Merlin didn't follow her immediately.
He couldn't.
Not when everything she'd just said was still settling in his bones like cold iron.
The clearing around him felt wrong now—too open, too exposed, too parallel to whatever was breathing in the air behind him.
He forced himself to inhale.
Slow. Quiet. Controlled.
The distortion—whatever shiver of half-formed presence hovered near him—thinned, as if receding when his heartbeat stabilized. It behaved like an echo of his state. Like it mirrored him. Like it learned from him.
And that terrified him more than any monster the novel ever described.
When Merlin finally turned to leave the clearing, the distortion followed.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
Not even consciously.
Just enough that he felt the weight of something step where he stepped.
The world's breath matching his.
Balance, Morgana had said.
Restraint.
A cost.
He wished she hadn't been so calm. It would've been easier if she looked worried. But she looked… expectant.
