Honor the Believer: The Phoenix Island

By Michael P. Frame

In humanity's distant future, magic has returned—violently. After vanishing for millennia, it surged back alongside the Celestials, an alien race once mistaken for gods… or devils. Now, war consumes the solar system: high-tech armies clash with resurrected monsters, while ancient species like elves, dwarves, and giants ally with humans to hold the line against Lucifer's dark forces. Above the chaos floats Phoenix Island, a hidden sanctuary created by the legendary wizard Merlin before his death—a place where magic never stopped thriving and where the pursuit of its advancement continues to evolve in isolation, protected by the dying dream of its creator. Jeremiah Drarocca is one of twenty-three demigod children rescued by Phoenix Island during the Celestial Zeus's genocidal purge against their kind. While the others now live scattered across the island, training for the day they can return to the battlefield and take revenge, Jeremiah is the only one sent to the monster city of Grimm—a place of unpredictable dark magic and uneasy political alliances—to attend school. Jeremiah isn't like the other demigods—he isn't like anyone. Within him flows an impossible fusion of bloodlines: both Celestial god and Celestial devil. It's a contradiction that should not exist, and it's the reason he was sent to Grimm, the city of monsters, to learn control over the darkness. Adopted by a dragon, Jeremiah struggles with his identity, his staggering power, and the uncertainty of youth. As tensions rise and war looms ever closer, the path his power will carve remains unknown—but it may shape the fate of the entire war. Join Jeremiah as he steps into a school unlike any other—where monsters roam the halls, secrets whisper through enchanted corridors, and one uncertain demigod may hold the key to magic's future. His journey to understand himself is just beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 10, 2025
• ISBN: 9798891557918

Michael P. Frame

Michael P. Frame is a proud nerd on a lifelong quest to cram as much magic, adventure, and larger-than-life storytelling into a single book as humanly possible. Growing up, he found refuge in fantasy worlds, superheroes, and epic sagas—stories where the underdogs rise, the impossible becomes reality, and heroes are shaped by struggle, not just strength. His writing is fueled by that same passion, designed to scratch every nerdy itch at once. Born and raised in the beautiful landscapes of Oregon, Michael has a deep love for the wild, the weird, and the wondrous. When he’s not crafting new worlds, he’s enjoying time with his family, exploring nature, or hanging out with his loyal dogs. He believes in the power of storytelling to inspire, to heal, and to remind us all that no matter how dark things get, there’s always a spark of magic waiting to shine through.

Book preview

About the Author

Michael P. Frame is a proud nerd on a lifelong quest to cram as much magic, adventure, and larger-than-life storytelling into a single book as humanly possible. Growing up, he found refuge in fantasy worlds, superheroes, and epic sagas—stories where the underdogs rise, the impossible becomes reality, and heroes are shaped by struggle, not just strength. His writing is fueled by that same passion, designed to scratch every nerdy itch at once.

Born and raised in the beautiful landscapes of Oregon, Michael has a deep love for the wild, the weird, and the wondrous. When he’s not crafting new worlds, he’s enjoying time with his family, exploring nature, or hanging out with his loyal dogs. He believes in the power of storytelling to inspire, to heal, and to remind us all that no matter how dark things get, there’s always a spark of magic waiting to shine through.

Dedication

To my mom, Paula—my moral compass and the kindest person I’ve ever met. No matter what, I always feel loved around you.

To my dad, William—the foundation of our family. Whether it’s trips, games, or BBQs, you’re the guy we all turn to. You’ve taught me the value of hard work and what it means to be there for family.

To my brother, Matthew—my fellow nerd, just on a parallel street. Kind, considerate, and a great friend.

To my sister, Laura—my Chip to your Dale. We encourage each other to embrace the kid inside, and I love that about us.

To my brother-in-law, Max—I’m so happy you’re family. A great husband, father, and fellow nerd (just more video game focused).

To my nephew, Elijah—I admire your intelligence and adventurous spirit. You’re going to do amazing things one day.

To my niece, Laila—your wit reminds me of your mom and of me. You’re going to be the perfect sidekick for some epic uncle-niece shenanigans.

And to my best friend, Doug—rain or shine, you’ve always been there. I can’t imagine life without you. Thanks for coming to every Marvel movie, comic con, and nerdy adventure I’ve ever dragged you into.

To my dear friend, Zack, you’ve always inspired me to work harder through your example. Your commitment to family above your own personal needs is unmatched, and I’m grateful every day you’re in my life.

Copyright Information©

Michael P. Frame 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Frame, Michael P.

Honor the Believer

ISBN 9798891557895 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798891557918 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9798891557901 (Audiobook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2025916267

www.austinmacauleyusa.com

First Published 2025

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

This book wouldn’t exist without the stories, worlds, and characters that made me fall in love with storytelling in the first place.

To Star Wars for showing me the power of destiny. To Star Trek for proving that hope and exploration can shape a better future. To Harry Potter for capturing the magic of a coming-of-age journey. To The Lord of the Rings for crafting a world so rich, I never wanted to leave. To Naruto and Dragon Ball Z for making adventuring badass. To Final Fantasy for teaching me that the best adventures are the ones filled with heart. And to Dungeons & Dragons, anime, and every book, game, and movie that ever sparked my imagination—you shaped the nerd I am today, and this book is a love letter to all of it.

To my family—thank you for supporting me, loving me, and letting me be my weird self. You are my foundation, my inspiration, and my greatest adventure.

To my friends, especially Doug and Zack—thanks for always saying yes to every movie, comic con, and deep-dive discussion about things that most people would call just fiction.

And to you, the reader—welcome to the adventure. I hope this book makes you feel the same wonder, excitement, and joy that my favorite stories gave me.

This one’s for the nerds.

