[Third Person POV]
"Now… where should I even begin with all of this?" Arthur muttered under his breath, his voice carrying only far enough for Merlin to hear as he slowly turned in place. His sharp blue eyes swept across the sprawling chamber around them—a labyrinth of towering shelves, precarious stacks of ancient tomes, and scattered mounds of gold coins that glinted faintly under the flickering torchlight. The smell of old parchment and candle wax mingled with the faint metallic scent of treasure. Arthur rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing in thought as he tried to decide where to start.
"I would start with the tomes, like you said you would," Merlin suggested brightly, her tone teasing and playful. A mischievous grin stretched across her face.
Arthur paused and slowly turned his head toward her, giving her a dry look. He blinked once. Twice. "Wow," he said flatly, "you really are Merlin the Wise."
Merlin threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing through the cavernous chamber like a bell. "What exactly are you looking for, anyway?" Merlin asked after a beat, her voice softening with genuine curiosity. "Maybe I could actually help instead of just standing here looking pretty."
Arthur hummed in thought, running a finger along the spine of a particularly worn grimoire before glancing back at her. "Hmm… something to enhance my sword skills. A spell, a technique—anything that proves some of these wizards and witches thought about mixing magic with swordplay. If I can find even a hint of that, I might be able to adapt it, recreate it as a magic circle, and use it myself."
Merlin tilted her head, her grin shrinking into a more thoughtful expression. "Interesting. I think I'm getting a faint idea of what you're after." Her eyes sparkled with a knowing glint as she abruptly floated a few inches off the ground. "In the meantime," she said, drifting lazily toward a shadowed corridor lined with crimson-bound volumes, "keep searching. Who knows what you might stumble across when you're not looking for it."
Arthur gave a small shrug and turned in the opposite direction, his hand brushing aside a dangling chain of gold as he approached a small hill of coins crowned by a lone, dust-caked tome. He plucked it free, its leather cover cracked and stiff beneath his fingers, and began flipping through the yellowed pages.
The book was a biography—dry, overly formal, and utterly lacking in flair. Arthur skimmed line after line, his lips curling in mild disappointment. "How boring," he murmured, eyes scanning passages about bloodlines, duels for honor, and endless lectures on the privilege of lifting a certain sword. "All this book talks about is making his father and ancestors proud… where's the magic?"
He groaned softly and was about to toss the tome aside when a particular page caught his attention. His eyes narrowed, then brightened. "A training manual?" he whispered to himself. "Ahh, he actually documented his fighting style. Drills, stances, even notes on endurance training. Not bad at all… mostly sword techniques, but still."
Arthur read on for several more moments, his brow occasionally lifting in appreciation before he finally exhaled a resigned sigh. "They're not exactly bad," he admitted under his breath. "But I've seen better." He closed the book with a soft thud, memories of his dream duels with the shadow knight flashing through his mind—the fluid, almost supernatural grace of those sword movements. Compared to that, these techniques felt… incomplete.
"Art!" Merlin's voice rang out, carrying across the echoing chamber. "I found it—here!"
Arthur turned just in time to see her glide through the air toward him, the hem of her cloak trailing behind her. She landed lightly beside him and held out a crimson-covered grimoire, the gold lettering across its spine gleaming despite the dust.
"What's this?" Arthur asked, taking the book with cautious interest.
"This belonged to Reginald Pendragon, the eleventh head of the house of Pendragon," Merlin explained, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve as if the name itself deserved ceremony. "He lived in an era when no one in his generation could lift Caliburn. To make up for it, he threw himself into magic—obsessively. He became a fanatic, researching and developing spells to complement his sword skills. Impressive work, honestly. Impressive enough that I even considered taking him on as a student at one point."
Arthur's eyes widened slightly. "You? Seriously? Why didn't you?"
Merlin crossed her arms into an emphatic X, her grin fading into a sharp frown. "There's a reason he couldn't lift that sword, you know. He wasn't exactly… a good person."
Arthur raised a curious brow. "Really? That's disappointing. What was he like?"
