Chapter 1: Sweat and Sparks
The dawn in Camelot’s private training yard was a quiet, golden thing. It lit the mist rising from the damp earth and caught on the sweat already beading along Arthur Pendragon’s spine as he moved through his forms. The air smelled of cut grass and the sharp, metallic tang of his effort. He was shirtless, his muscles coiling and releasing with each controlled swing of his practice sword, a study in power that was, for now, entirely for an audience of one.
Merlin leaned against a wooden post, a bucket of water and a cloth at his feet, pretending to be bored. He was failing. Every ripple of Arthur’s shoulders, every shift of the cords in his abdomen, was a lesson Merlin’s body had learned by heart. Years of forced training sessions—for your own good, Merlin, you’re too scrawny—had shaped his own once-lanky frame into something lean and capable, but that was a secondary benefit. The primary one was this: sanctioned staring.
“You’re breathing like a wounded boar,” Merlin called out, his voice cutting through the rhythmic thwack of Arthur’s sword against the pell. “It’s unattractive.”
Arthur didn’t stop. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his face. “And your commentary is as sharp as a butter knife. Come here. I’m parched.”
Merlin grabbed the water skin and trudged over. As he handed it off, Arthur’s fingers brushed his, a calloused point of contact that lasted a heartbeat too long. Merlin snatched his hand back, a faint breeze stirring the dust at their feet without him meaning to. Arthur’s blue eyes flickered, but he said nothing, just drank deeply, his throat working.
“Right,” Arthur said, tossing the skin aside. “Defense drills. Now.”
“I polished your boots last night,” Merlin protested, already knowing it was useless.
“And now you’ll polish your instincts. Or lack thereof.” Arthur picked up a second practice sword from the rack and tossed it. Merlin caught it, the weight familiar and unpleasant in his hand.
It was a dance they knew. Arthur pressed, Merlin deflected, Arthur advanced with relentless, grinning force. Merlin’s magic itched under his skin, a live wire reacting to his proximity to the king. To the sweat tracing the line of Arthur’s collarbone, to the focused, predatory look in his eyes.
Then Arthur executed a disarming maneuver that was pure showmanship. Merlin’s sword clattered away, and Arthur’s momentum bore them both down onto the thick training mat. The air left Merlin’s lungs in a whoosh. Arthur was on top of him, a solid, warm weight, one hand pinning Merlin’s wrist beside his head.
Their chests heaved, slick with sweat. The world narrowed to the press of Arthur’s body, the smell of him—leather and heat and something uniquely, infuriatingly Arthur.
“You’re getting slower,” Arthur murmured, his voice a low rumble so close to Merlin’s ear.
“You’re getting heavier.”
Arthur’s grin was wicked. “Show me something, then. Since your sword work is pathetic. A spell. Any little spell.” His breath was warm against Merlin’s cheek. It wasn’t a command from a king; it was a dare from a man who already knew. A challenge that had become their own strange, intimate game.
Merlin’s control shattered. A crackle of gold sparked in his eyes, and a jolt of raw, unshaped energy leapt from his pinned hand, up through Arthur’s arm.
Arthur gasped. But he didn’t flinch back. His body arched into it, a low, bitten-off groan escaping his lips. His eyes flew open, meeting Merlin’s, and in them was none of the fear Merlin dreaded, only a deep, blazing heat.
The moment was shattered by the crisp sound of applause from the archway.
Both their heads snapped toward the sound. A knight stood there, unknown, his surcoat bearing the crest of a southern kingdom. He was handsome, broad-shouldered, with an appreciative smile aimed squarely at Arthur.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the knight said, his voice smooth. “I was told I might find you training. I am Sir Edwin. I see the tales of your prowess were not exaggerated.”
Arthur rolled off Merlin with a fluid, unselfconscious motion, getting to his feet. Merlin scrambled up, face burning, expecting Arthur’s trademark irritation at the interruption.
Instead, Arthur ran a hand through his damp hair and gave the knight that crooked, charming smile that made Merlin’s heart do something stupid. “Sir Edwin. Welcome. I hope your journey was smooth.”
“It was, sire. Though seeing Camelot’s famous dawn,” Edwin said, his gaze trailing over Arthur’s bare torso, “and its king, certainly smooths any remaining weariness.”
Merlin braced for the sharp retort, the cold dismissal. It didn’t come.
Arthur actually chuckled. “Flattery will get you everywhere in court, Sir Edwin, but I’m afraid a knight from another kingdom isn’t my first choice for a suitor. Too complicated by half.” He said it lightly, almost playfully, as he bent to retrieve his tunic.
Edwin laughed, bowing his head. “A fair point, Majesty. I shall have to content myself with admiration from afar.” With another nod, he took his leave.
Merlin stood frozen, the practice sword limp in his hand. Arthur pulled his tunic over his head, then snagged Merlin’s elbow, pulling him toward the rack. “Again. You went completely slack.”
“You—you flirted back,” Merlin blurted as Arthur shoved a sword back into his hand.
Arthur shrugged, picking up his own. “He was being polite. And he was attractive. Would you have preferred I threw him in the stocks for having eyes?”
“No, I just…” Merlin hesitated, the words tumbling out before he could cage them. “Did you consider it?”
Arthur stilled, his back to Merlin. He turned slowly. “Consider what?”
“Him. A… suitor.” The word felt foreign on Merlin’s tongue.
Arthur studied him, his expression unreadable. The yard was utterly silent but for the distant call of a hawk. He seemed to weigh something, then sighed, the royal mask slipping into something more tired, more real. “He was attractive,” Arthur admitted, echoing Merlin’s own thought. “But no.” He paused, looking directly at Merlin. “It’s a peculiar thing, this crown. It makes… genuine interest difficult to discern. I worry it would always feel uneven. Like a subject pleasing their king, not a person… well. Not a person choosing another person. I prefer people who aren’t afraid to argue with me. To call me out on my shit.”