Prologue

The Science of Myth

Before time had meaning, before matter took shape, the cosmos was born in a cataclysm of unimaginable force. A singularity, infinitely dense and seething with unlimited potential, ruptured in an event we now call the Big Bang. In an instant, space-time unfolded and raw energy—so concentrated it defied comprehension—swirled into motion. Heat and chaos reigned, birthing the first elements, the first forces, the very fabric of existence itself.

Yet among these primal energies, there was one unlike any other. It did not merge with gravity nor did it dance with electromagnetism. It was an anomaly, an outsider in the symphony of creation. But as the universe expanded, stretching the very fabric of reality, it was left behind. While the known forces—gravity, electromagnetism, the strong and weak nuclear interactions—intertwined to shape matter and motion, there remained one force that did not follow suit. It did not dissolve into the cosmic crucible nor weave itself into the architecture of physics. It was the apex of energies, the unblended remnant of creation, too distinct to be tamed by the laws governing all else.

This force drifted like oil upon water, present yet separate, circling the newborn universe in gravitational tides. Early Earth civilizations, gazing in awe at its influence, had no way to understand it. To them, it was divine, unknowable, a power beyond mortal grasp. And so they named it in the only way they could: magic.

The name endured, passing through generations, while its true nature remained obscured by myth. In reality, magic is a unique elemental force, a cosmic anomaly that only interacts under specific conditions. Unlike the fundamental forces of physics, magic does not permeate all matter indiscriminately; it binds selectively, affecting approximately 60% of carbon-based life while concentrating only in oxygen-nitrogen atmospheres. When present, it disrupts biological development, triggering mutations and adaptations that defy conventional evolution. For millennia, its effects were misunderstood, seen as divine intervention or supernatural power, but in truth, magic is a force of selective influence, shaping the living world in ways yet to be fully understood.

Like the ebb and flow of an ancient ocean, magic surged and waned. At times, it swelled strong enough to shape worlds, igniting miracles and weaving destinies. Other times, it became a whisper, slipping into dormancy, vanishing as though it had never been. Later scientists, in their search for order, called it exotic radiation—an energy that loops through time and space, neither fully here nor entirely gone. But to those who touched its raw power, who wielded its wonder, it was and will always be simply…magic.

Once, not so long ago in the grand scale of the universe, this energy thrived on Earth for a time. It shaped kingdoms, bent reality and defined an age for humanity. But now, in this cycle, magic is fading from the world, retreating like the receding tide. With its withdrawal, the creatures born of its essence weaken, facing the slow death of their kind—unless the balance can somehow be restored.

And the last mind, and first scientist to truly understand magic in this dark age—before it disappeared—was the legendary wizard Merlin. Not as a mere legend from myth, but as a scientist and sorcerer who sought to bridge the gap between the arcane and the empirical. He saw the universe not just through the lens of magic but through the rigors of discovery, testing the boundaries between what was known and what could be understood.

On April 9th, 542 AD—the halls of Camelot lay steeped in the silence of the night and comfort of sleep, the ancient stones burdened by the weight of the midnight hour. Only the rhythmic pounding of hooves broke the stillness, sharp and urgent, like a frantic heartbeat thundering away from a crisis.

Jayron Evermane, Royal Courier of Camelot, centaur, and trusted emissary of King Arthur, galloped through the labyrinth of empty corridors with a speed that matched the gravity of his mission from the king. Centaurs looked like humans from the waist up, but where their legs should have been, they had the strong, muscular body of a horse. Their four powerful legs carried them faster than any knight’s steed and their human torsos gave them the hands and minds of scholars and warriors alike.

Jay’s sleek, midnight-black coat caught fleeting glimpses of moonlight through the high windows, shimmering like ink spilled on glass. Each stride sent echoes rippling through the vaulted ceilings, his hooves striking the stones like the steady beat of a war drum announcing fate in motion.

The night air stung Jay’s lungs as he burst from the keep into the courtyard. Before him, Merlin’s tower stretched toward the night sky, its spiraling stonework humming with unseen forces. Built upon a ley line, the hollowed spire was more than a tower—it was a conduit for bending reality. The air crackled, thick with energy, as Jay raced toward the staircase, his heart hammering. He couldn’t fail—not when King Arthur himself had entrusted him with this mission. The thought of disappointing the king, of arriving empty-handed in the great hall, sent a fresh surge of urgency through his limbs.

Then, before him, the stairs revealed themselves—Merlin’s enchanted steps, infamous throughout Camelot. The tower’s magic was fickle, shifting the staircase to test the worthiness of its visitors. The more vital one’s message, the fewer steps there were to climb. On some nights, the ascent stretched endlessly, as if Merlin was the tower itself rejecting visitors. Jay’s heart pounded as he glanced up, breath catching at the sight of only a short staircase ahead.

Relief surged through him. Whatever the king needed, Merlin would listen. The urgency of his message had been acknowledged by the magic of the tower itself.

Jay exhaled sharply, pausing just long enough to shake out his aching foreleg. The uneven stone had jarred his stride, but he rolled his ankle joint with a practiced motion, testing for stiffness. Satisfied, he pressed onward, his resolve as unyielding as the stone beneath his hooves.

No excuses, just keep moving, he muttered under his breath, shaking off the lingering ache. Arthur’s counting on me.

As he reached the final steps, the tower roared with a deafening explosion, shaking Camelot to its foundation. The secured stones quaked beneath Jay’s hooves, threatening to send him tumbling. Smoke billowed from the shattered doorway above, curling like ghostly tendrils into the cold night air. Bracing himself against the tremors, Jay pressed on, knowing that nothing—not even the apparent collapse of Merlin’s tower—could deter him.

Reaching the top, he was met with a scene of utter devastation. The massive wooden door to Merlin’s chamber lay splintered against the far wall, reduced to nothing but shattered fragments. The acrid scent of burned magic stung his nose as he stepped cautiously over the wreckage.