Merlin's expression darkened as she blew out a small huff of air. "The type who used Muggles as target practice for his spells. Cruel for the sake of being cruel. So, as you can imagine, we wouldn't have exactly clicked. I may be a little unhinged, but even I have standards. He was…" She punctuated the statement by turning her thumb downward and blowing a raspberry.
Arthur chuckled under his breath as he examined the crimson tome, brushing a stray fleck of gold dust from its leather cover. "That's too bad," he said lightly, though his voice carried a faint note of disgust. "Hmm… I hope that wherever he ended up, he's ashamed of himself for tarnishing the Pendragon name with his bigotry."
Merlin scoffed and crossed her arms, leaning back against a tilted pillar of books. "I doubt it. People like that don't really experience shame. Their egos are thicker than dragon hide."
Arthur tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I mean… hell exists, doesn't it? Surely he would have gotten his penance one way or another."
"Maybe," Merlin said, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "But don't put too much faith in cosmic justice. The universe is a bit too lazy for that."
Arthur said nothing more, instead cracking open the tome with a careful motion. The old leather creaked as he spread the pages wide.
"Woah," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. "Some of these are insane. Wait—he created a spell that summons rings of swords around him? That's… awesome!" His fingers raced over the text, flipping through the pages with a boyish glee that betrayed his usual calm. "And this one—blades that shoot up from the ground?!" He leaned closer, golden hair falling into his face. "Ughhh! I hate that I'm finding these so cool despite the person who made them!"
Merlin chuckled, amused by the storm of emotions playing across his face—wonder, irritation, admiration, and reluctant respect all tangled together.
Arthur's enthusiasm faltered as he turned another page. His eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Okay, this one's just too far," he muttered. "A spell that makes swords cut their way out from inside a person's body… that's not creativity, that's cruelty for the sake of cruelty."
With a heavy sigh, Arthur snapped the book shut and tucked it under his arm, his earlier excitement fading into a contemplative frown. "Alright," he said after a beat, glancing sideways at Merlin, "I'm also looking for something else."
Merlin arched a brow, sensing the shift in his tone. "Oh? And what would that be?"
"Do you know if there are any training manuals for fencing?" Arthur asked, his voice soft but deliberate, almost sheepish.
Merlin blinked, then tilted her head, suspicion flashing in her violet eyes. "Fencing? You want to give Gwyneth one of the Pendragon sacred tomes?" Her brow rose higher, her grin sharpening with mockery. "What's next, a magic rapier to go with it?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, though the faint flush of guilt on his cheeks betrayed that she wasn't entirely wrong. "The magic sword is for later," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "And I'm not saying I'll give her the entire book—just the sections on rapier training. Otherwise, what's the point of hoarding all this knowledge if I'm not even going to use it? Might as well put it to good use. And it's not like I'm handing out the spells themselves—that's too personal to share. The training manuals are fair game though." He paused, a glint of something sharper flickering in his gaze. "As for the magic sword… that would be way down the line. After I trust her more—and after she's grown enough to wield it responsibly."
Merlin's playful expression hardened into a frown. She crossed her arms again, her staff materializing with a faint hum of magic as she studied him carefully. "Arthur… what exactly are you doing?" Her voice lowered, losing its usual teasing lilt. "You wouldn't nudge Gwyneth toward swordplay unless you had a plan in mind. And you're not the type to just place a sword in the hands of a child. So I'll ask again—what are you planning?"
Arthur fell silent. His golden hair slid forward, veiling his eyes to hide the scheming light within them. For a moment, the only sound was the faint rustle of coins shifting beneath their feet. Then he lifted his head, a slow smirk curving his lips. His hand hovered near his mouth as if savoring the reveal.
"I'm going to try recreate it," he said softly, each word deliberate, echoing faintly in the cavernous hall.
Merlin tilted her head, her staff tightening in her grasp. "Recreate… what?"
Arthur's eyes gleamed, catching the flickering torchlight with an almost otherworldly brilliance. "The Knights of the Round Table," he declared, his voice deepening with conviction. "I'm going to bring it back. A new order. A circle of knights bound not just by loyalty, but by something greater." His smirk sharpened into a predator's grin. "I already have a few candidates in mind. I just need to guide a few pieces here and there… and soon, everything will fall perfectly into place."
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