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.
Merlin looked at the goblin, and the world seemed to narrow around her. The creature approached with short, eager steps, its chest heaving, its eyes fixed on her with an animalistic intensity.
The goblin's skin was green and uneven, with the texture of a wet toad, covered in dark spots that seemed to pulse under the faint light of the barn. Its large, round yellow eyes had a feverish glow — not of intelligence, but of instinct.
As it drew closer, the smell became impossible to ignore: a mix of damp earth, raw meat, and something acidic, like decomposing fungus. It was the odor of something too alive, something that should not be so close to a human body.
And then, as if to impress her, the goblin proudly held up what it was carrying — an unexpectedly large, pale-yellow mushroom with a red tip. It held it in both hands, like a trophy, like a symbol.
As if to say: "Look at me. I am a good male."
Merlin swallowed hard. The gesture was involuntary, dry, almost mechanical. A faint tingling ran through her thighs.
Her gaze shifted from the goblin and met Arthur's eyes. He watched her in silence, his arms crossed, his face impassive. But in his eyes — in his eyes there was something more.
It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't contempt. Was it hope?
She didn't understand; she had never seen anything like it in his eyes before.
Merlin felt the weight of that unspoken promise. Arthur didn't just want to punish her. He wanted her to accept. To bend. To become part of some plan—not as a victim, but as an accomplice?
And in that instant, between the smell of the goblin, the grotesque mushroom, and Arthur's gaze, Merlin understood: there was no turning back. There was only the path forward—twisted, filthy, and inevitable.
"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.
The goblin blinked, then gave a wheezy snort and scratched its side.
Arthur sighed. "Tell me something, buddy. If I found you a female… would you even know what to do with her?"
The goblin froze.
Then, without warning, it leapt into the air, arms flailing like a frog hit by lightning. It landed with a thud, spun once, and let out a series of excited, garbled sounds—half growl, half squeal.
Arthur took a cautious step back. "What the hell—"
The goblin reached down and lifted its mushroom-like growth with both hands, presenting it like a sacred relic. Its eyes gleamed with manic pride.
He barked, voice cracking with enthusiasm.
Merlin stared, horrified. "Oh gods. He understood the question."
The goblin nodded furiously, still holding the fungal protrusion aloft like a trophy.
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. "Go on, she's yours now."
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.