Inside, the room was chaos incarnate—toppled shelves spilled ancient tomes onto the stone floor, cauldrons hissed angrily with the remnants of failed experiments, and arcs of crackling blue energy leaped between scattered artifacts. The very air was charged, shimmering with distortions, as if the tower itself had momentarily touched another reality.

At the heart of this ruin sat Merlin, slumped against the wall with a grin that could only belong to someone thoroughly amused by their own catastrophe. His wild, snow-white hair stood at odd angles, dusted with soot, while his long beard bore streaks of singed strands that curled upward, scorched by fire. His green eyes sparkled with boyish mischief, utterly unaffected by the chaos around him, like a child disregarding his own messes with little responsibility.

Jay froze, unsure whether to laugh or panic. Master Merlin…are you…alright? he stammered, his hooves clinking nervously against the stone floor.

Oh, quite alright! Merlin exclaimed, waving a soot-covered hand dismissively. Though the cauldron, I’m afraid, had rather strong opinions about that time travel spell. Hah! No paradoxes for that one, thank you very much.

He chuckled, gesturing toward the smoldering heap that had once been an elegant iron pot.

Jay’s ears twitched, his tail flicking with uneasy curiosity as he surveyed the devastation. The king sent me, he began hesitantly, to bring you to the great hall. It’s…urgent.

Urgent? Does Arthur even realize the hour? So rude, Merlin mocked, pushing himself up with a grunt and brushing off his charred robes.

You just shook the whole castle with an explosion of magic a minute ago. Pretty sure you’re the rude one, Jay thought, biting back a smirk as he watched Merlin’s dramatic antics.

Well then, we’d best not dawdle! But first—

With a flourish, Merlin reached for his cloak—a garment alive with ancient power called a Legacy. The shimmering fabric rippled like liquid starlight, lifting itself gently from the table and draping over his shoulders as if eager to assist its master.

A Legacy was no ordinary magical artifact. It was the heart of wizardry, a vessel of ancient power that chose its bearer, granting them the title of wizard. Unlike spells or grimoires, a Legacy could not be bought, stolen or created—they were alive, brimming with their own wells of magic, imbued with the collective knowledge and experience of every wizard who had wielded them before.

Passed down through generations of wizards, a Legacy could take many forms—a weathered cloak, a staff, a wand or even a simple ring. Each carried the essence of its lineage, binding itself to the wizard it deemed worthy in a symbiotic relationship. To be chosen by a Legacy was to be acknowledged as a true wizard. Without one, a sorcerer might study magic, even perform minor spells, but they could never claim the full power or title of wizard.

A Legacy was more than a tool—it was a declaration, a contract between wizard and magic itself. In Merlin’s case, his cloak had found him long ago, wrapping him not just in cloth but in the weight of the arcane and the expectations of the countless wizards who had worn it before. It whispered with the echoes of their knowledge, guided his steps through fate’s winding paths and marked him as something more than mortal—someone chosen.

There we are. The picture of wizardly perfection! Not a hair out of place, not a singe mark in sight—I’m fit to see the king, Merlin quipped, though his singed beard, still smoking, suggested he wasn’t overly concerned with appearances.

Jay blinked, half in awe and half in bewilderment.

Your…door is gone.

Merlin followed Jay’s gaze to the destroyed entrance and shrugged.

Doors are overrated, he added with a sly grin.

Jay couldn’t suppress a small, reluctant smile.

It gets better air flow, I suppose.

Good lad! It really does. But I should still fix it before we go. Merlin clapped for him, the gesture both comforting and clouded in plumes of soot with the strike of his hands. The shattered wooden door shuddered, then with a groan of splinters and swirling sparks, reassembled itself piece by piece, sliding back into its frame as if rewinding time. Now, come along! Let’s see what the king’s gotten himself into a fuss over this time. While we walk, I’ll tell you about the time I was first mate on a pirate ship sailing the world. Did you know it’s round?

As Merlin strode confidently through the wreckage of his own lab, trailing faint wisps of stardust from his cloak, he flicked his fingers toward the chaos behind him. Instantly, books flew back onto shelves, shattered glass melted and reformed, and the splintered door began piecing itself together. The air hummed as scattered artifacts returned to their rightful places, and the lingering smoke dissipated as if the explosion had never happened. Jay shook his head in confusion but followed the legendary wizard. Whatever awaited them in the great hall, one thing was certain: with the late hour, nothing would be an ordinary problem.

As they approached the long descent of the tower, Jay let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking for just a moment. It was fleeting, but Merlin caught it—the weariness of one who had run all night, only to be met with an exhausting climb back down. A knowing smirk tugged at the wizard’s lips.

With a flourish, he raised a hand, and the ancient stone steps rippled like water, trembling under unseen forces. A deep, resonant hum filled the air as the rigid stone softened, stretching and reshaping itself. The rough edges smoothed, the hard angles melting into a perfect spiraling slide that gleamed under the torchlight like polished marble. Merlin turned to Jay, eyes twinkling with childlike excitement.

Last one to the bottom is a rotten egg! Merlin declared, before dramatically flopping onto the slide. He kicked off with a burst of enthusiasm, his arms shooting up like a child on a festival ride. His long white beard and wild hair streamed behind him, his robes ballooning as he whooshed down, laughing like a boy. The wizard spun and twisted through the tower’s curves, shouting, Wheee! Faster!

Jay stared, dumbfounded, at the sight of the legendary Merlin racing down his own magical slide like a reckless child. He exhaled a chuckle, shaking his head.

Oh, why not? he muttered, trotting forward.