He said it plainly, as if discussing strategy. Then, in one swift motion, he tugged his tunic back off over his head and tossed it aside. The morning light found him again. He grabbed a practice sword. “So. Are you going to stand there gawping, or are you going to try and hit me?”
A laugh burst out of Merlin, sudden and relieved. He hefted the sword. “So you’re saying you secretly like it when I argue with you. All those times I told you you were being a royal prat—”
“So you’re saying,” Arthur interrupted, a brow arching, that infuriating, heart-melting crooked smile playing on his lips, “you’ve been flirting with me for years?”
Merlin froze. The world tilted. His brain screeched to a halt, every secret, every longing glance, every accidental spark laid bare by his own stupid words. His face flooded with heat, burning so fiercely he thought he might steam in the cool dawn air. No words came. None. Only a wild, panicked impulse.
So he lunged.
The practice sword cut through the air with a pathetic whistle. Arthur dodged it effortlessly, his smile widening into a full, brilliant grin as he brought his own blade up to meet Merlin’s next, wild swing. The clash of wood rang out, loud and clear, scattering the silence and the last of Merlin’s composure to the wind.
The clash of wood rang out, loud and clear, scattering the silence and the last of Merlin’s composure to the wind.
What followed wasn’t training. It was desperation. Merlin attacked with a chaos Arthur easily parried, but the king didn’t press for an advantage. He let the rally continue, his eyes fixed on Merlin’s face, reading the panic there like a map. Arthur watched his reactions carefully now, to every jarring impact of their swords and every time Merlin’s eyes strayed from his face to the flex of his arm or the line of his throat. Arthur filed this information away for later but made sure to give Merlin something to look at, shifting his stance to better catch the light, rolling his shoulders back.
He tried not to get his hopes up as he tracked every glance and touch. Hope was a vulnerable thing, and kings couldn’t afford it. But this was Merlin.
Finally, Arthur disarmed him again with a simple twist, sending the practice sword skittering across the stones. Merlin stood there, chest heaving, looking utterly ruined. Arthur stretched his arms over his head, the muscles in his abdomen pulling taut. A bead of sweat rolled down his abs and down that delicious V that was on display just for him. He saw Merlin’s gaze catch it, follow it, before snapping back up, guilty and wide.
“Right,” Arthur said, his voice rough. “I’m sticky. Draw me a bath.” The command was a lifeline, snapping Merlin out of the trance he had been in.
Merlin just nodded, a jerky motion, and fled toward the castle.
In the royal chambers, Merlin worked in a frenzy of clattering buckets. He poured the last of the hot water into the large tub, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. Without a word, without meeting Arthur’s eyes, he turned to leave, to give him privacy.
“Merlin.”
He froze at the door.
“The wine. The red from the southern vineyards. And a glass.”
Merlin let out a slow breath. “Of course.”
He returned a few minutes later with a bottle and a single goblet, his eyes fixed determinedly on a point on the far wall. Arthur was already in the tub, submerged to his chest, his arms resting on the curved edges. The water sloshed as Merlin approached, desperately trying not to look at the king’s naked body, a pointless endeavor in a room full of steam and single-minded focus.
“Pour it,” Arthur said, not moving.
Merlin did, his hand mercifully steady. Arthur took the goblet and sipped, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face. The silence stretched, thick as the steam.
“What does it feel like?” Arthur asked finally.
“Sire?”
“Your magic. When it… happens. What does it feel like to you?”
Merlin tensed, his plan to flee foiled by Arthur choosing this moment to finally talk. He was all too aware that if he moved his eyes down even a little bit, he’d see the king’s dick resting just below the waterline. He kept his gaze locked on the arch of Arthur’s brow. “It’s… like a pressure. A heat. Right under my ribs. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it feels like it’s going to crack me open if I don’t let it out.”
Arthur sipped his wine as he lounged in the large tub. “And when it comes out? When you make the wind blow, or the sparks?”
“Then it’s… a release. Like breathing out after holding it for too long.” He crossed his arms, a defensive gesture. “Why?”
“I’m curious.” Another sip. “Does it ever… respond to things? Not to your command, but to something else?”
Merlin’s throat was tight. “Like what?”
“Like surprise. Or fear.” Arthur’s voice dropped, softer. “Or something else.”
“It responds to emotion. All emotion. That’s why it’s so dangerous here.” The words were a warning, to both of them.
Eventually, Arthur grabbed a towel from the stool beside the tub and got out. Water sluiced off him in sheets. Merlin spun around, presenting his back, his ears burning. He heard the rustle of the towel, the soft footsteps on stone.
When he dared to look again, Arthur was drying his hair, his back to Merlin. Then he tossed the towel aside and pulled on just a pair of low-hanging sweatpants with no underwear. The linen clung to his damp skin, riding low on his hips. He walked back to his bedchamber, still talking. “And the healing? The great acts. Is that a different feeling?”
“It’s… louder,” Merlin managed, following him because there was no choice. “It’s not just a release. It’s a pull. Like it’s coming through me, not from me.”
Arthur nodded as if this made perfect sense. He picked up the wine bottle from where Merlin had left it and poured himself another glass. Then, without looking, he poured a second one and held it out toward Merlin. “Here.”
Merlin stared at it.
“It’s just wine, Merlin. I’m not poisoning you.” Arthur’s tone was light, but his eyes were intense.
Slowly, Merlin reached out and took the glass. Their fingers brushed. Arthur didn’t let go immediately, holding the contact for a moment that sent a current through the air, warmer than any magic Merlin had ever conjured.