Arthur's voice cut through the air like venom, sharp and mocking, his lips curling into a cruel sneer.
"Then do it again," he spat, "do the same filial ritual—but this time with my goblin. Be the brood sow of my goblin farm. Only then will I even consider letting you stay near me."
The words were meant to wound, to burn her down to ashes. He expected her to crumble, to scream, to collapse in shame.
But she didn't.
Merlin froze, trembling at first as if struck by lightning. Her wide eyes searched his, and for a heartbeat her face was blank, caught between despair and horror. Then—slowly, impossibly—color began to flood back into her cheeks. Her lips parted, and her breathing quickened.
Her tears still streamed, but her gaze had changed. It wasn't broken anymore—it was desperate, shining, like someone glimpsing light after drowning in the dark.
"R-really?" she stammered, her voice shaky, almost frantic. "If… if I do that… then I can stay? You'll let me stay by your side?"
Arthur stared, stunned for a fraction of a second at the eagerness in her tone.
"Yes!" she blurted before he could speak further, nodding furiously, clinging to the idea as if it were salvation itself. "I'll do it! I'll do whatever you say! If that's the only way, then—then I'll accept it! I'll accept everything!"
She crawled forward, her naked form streaked with dirt, her hands clutching at his trousers like a beggar clutching at coins.
Arthur looked down at her, bile still rising in his throat, yet beneath the disgust, another current stirred—dark, calculating. He had thrown his venom at her as a curse, a mockery. But instead, she had taken it as hope.
And in that strange, twisted moment, the idea he had uttered in mockery began to take root as something far more real.
The barn smelled of hay, damp wood, and the musk of animals, but tonight it carried something heavier—something fevered. Merlin stood there naked, skin pale under the thin shafts of moonlight cutting through the gaps in the walls. Her body trembled, though it was unclear if from shame, fear, or the strange determination that burned in her eyes.
Before her, the goblin shifted restlessly, its green skin glistening with sweat, its chest rising and falling in quick, impatient bursts. It wasn't the mindless creature the tales spoke of; this one had sharpness in its gaze, a living hunger that seemed almost human, yet twisted—brutal, unrefined, grotesquely eager.
Arthur leaned against the wooden frame, arms folded, his expression a mask of cold detachment. He said nothing, only watching, as though presiding over a cruel spectacle he himself had set into motion. The sneer tugging at the edge of his mouth betrayed his disgust, but his eyes were fixed, unblinking, refusing to look away.
Merlin's breathing hitched as the goblin drew closer, its clawed fingers twitching, every movement vibrating with anticipation. It was as if it could barely contain itself, as though the moment of contact were an inevitability pressing down on both of them. The air grew thicker, oppressive, a grotesque parody of intimacy.
Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms, and for a heartbeat, hesitation flashed across her face. But then she turned her head toward Arthur, eyes wide, pleading—not for release, not for mercy, but for acknowledgment, for some sliver of belonging in the cruel bargain she had accepted.
Arthur's gaze did not soften.
The goblin let out a guttural, eager sound, low and coarse, a noise that cut through the heavy silence of the stable. The hay rustled as it stepped forward, and the grotesque ritual Arthur had spat in venom now loomed on the brink of reality.