, he’d glance back, checking on YN. They didn't speak, but they didn't need to. It was like watching two birds connected by an invisible string. 

We made camp in a dense cluster of pines, seeking shelter from the wind. The fire was small, barely enough to warm our hands, kept low to avoid drawing attention. 

I took the first watch, sitting on a fallen log with my sword across my knees. The woods were quiet, save for the crackle of damp wood and the soft breathing of sleeping men. 

A twig snapped. 

I didn't draw my sword, but my hand tightened on the hilt. YN emerged from the shadows, holding two tin cups. 

"Herbal tea," she whispered, handing one to me. "It’ll help keep you awake." 

"You’re supposed to be sleeping," I said, accepting the cup. The heat seeped into my frozen gloves. "We ride at dawn." 

"Can't sleep." She sat on the ground near my feet, wrapping her cloak tighter. She looked toward the lump of blankets that was Mordred. "Is he safe, Gwaine?" 

"He’s surrounded by the best knights in the five kingdoms," I said gently. "And me. He’s fine." 

She stared into the fire. "He’s... fragile. In ways you don't see." 

"He’s a good kid. A bit intense. But he’s got a good heart." I took a sip of the tea. It was bitter, but it cleared my head instantly. "You two are close. Closer than most cousins I’ve met." 

"We’re all we have," she said simply. "Our parents... they died when we were very young. We spent a long time running." 

"From what?" 

She hesitated. The silence stretched, filled only by the wind in the pines. "Bad men. Bandits. People who didn't like our kind." 

"Your kind?" I raised an eyebrow. "You mean orphans?" 

She looked up at me, her eyes dark and unreadable. "Outsiders." 

I shifted, the leather of my armor creaking. "You know, when I first came to Camelot, I hated it. Nobles, rules, bowing to people just because their father wore a crown. I stayed for Merlin. And then I stayed for Arthur, because he turned out to be less of a clotpole than I thought." I nudged her shoulder with my boot, gently. "But I also stayed because I found people like me. Percival lived in a cave. Elyan was a blacksmith’s son who made mistakes. We’re all a bunch of strays, YNN. You and Mordred... you fit right in." 

She looked away, blinking rapidly. "It’s not that simple." 

"It can be." 

"No," she whispered. "It really can’t." 

Before I could press her, the air changed. 

It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling—a sudden drop in pressure, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. The horses whinnied nervously in the dark. 

"Wake them up," I hissed, standing and kicking snow over the fire. 

YN was already moving, scrambling toward Mordred. "Mordred! Up!" 

An arrow thudded into the tree exactly where my head had been a second ago. 

"Ambush!" I roared, drawing my sword. 

Chaos erupted. Shadows detached themselves from the trees—Saxons, screaming war cries, pouring into the clearing. There were too many of them. Far too many for a simple border raid. This was a trap. 

"Form up!" Arthur’s voice cut through the din. 

I parried a heavy axe swing, the impact jarring my teeth. I spun, slashing the attacker’s leg, and kicked him into the fire pit. Beside me, Percival was wielding a log like a club, sending men flying. 

But they kept coming. 

"Protect the King!" Leon shouted. 

I fought my way toward the center, looking for YN. I saw her near the horses, clutching a dagger, her back to a tree. Mordred was fighting in front of her, his sword a blur of motion. He was good—terrifyingly good—but he was overwhelmed. Three Saxons were pressing him back. 

"Mordred!" YN screamed. 

One of the Saxons landed a heavy blow on Mordred’s shield, shattering the wood. Ideally, he would have countered, but he slipped on the icy mud. He went down hard. 

The Saxon raised his axe for the killing blow. 

I was too far away. Percival was engaged. Arthur was fighting three men at once. 

"NO!" 

The scream didn't sound like YN. It sounded like the earth itself tearing open. 

I saw it. I saw it clear as day. 

YN threw her hand out, palm flat. Her eyes flashed—not with fear, but with a brilliant, terrifying gold. 

Magic. 

A shockwave, visible as a ripple in the rain, blasted from her hand. It hit the three Saxons standing over Mordred. They didn't just fall; they were launched backward as if hit by a siege engine, smashing into the trees with bone-breaking force. 

The clearing went silent for a heartbeat. Even the Saxons hesitated. 

Mordred scrambled up, looking at his cousin with horror. Not horror at the magic, but horror that she had used it. That she had revealed it. 

I stood frozen, my sword lowered slightly. YN was panting, her hand still outstretched, her chest heaving. She looked across the chaotic melee and locked eyes with me. 

She saw that I knew. 

Then the Saxons roared again, breaking the spell. 

"Gwaine! Move!" Arthur shouted, oblivious to what had just happened behind him. 

I shook my head, forcing the soldier back into control. I charged forward, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the men YN had blasted. I put my back to hers. 

"We talk later," I growled, parrying a sword thrust aimed at her head. "Don't die." 

We fought back-to-back. She didn't use magic again, fighting viciously with her dagger, staying in my blind spot, covering me as I covered her. 

It took another ten minutes to clear the woods. When the last Saxon fell, the silence that followed was heavy with adrenaline and pain. 

"Sound off!" Arthur called, wiping black blood from his blade. 

"Percival, clear." "Leon, clear." "Elyan, wounded but walking." 

I looked at YN. She was trembling, her dagger white-knuckled in her grip. Mordred was standing a few feet away, staring at the ground, his face ashen. 

"Gwaine?" Arthur asked, walking toward us. "You alright?" 

I looked at Arthur. Then I looked at the three men crumpled against the trees, their armor dented inward as if crushed by a giant fist. 

Arthur frowned, following my gaze. "What happened to them?" 