Carefully, he folded his legs beneath him, lowering his equine body until he was flat against the slick surface. With a powerful kick, he launched himself forward. At first, he moved cautiously, his hooves tapping against the smooth stone—but then, the momentum took over. The wind rushed through his mane and tail, his sleek black coat gleaming under the torchlight. A joyous whoop escaped his lips as he sped downward, his tail fluttering wildly behind him.

The slide twisted, banking into loops and dips as if it had a mind of its own, guiding them down with playful unpredictability. Jay’s laughter mixed with Merlin’s, their voices echoing through the spiraling descent. By the time they reached the bottom, Jay tumbled onto solid ground with a breathless grin, shaking his mane free of the wild ride’s exhilaration.

Merlin popped up with a triumphant stretch, patting his robes back into place.

Ah, yes, a much finer way to descend the tower, wouldn’t you say? He dusted himself off with an exaggerated flourish, clearly quite pleased with himself.

Jay flicked his tail, still catching his breath.

I’ll admit, that was a lot more fun than stairs.

With a soft shimmer, the slide rippled like liquid again, its smooth surface trembling before hardening back into the familiar rugged stone steps it had been before. The last traces of magic flickered away like embers on the wind, leaving the tower unchanged—as if their little shortcut had never existed.

Merlin dusted off his hands with a satisfied nod.

Ah, order restored! Though I do think Camelot would benefit from more slides—don’t you agree?

Jay dipped his head respectfully and gestured toward the castle’s great hall.

The king awaits, Master Merlin. He will be eager to see you.

Merlin sighed theatrically, as he followed Jay through the towering stone corridors of Camelot.

Fine, fine, duty calls!

The grand hall of Camelot stood bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight, its towering ceilings adorned with banners that whispered with each passing draft. The air held a quiet weight, as if history itself lingered within the stone walls, observing the moment about to unfold. Human guards stood stationed at every grand doorway, their polished armor catching the dim light. Two figures commanded the hall’s gravity—one seated upon a throne, the other standing poised beneath it, a quiet aura of wisdom woven into their very presence.

Merlin stepped into the hall, his robe swishing lightly behind him. The tapestries that lined the walls bore familiar scenes of Camelot’s past—battles, alliances and the legends he had played a part in shaping. He cast a glance over them but didn’t linger. For all the history woven into these walls, Camelot was more than a collection of grand halls and old stories. It was the people who made it feel like home.

His gaze quickly found Lord Oroz, the elven noble standing in the candlelit chamber, his presence as composed as ever. Elves are creatures of refinement, and Oroz was no exception—his sharp green eyes held an otherworldly shimmer, his sun-kissed complexion unmarred by time. His blue hair, tied back in a traveler’s ponytail, framed his regal features. His robes of woven silk, adorned with Celtic patterns of ancient wisdom, whispered of his people’s bond to the natural world.

Merlin, ever the contrast to Oroz’s composed presence, broke into a broad grin.

Oroz, my old friend! You had me worried. None of my experiments have borne fruit, and when you didn’t return…

With his usual disregard for propriety, Merlin strode forward and pulled Oroz into a firm embrace, the elf barely managing to keep his balance. The scent of forest magic clung to Oroz’s robes, the woven fabric whispering against Merlin’s soot-streaked fingers. Despite his stiff demeanor, the elf allowed the moment, a barely perceptible smirk flickering across his lips.

Did you find it? Merlin’s voice carried an edge of anticipation as they pulled apart, his eyes bright with the same childlike enthusiasm that had remained unchanged across the years.

Oroz exhaled softly, then unfurled his palm, revealing a treasure beyond measure—the last seed of a World Tree. The small, golden seed pulsed faintly, its surface inscribed with ancient runes that shimmered like captured starlight. The World Trees, celestial sentinels of magic, once stretched toward the heavens, their roots tangled in the ley lines that wove through the earth.

They thrived on the ambient joy of the world, their magic both a gift and a reflection of the societies beneath their boughs.

Merlin reached out, his fingers brushing against the seed. A flicker of warmth pulsed beneath his fingertips—a heartbeat of dwindling power. His magic stirred in response, rippling like an old song rediscovered, harmonizing with the fading essence inside the tiny shell.

From his throne, King Arthur watched with keen interest, his piercing blue eyes flickering between his two oldest friends. His features, carved by war yet softened by camaraderie, bore the weight of duty as much as the warmth of brotherhood. His red beard framed a kind smile, his golden armor gleaming under the candlelight, an eternal reflection of Camelot’s promise to endure.

Arthur pushed himself up from the throne, rolling his shoulders as he made his way down the red-carpeted steps. His armor clinked lightly with each step, his movements steady but unhurried. He was a king, but here, among friends, there was no need for grandeur. He let out a breath, flashing a small, knowing smile as he approached.

With the seed, we have everything we need to create the island, right?

Merlin, eyes still fixed on the glowing seed, let out an excited gasp.

Yes! This is it! We have everything we need! He bounced slightly on his heels, his grin stretching wide. Well—almost everything. We still have to do some prep work, and by ‘some’, I mean a lot, but that’s the fun part! We need a spell powerful enough to call every last magical being here before the island takes flight! His hands gestured wildly, eyes gleaming with excitement. Oh, this is going to be fun! I should start writing spells immediately—wait, no—Oroz, you’re good with incantations, you can help! And Arthur, you’ll need to approve some…let’s call them structural modifications to Camelot—nothing too drastic! Just magically altering the foundations of reality a little. He clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Now, where do we start?!

And how will you choose who gets to come to the island? The question rang out from the shadowed edge of the great hall, its source emerging as Queen Guinevere. Regal yet enigmatic, she carried herself with effortless grace, her flowing black hair framing her porcelain features. Her crimson eyes, sharp and knowing, glowed with an unnatural radiance—a remnant of the curse she bore.

