Merlin had learned early that staying still was a skill.
Not the kind teachers praised, not the kind that came from discipline—but the kind you developed when reacting only made things worse.
When moving freely drew attention.
When noticing difference brought consequences.
He sat on a flat stretch of stone just beyond the inner paths, legs pulled in, back straight without effort.
Anyone watching might have thought him relaxed.
Anyone who knew him better would have recognized the signs.
His fingers kept aligning the edge of his sleeve, smoothing fabric that was already smooth.
His breathing was measured—not slow, not fast.
Counted.
Always counted.
Merlin adjusted the strap of his worn satchel and finally allowed himself to look down at his hands.
Long fingers.
Too thin.
Scarred in places he didn't remember earning honestly.
His nails were clean, trimmed short, though there was dirt beneath one thumb he kept forgetting to scrape away.
Details matter, he reminded himself as he scraped it out.
He pushed his lightly tinted hair back from his eyes, the motion habitual, practiced.
His hair refused to stay neat no matter how often he cut it—uneven, catching crimson light in a way that made it look softer than it was.
His face was sharp in places, unfinished in others, as if someone had stopped sculpting halfway through.
People rarely called him handsome.
They also rarely called him ugly.
Merlin preferred it that way.
Blending was easier when you weren't memorable.
He shifted his gaze outward, past the school grounds, toward the distant line where the walls rose—tall, pale, deceptively clean.
From here, they looked almost gentle, like they were simply keeping the world organized.
He knew better.
Everyone did, even if they pretended not to.
The walls weren't meant to keep danger out.
They were meant to keep people in.
Merlin reached into his satchel and began laying things out beside him with quiet precision.
A folded cloth.
A small container of water.
A strip of dried food he broke cleanly in half and set aside for later.
He worked methodically, the way someone did when they didn't trust their thoughts to wander too far.
Camping until sunset wasn't difficult.
Waiting was.
He stared at the sky with envy.
The sun still hung high, unbothered by human concerns.
It always was.
Plenty of time, then.
Merlin leaned back slightly, bracing himself with one arm, and let his eyes close for just a moment.
Immediately, thoughts pressed in.
Riya's face surfaced first—uninvited, unwelcome.
The sharp sound of skin against skin replayed in his mind, clearer than he liked.
The way her eyes had widened afterward.
Not in anger.
In surprise.
His chest tightened.
That wasn't necessary, he thought, for the hundredth time.
He hadn't meant to hurt her.
He never did.
But meaning and outcome rarely agreed where he was concerned.
Merlin exhaled through his nose and opened his eyes again, grounding himself in the present.
Stone beneath him.
Wind against his cheek.
The faint, distant hum of the city behind the walls.
Back to square one, he murmured to himself.
Guilt was a useless emotion if you let it linger.
He had learned that too.
If he let himself feel it fully, it would slow him down.
Make him hesitate.
And hesitation—especially now—was dangerous.
She's strong, he told himself.
Stronger than she thinks.
Stronger than he thought.
It was almost comforting, the way he could justify things when he needed to.
Merlin sat up and reached into his bag again, pulling out a thin roll of cord.
He tested its strength between his hands, nodding faintly.
Functional.
Reliable.
Boring.
Good.
As he worked, his mind drifted—not to fear, not to hope—but to patterns.
If he stayed here until sunset, the patrol routes would shift.
They always did.
The watch would grow lax in places that hadn't seen trouble in years.
People trusted repetition.
Merlin trusted change.
He traced an invisible line in the dirt with the tip of his finger, mapping paths only he seemed to notice.
If something goes wrong, he thought, it won't be because I didn't plan.
That was the lie he told himself.
Merlin was good at plans.
He was less good at accounting for people.
He paused, hand hovering mid-motion, and frowned.
A strange sensation brushed against him—subtle, fleeting.
Like pressure just behind his eyes.
Like the air itself had shifted.
He stilled completely.
Nothing happened.
No sound.
No movement.
The world continued exactly as it had been.
After a moment, Merlin relaxed, annoyed at himself.
Overthinking, he decided.
Still, he made a quiet note of it.
He always did.
He finished setting up his small, inconspicuous camp and leaned back again, eyes drifting to the horizon.
From here, the outside world was only a suggestion—a promise or a threat, depending on who you asked.
Merlin didn't romanticize it.
Whatever lay beyond the walls wasn't freedom.
It was simply unknown.
And unknown things, in his experience, were never kind.
He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin lightly against them, and waited.
For sunset.
For answers.
For consequences he suspected were already moving toward him, whether he acknowledged them or not.
The wind picked up slightly, tugging at his clothes.
Merlin didn't move.
He had chosen this.
The wind grew stronger.
The tent won't hold, Merlin thought.
He glanced toward the garbage pile behind him.
Two iron rods jutted out at odd angles, half-buried beneath scraps of metal and torn fabric.
Heavy.
Rusted.
Useful.
He moved.
Merlin lowered himself into a crouch, knees bending slowly, hands hovering just above the ground.
Each step was measured, soundless.
I can't be seen.
He crossed into the dirtier part of the riverside, where the smell masked movement.
As he pulled the rods free, they struck each other.
A sharp ringing cut through the air.
Merlin froze.
He turned his head slightly, eyes scanning the smaller trash piles, the uneven ground beyond them.
Nothing moved.
He exhaled quietly and shook his head once.
Careless.
He set one rod down onto a softer mound of waste and kept the other in his grip, fingers tightening instinctively.
Then he heard it.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Something displaced the air nearby—too close, too deliberate.
Merlin slid behind a collapsed heap of debris, the hiding spot inadequate and he knew it.
Either he wouldn't be seen—which was unlikely—or he would have to defend himself.
Which was worse.
Sweat traced a slow line down his back.
Whatever it was, it was close.