YN stopped breathing. Mordred’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt—a subtle, defensive twitch. 

I sheathed my sword with a loud click. 

"Percival," I lied smoothly. "He threw a log at them. Cleared the whole lot in one go. You should have seen it, Princess. It was majestic." 

Percival, bless his giant, confused heart, looked up from binding his arm. "I... did?" 

"You did," I said firmly, giving him a look that said agree with me or I will put hedgehogs in your bedroll. "Right in the chest." 

Arthur looked at the men, then at Percival’s massive arms. He shrugged. "Good work, Percival." 

The tension in YN’s shoulders didn't break, but she let out a breath that sounded like a sob. 

We didn't camp there. We rode another hour to a defensible ridge. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind the cold ache of bruises and the biting wind. 

I volunteered for the second watch. I knew she would come. 

I sat on the edge of the ridge, looking out over the dark valley. The moon was trying to break through the clouds. 

Footsteps. Light, hesitant. 

I didn't turn around. "Sit down, YNN." 

She sat. Not close this time. A few feet away, out of arm’s reach. She wasn't wearing her cloak, just her tunic, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked small. 

"Go ahead," she said, her voice hollow. "Say it." 

"Say what?" 

"That I’m a monster. That I’m a traitor. That you’re going to tell Arthur." 

I picked up a stone and tossed it over the cliff. I counted the seconds until I heard it hit. One. Two. Three. 

"That was a hell of a throw," I said. "Wind blast?" 

She flinched. "Telekinesis. Instinctive." 

"You saved his life." 

"I broke the law. The highest law." She turned to me, her face streaked with tears she was angrily wiping away. "You hate magic. Everyone in Camelot hates magic." 

"I hate evil," I corrected. "I hate people who hurt my friends. I hate hypocrites." I turned to face her finally. "You saved Mordred. You saved my friend. You think I’m going to drag you to the pyre for that?" 

"It’s what knights do," she spat bitterly. "It’s what Arthur would do." 

"I’m not Arthur." 

"But you serve him." 

"I serve the man, not the rulebook." I shifted, turning my body fully toward her. "Does Mordred have it too?" 

She froze. The lie was on her lips, I could see it. 

"Don't," I warned softy. "Don't lie to me. Not now. I just lied to the King for you." 

She slumped. "Yes. He... he is a Druid. We both are." 

I let out a long breath, running a hand through my hair. It made sense. The secrecy. The bond. The way Mordred sometimes knew things before they happened. 

"Does Merlin know?" 

She nodded. "Merlin knows everything. He... he helped us. A long time ago." 

Of course he did. That lanky servant had more secrets than a tavern keep. 

"So," I said, looking back at the stars. "I’m the last to know. As usual." 

"We couldn't tell you, Gwaine. We couldn't put that burden on you." 

"Burden?" I laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You think friendship is a burden? You think I’m so fragile I can’t handle the fact that you can move furniture with your mind?" 

"It’s not about that!" she hissed. "It’s about treason! If you know, you’re complicit. If we get caught, you hang with us. I couldn't... I couldn't do that to you." 

I looked at her, really seeing the fear that had been driving her for years. It wasn't fear for herself. It was fear of hurting the people she loved. 

I scooted closer on the log, closing the distance she had put between us. I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She was trembling violently. 

"YNN. Look at me." 

She raised her eyes. They were red-rimmed and terrified. 

"You’re my friend," I said, my voice steady and low. "You’re my sister in everything but blood. Mordred is my brother. I don't care if you’re Druids, or sorcerers, or if you actually enjoy that terrible stew the cook makes on Tuesdays. You’re my people." 

"You... you’re not angry?" 

"I’m angry you didn't trust me," I said honestly. "I’m hurt that you thought I would turn on you." 

She looked down at her hands. "It’s hard to trust when you’ve been hunted your whole life. When the person you admire most in the world is sworn to destroy people like you." 

"Arthur is... complicated," I admitted. "But he’s changing. Slowly. We’ll get there." 

"Will we?" 

"We have to." I squeezed her shoulder. "But until then, you have me. You understand? You don't have to hide it from me anymore. If you need to sneeze and blow a door off its hinges, you let me know, and I’ll say it was dry rot." 

A watery laugh escaped her lips. "You’re an idiot." 

"I’m your idiot." 

We sat in silence for a long time. The tension that had been holding her upright seemed to drain away, leaving her exhausted. She leaned her head against my shoulder, a heavy, trusting weight. 

"Gwaine?" 

"Yeah?" 

"If I had told you... in the tavern. Or months ago. Without the battle. Without saving Mordred." Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile as glass. "Would you have believed me? That I wasn't evil? That I wasn't plotting against Camelot?" 

The question hung in the cold air. It was the question that lay at the heart of every sorcerer in this kingdom. Am I monster because of what I am, or because of what I do? 

I thought about the way she mended tunics. I thought about the way she scolded me for drinking too much. I thought about the way she looked at Mordred, with a love so fierce it could burn the world down. 

I rested my chin on the top of her head. 

"I know you, YNN," I said softly. "I know your heart. Magic doesn't change that. If you had told me, I would have asked you to use it to cool my ale." 

She let out a breath, a long exhale of relief that she must have been holding for years. 

"Thank you," she whispered. 

"Don't thank me. Just... next time we’re in a fight? Maybe give me a heads up before you start throwing people into trees. I nearly wet myself." 

"I guess this would also be the time to tell you he’s my brother instead of just my cousin, isn’t it?” She questioned with a nervous laugh. 

I shook my head with a smile. “I knew it.” 

I smiled, wrapping my arm around her to keep the cold out. The sun was beginning to crest over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold. Mordred was safe. YN was safe. And I had a new secret to keep.