By her side stood Lady Marian, equally striking, her auburn hair cascading in soft waves, her own crimson gaze mirroring Guinevere’s. The two shared more than just friendship; they shared a fate sealed in darkness yet defied by the strength of their souls.

Draped in elegant gowns adorned with fine embroidery and jewels, their presence exuded both gothic beauty and unshaken nobility. Though their attire reflected the splendor of Camelot, their bond had been forged in something far crueler—a curse woven by Morgana herself.

Two years prior, Sir Lancelot, a potential knight of the Round Table, had fallen to Morgana’s experimentation—her first attempt at creating vampires. Twisted by dark sorcery, Lancelot became a predator, his charm and unnatural allure heightened by Morgana’s magic. Under his hypnotic influence, Guinevere and Marian had no choice but to succumb, their wills ensnared in his seductive web. The moment he sank his fangs into their throats, their lives as mortals ended and their battle against the curse began.

Arthur, wielding Excalibur, had been swift in his retribution. The holy sword, infused with the purest magic of light, made quick work of the first vampire, turning Lancelot to ash as though he had never been. But the victory was bittersweet. The sword’s light could destroy vampires, but it could not undo the curse that had already taken hold of Guinevere and Marian. They survived but were forever changed.

Yet, even in their transformation, they resisted the hunger that defined their kind. While lesser creatures of the night surrendered to bloodlust, they refused to feed on humans, proving that their hearts, though cursed, remained pure. Still, they could not deny their need for sustenance, and it was Merlin, ever the seeker of solutions, who found a way to defy darkness itself.

Drawing from a forbidden magic out of Egypt, Merlin mastered the first of the biblical plagues—turning water into blood. In doing so, he ensured that Guinevere and Marian never had to harm another living soul to survive. It was a dark magic but not an evil one, for its purpose was salvation.

Now, as they stood before Arthur and his council, their presence was not one of fear but of belonging. They were proof that even those who carried darkness could still walk in the light.

Merlin, ever lighthearted despite the weight of the moment, swept into a dramatic bow before addressing Guinevere. My Queen, he said, his tone still tinged with a playfulness that only he could manage in such circumstances, you need not worry. The spell I am crafting will choose based on a person’s heart, not the magic that flows through them. Whether one’s power leans toward the light or the dark won’t matter. What truly matters is who they are inside.

He gestured toward her and Marian with a flourish. And by that measure, you two are shining examples of the kind of people this island was made for.

As are our gargoyle guards all around the castle, Merlin said, gesturing toward the imposing figures flanking Arthur’s throne.

At his words, the stone guardians stirred. Cracks spread like lightning across their rigid forms, dust crumbling from their massive limbs as their eyes flared to life with an eerie golden glow. With a deep, resonant grinding sound, the gargoyles shifted, wings flexing, talons scraping against the marble floor. What had once been statues now stood as living sentinels, their grotesque, chiseled features imposing yet filled with purpose—a testament to their unwavering loyalty to Camelot. By night, they prowled the castle, ever vigilant; by day, they remained stone, solemn reminders that even those deemed monstrous by the world could hold noble hearts.

Though their appearance may be fearsome, their hearts beat with an unwavering devotion to the cause of good, Merlin continued, nodding toward them as they subtly bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Even those the world fears, even those whose magic dwells in shadow, will find a home on our island.

His words hung in the air, heavy with responsibility. The gathered friends stood in silence, absorbing the magnitude of what Merlin was proposing—to create an island sanctuary where magic would not only survive but remain untouched by time, isolated from the rest of the universe. Even if Earth lost its magic for thousands of years, this island would stand as an eternal refuge, a place where magic could grow unburdened by the outside world.

Guinevere listened intently, her crimson eyes unwavering, a flicker of tension betraying her otherwise composed demeanor. Almost unconsciously, she ran her tongue over one of her sharp vampire fangs, a nervous twitch as Merlin continued.

Merlin stepped into the center of the group, his weathered hands outstretched, his fingers trembling not from weakness but from the sheer power that coursed through them. With a deliberate motion, he unclenched his palms, summoning forth a swirling cascade of golden magical dust. The particles wove and coalesced, forming a vision of the island they intended to create—a floating world, suspended midair, rotating slowly before them like a dream made real.

Merlin’s fingers moved with practiced grace, glowing with runes etched into his fingertips, each symbol a conduit of magic as he guided the dust’s movements. Like a master painter bringing life to a canvas, he sculpted the island before their eyes from the magic glitter. At its heart stood a colossal tree, its branches stretching for miles skyward like celestial arms embracing the heavens. Even in its miniature form, the tree dwarfed the mountains at its base, a titan presiding over sprawling valleys, a wild river and an expansive lake reflecting the sky beneath its canopy.

At the tree’s roots, nestled in its protective embrace, stood Camelot Castle, its towering spires woven seamlessly into the land. Protected, preserved and in a constant state of rebirth.

As you can see, Merlin’s voice bubbled with excitement, his words nearly tripping over themselves in his eagerness. He gestured toward the mighty World Tree, eyes gleaming like a child unveiling a long-awaited gift. This tree will be the heart of the island! The eternal source of renewed magic! Its roots will anchor the island, its energy will sustain it and oh—you should see what it will become! A beacon of pure arcane wonder thrown through time!

With another wave of his fingers, a pulse of energy rippled outward, stirring the very air. The golden dust shimmered softly, responding to his touch, drifting lazily as if carried by an unseen breeze. Fantastical creatures burst forth from the dust—fairies dancing through luminous blossoms, unicorns grazing in golden meadows, dragons soaring through the skies with shimmering scales that reflected the ambient magic around them. The island was alive, a realm of endless wonder.

This sanctuary will be known as Phoenix Island, a place of rebirth. Its landscape will shift and expand infinitely as needed, Merlin explained, his excitement shining through. More details unfurled—forests for the elves, open meadows for the giants, vast underground kingdoms for dwarves. No race, no creature, no magic would be left without a home.

