John stood beside Elsa's bed, the soft glow of their incomplete sealing ritual still flickering across her pale skin. The room was warm, yet he felt cold—cold with fear, cold with helplessness. Merlin gently placed his hand on John's shoulder, sensing the storm inside him.
"John," Merlin said with a tired sigh, "Your heart is trembling. What burdens your mind, child?"
John hesitated, eyes still locked on Elsa's unmoving form.
"Merlin… can you share the most powerful fight you and my father ever lived through? The one everyone whispers about? The one they call your… legendary battle?"
A faint, one of reminiscence, curved Merlin's lips.
"Oh, we had one," he replied. "And yes, we were very much in it… but not from the front line as heroes often claim. We were only seventeen — perhaps eighteen. Barely men. But destiny does not wait for age."
John looked up, curious. "What happened back then?"
Slowly, Merlin inhaled, as if drawing from deep chambers of the past.