With a mischievous twinkle, Merlin turned toward Guinevere, his smirk profound. And let us not forget the World Tree’s legendary honey and sap—a rather delightful alternative for those with…particular dietary needs.

His eyes flicked knowingly toward her. Its properties are adaptable, providing nourishment for any who require sustenance beyond the ordinary. And, quite frankly, it makes for an excellent garnish. Spread it on some toast.

Laughter rippled through the group, a moment of levity amid the gravity of their task.

But perhaps most importantly, Merlin continued, the island exists within a hidden pocket dimension, a realm separate from Earth yet tethered to it by the faintest thread of magic. Though cloaked in a translucent barrier, the island will still see and hear the world below, watching as history unfolds. But until magic returns, it cannot interact with it.

A solemn hush fell upon them.

This will be a magical haven, Merlin declared, his voice ringing with urgency. Magic is fading from the world, and if we do nothing, many will die. This island is our only hope—our last chance to protect what magic remains. A sanctuary where our kind can live, thrive and keep magic alive, until it returns thousands of years from now.

He held up the tiny seed of the World Tree, its golden shell shimmering as if it, too, understood the weight of its role. All it takes is planting the seed during the next full moon…to start, Merlin said with a lopsided grin, attempting to mask the weight of the truth. And casting a single, ridiculously powerful spell to gather the last of magic’s children before it’s lost forever.

For all his theatrics, all his excitement, a shadow flickered behind Merlin’s eyes. Because deep down, he knew—this spell, this grand miracle, would take everything he had. And once it was cast, there would be no Merlin left to celebrate the dawn of their new world.

The vision of the island hovered, perfect and full of promise.

The magic shifted seamlessly as Merlin transported the gathered friends from the confines of Camelot’s halls to the dizzying heights of a nearby mountain peak. This was not just an illusion—it was a glimpse into the process he would use to create the island, a demonstration of the spell that would bring their sanctuary into existence. Amidst the swirling winds and snow, Merlin stood casting a delicate spell over the tiny World Tree seed. A shimmering aura of protection enveloped the vision of the island he had conjured, a sanctuary where magic would thrive, a home for all magical beings willing to come.

The World Tree, Merlin declared, his voice carrying a note of reverence, a paragon of magic, wisdom, and a guardian of all nature, shall assume its mantle as the island’s sage, ensuring its prosperity and safeguarding its inhabitants from harm.

With a final flourish of his hand, the illusion faded, the glow of enchantment dissolving into the night air. Yet, even as it vanished, the echoes of the creatures that would one day call this place home lingered, imprinting the vision upon the hearts of all who bore witness.

As night deepened over Camelot, a hush settled upon the great hall. Friends whispered in quiet deliberation, contemplating the best course of action. Lord Oroz stood with Queen Guinevere and Lady Marian, unrolling a small parchment containing delicate personal sketches of family.

This is my son, Aylen, he said with quiet pride, his fingers tracing over the lines of the boy’s youthful face. And my wife, Eryndel.

Guinevere’s crimson eyes lit up as she admired the drawings, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

He looks just like you, she mused. And your wife—Eryndel! It’s been too long since I’ve seen her. I still remember when we first met—when she nearly took my head off, convinced I was some kind of demon. It took a lot of convincing to prove I wasn’t evil but once I did, we became good friends. You must miss them dearly.

Oroz nodded. Every day. But knowing they will have a place on the island brings me peace. Aylen will grow up in a world where magic still thrives.

Guinevere’s smile faltered for just a moment. Her gaze drifted across the hall to Arthur, watching him as he studied Merlin from afar, suspicion knitting his brow. The realization settled in her chest like a weight—a life like Oroz’s, a quiet traditional family, would never be in the cards for her and Arthur.

She swallowed the thought, shifting her focus back to Oroz, but the melancholy lingered. Meanwhile, Arthur, oblivious to her moment of reflection, continued to watch Merlin closely. He knew his friend better than anyone and something wasn’t right.

With a purposeful stride, Arthur placed a firm yet gentle hand on Merlin’s bicep, guiding him away from the others.

Pardon us for a moment, he murmured before leading him behind a pillar where the dim torchlight cast long shadows between them.

What aren’t you telling us, Merlin? Arthur’s voice was calm but his piercing gaze demanded honesty. Nothing we ever do is this simple. And you—you always take the heaviest burden.

Merlin smirked, but it was forced and Arthur saw through it immediately.

Merlin, Arthur continued, softer now, we’ve been friends since childhood. You can’t hide anything from me. You’re my first mate. What aren’t you saying?

With a heavy sigh, Merlin’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. He squared himself to his oldest friend, his expression stripped of mischief.

Arthur, he began, voice quiet but unwavering, the seed…it’s nearly dead. There’s not enough magic left in it to take root. It needs a magic infusion.

Arthur’s breath caught. He already knew the answer before he asked.

What kind of infusion?

Merlin gave him a knowing look. The strongest remaining magical resource, he admitted. Me.

Arthur clenched his jaw, his fists curling.

No, he said immediately. There has to be another way.

I’ve explored every option, Merlin said firmly. This is the only way.

Arthur’s heart ached. This was so Merlin—to take everything upon himself without hesitation, without asking for help, without allowing anyone to share the weight. His best friend, the brother he had fought beside, the man who had helped shape Camelot, was prepared to die for it without even telling anyone.

Arthur let out a slow, controlled breath, forcing himself to stay steady.

You’re really doing this, he muttered, shaking his head. Your life for all of ours.

Merlin gave him a small, lopsided grin.

Not a bad trade, all things considered.

Arthur’s throat tightened. He had faced death beside Merlin more times than he could count, but never like this. Never knowing it was the last time.

Arthur exhaled slowly, his resistance fading as he saw the resolve in Merlin’s eyes. He knew that look all too well—Merlin had already made up his mind. Arguing was pointless, especially with a wizard. Instead, he let out a breath and forced a smirk.

So, when you finally kick the enchanted bucket, can I have your crystal balls? You know, for important prophecy work. Maybe even to peer into the future and watch all the anime we never got to finish.

Merlin snorted. You want my balls? Gross. He let the joke linger just long enough before his grin softened. But seriously. The next full moon is in five days. We plant the seed then and I’ll do what’s necessary.

Arthur’s gaze drifted to the others—Guinevere, Oroz, Marian—still laughing and planning, blissfully unaware of the price their future would cost.

Are you going to tell them? Arthur asked quietly.

A shadow crossed Merlin’s face. He hesitated for only a second before shaking his head.

I can’t, he admitted. If they try to stop me, they might succeed and then all of this would be for nothing. You all mean the world to me, and I don’t want to leave but this…this is the way it has to be.

Arthur swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to command Merlin to find another way. But looking into his friend’s eyes, he saw it—that look. The one Merlin always had before doing something reckless but necessary. The one that meant he would not be swayed.

Instead, Arthur sighed and gave a reluctant nod.

Being a wizard is rough.

Merlin chuckled. You got that right.

He gestured to his cloak, the Legacy woven into his fate.

You remember my master, Master Boron? He was an owl while he trained me—his spirit remained behind, guiding me through wizardry until I was fully trained. That’s what happens to wizards when we die. We don’t move on in the traditional sense. Part of our soul remains, housed inside our Legacy, waiting for the next wizard to claim it. The spirit that stays behind takes an animal form, guiding and teaching the next generation the Legacy chooses.

Once the wizard is trained, the previous master is finally released, allowed to reunite with the rest of their soul in the afterlife. That’s what will happen to me. My body will be gone but a part of me will linger in this world, waiting for the next wizard worthy of this cloak. He exhaled softly, his voice steady but thoughtful. If I get to pick, maybe I’ll get to be something cool—like a T-Rex when I come back.

Arthur frowned. What’s a T-Rex?

Merlin grinned. A flightless dragon with tiny arms.

Arthur blinked. Why would you want that?

Merlin shrugged. Because they are awesome!

Arthur let out a laugh, shaking his head.

You are impossible.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, his mind still fighting the inevitable.

Alright, he said, voice steadier now. Then let’s make your final days count.

Merlin’s smile returned, warmer now.

That’s the spirit. And speaking of making things count—I need your help.

Arthur arched a brow. With what?

I need you to convince the dragons, griffins, fairies and other magical creatures capable of flight to make the trek here before the full moon. The more who arrive on their own, the less magic I’ll need to spend transporting them to the island. It will increase the effectiveness of the spell if fewer need to be magically moved.

Arthur let out a breath, then smirked.

So, one last adventure?

Merlin grinned, knowing the answer before Arthur even spoke.

One more trip around the world.

Arthur nodded, his smirk shifting into something softer, something sadder. But he pushed that thought aside.

If this was the end of Merlin’s journey, then Arthur would make damn sure it was one worth taking.

Over the next four days, Merlin and Arthur embarked on an epic journey that felt straight out of the pages of a cherished storybook, soaring through the skies on the back of a magic carpet called Nimble. Their laughter mingled with the rush of wind as they revisited the landmarks of their youth, each place holding a story, a battle or a lesson learned. While nostalgia filled the air, their mission remained clear—to rally the last of the magical creatures to Camelot before the island took flight.

Their journey took them to the high peaks of the Himalayas, where the ancient dragon clans made their home among the frozen crags. As Nimble glided through the crisp mountain air, Arthur adjusted the golden katana Excalibur at his side, scanning the horizon for any sign of the great winged beasts.

They’re watching us, Merlin muttered, eyes twinkling as he sensed the powerful magic that surrounded them.

A deep, resonant growl rumbled through the air as a massive crimson-scaled dragon unfurled its wings, descending from the clouds with regal grace. Its golden eyes, intelligent and ancient, locked onto Arthur and Merlin with scrutiny.

Nimble descended toward the towering mountain, where the dragons had carved an intricate temple into the stone itself. The air was thick with the scent of molten rock and ancient magic, the entrance guarded by two massive statues of dragons, their eyes glowing faintly with arcane power. As Merlin and Arthur stepped onto solid ground, the mountain trembled slightly, as if sensing their arrival.

Arthur adjusted his sword at his side before stepping forward, a grin breaking across his face. Raldrak, old friend, you’re looking as terrifying as ever.

The massive dragon let out a deep chuckle, smoke curling from his nostrils. And you, Pendragon, still carrying that powerful aura like a warrior who refuses to stop training? You’re lucky I taught you so well.

Arthur smirked. That’s why I’m here, actually. To offer you and your kin a future. Magic is fading from this world, and when it’s gone, you’ll all die. Merlin and I are building a sanctuary, a place where magic will live on—where you and your kind will never have to worry about dwindling away.

Raldrak’s golden eyes darkened slightly as he exhaled. I know what the loss of magic means. We dragons have always known. We’ve felt it for years, a slow decay we can’t stop.

Merlin stepped forward, resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Then come with us. We’re not asking you to abandon your way of life. We’re offering you a place where you can keep living it. Phoenix Island will need guardians, skies to be protected—and who better than the mighty Raldrak to claim them first?

The great dragon was silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the mountains he and his kind had called home for centuries. Then, with a slow incline of his massive head, he spoke. You’ve always had my respect, Arthur. You and your wizard. If you are offering us the sky, then we will take it. When your island rises, the dragons will be there.

Arthur grinned. Be in Camelot within three days, you old lizard.

Raldrak let out a rumbling laugh, nodding his massive head. We’ll be there, piglet.

After securing the dragons’ allegiance, Merlin suggested reaching out to the remaining dark magic users to offer them a place on Phoenix Island. The next stop: the troll clans of Norway. Arthur was skeptical but agreed—until they arrived in the fog-drenched fjords and were immediately met with hostility.

The first troll lunged, massive fists aiming to crush Arthur’s skull. With a smirk, the king sidestepped, swinging Excalibur in a swift arc. The golden katana sliced through the troll’s thick hide, the blade drinking deep its magic, leaving the beast stumbling.

Arthur shot Merlin a look as he dodged another troll’s strike. You thought inviting these guys was a good idea?

Merlin, deflecting a strike with a burst of shimmering light magic, grinned. Yeah, maybe I was drunk when I thought this was a good idea!

Despite the chaos, their shared laughter echoed through the cavern, their movements synchronized like the old days. For a moment, it was as if no time had passed.

Still cutting it close? Merlin quipped as he sent a troll sprawling with a well-placed fire ball.

Arthur grunted as he parried another blow. Time to go yet? I’m not as young as I used to be!

Merlin laughed, summoning ethereal chains that wrapped around the last troll’s limbs. The beast thrashed but fell under the weight of Merlin’s magic.

Breathing heavily, Arthur wiped his brow. Not bad for a guy who prefers books over brawn.

Merlin smirked. Was that…did you just compliment me?

The two stood amidst the fallen trolls, youth nearly recaptured in this moment of pure nostalgia.

Arthur glanced around the cave. Remember the first time we fought trolls?

Merlin chuckled. Yeah. Barely made it out alive. If I recall correctly, it was Gawain who had to drag your unconscious body out of that cave while I covered our escape.

Arthur sheathed his blade with a smirk. That doesn’t sound right, you sure?

For the next four days, Merlin and Arthur embarked on an odyssey of nostalgia, weaving through the tapestry of their shared memories. They visited old haunts, walked familiar paths and, for a little while, escaped the looming reality of their impending separation.

But even in their laughter, they both knew—this was their final adventure together. And they would make every moment count.

On the last day, as they made their return trip to Camelot, they were greeted with a sight that surpassed even their wildest imaginings—a grand festival unfolding in their honor at the castle, a celebration of their hopeful imminent salvation. Lord Oroz was there with the elves, who had seamlessly integrated themselves into Camelot’s vibrant tapestry of citizens. The elves orchestrated a mesmerizing parade of mystical beings through the castle streets, transforming the gathering into a spectacle beyond imagination.

Majestic unicorns, their coats gleaming like polished silver, pranced gracefully through the stone streets, their hooves barely touching the cobblestones. Overhead, pegasus glided on powerful wings, their feathers catching the moonlight in iridescent hues, casting fleeting shadows on the revelry below. A nine-tailed fox wove through the crowd, its fur a cascade of fiery reds and bright whites, each of its tails moving with a life of its own as it playfully chased its cubs, enchanting all who laid eyes on them.

Leprechauns added a playful touch to the festivities. From their vantage point on the magic carpet Nimble, Merlin and Arthur watched as the mischievous creatures dropped trails of shimmering gold coins in their drunken wake. Beyond the castle walls, the powerful griffin and dragon clans gathered among a sea of tents, their massive forms casting long shadows over the encampments of magical creatures.

The dragons, regal guardians, stood in the open courtyard, their scales gleaming with a magical sheen, while the griffins, with their sharp eagle eyes and imposing wingspans, kept watch from a separate perch. Though not enemies, the two species had long held a tense rivalry—dragons prided themselves on their wisdom and power, while griffins boasted superior agility and precision. Even in celebration, they maintained their distance, exchanging wary glances but making no move to disturb the peace. Meanwhile, fairies danced in midair among the parade, their delicate silk wings scattering sparkling magical dust that painted the night in a kaleidoscope of glowing colors like gentle fireworks drifting in the evening breeze.

Amidst the magical gathering, a lively competition unfolded between the elves and dwarves, a raucous game called Runestone Roulette. The game involved spinning enchanted runestones across a wooden board, each stone representing a different type of alcoholic drink. The dwarves, with their hearty laughs and booming voices, were quick to toss back their drinks, challenging the elves with a mischievous glint in their eyes.

Come now, lads! Stop bein’ so stiff! We’re at a party, not a council meetin’! Or don’t you think you can keep up, elf? one of the dwarves bellowed, slapping an elf lord on the back hard enough to nearly send him toppling over. The elf, trying to maintain his usual poise, hesitated for a moment before picking up a goblet filled with glowing ale. The surrounding dwarves erupted into cheers as the elf took a deep breath and downed the drink in one gulp.

Aye! That’s the spirit! another drunk dwarf shouted, raising his own mug high and taking a swig. The elves, usually so formal, began to relax, their laughter mingling with that of the dwarves. As the night wore on, the drinks flowed more freely and the barriers between magical races blurred. One particularly rosy-cheeked elf staggered to his feet, raising his empty cup in a toast. To the dwarves! The best friends an elf could ever have! His words slurred slightly, but the sentiment was clear. The crowd erupted into cheers—until the elf collapsed face-first onto a passing slime monster, which let out a wet, unimpressed gurgle.

The dwarves roared with laughter, lifting their mugs in salute as the elf was carried off, his final words a garbled mix of gratitude and joy. The scene was a testament to the unexpected camaraderie that had blossomed between magical races in the face of extinction—a night of shared stories, laughter and bonds that would not easily be forgotten.

Above it all, Merlin and Arthur sat on Nimble, watching the festival below with wide grins.

Arthur leaned over the edge, shaking his head in delight. Would you look at that, Merlin? Is that a centaur dancing with a pixie?

Merlin squinted, then burst into laughter. I believe it is! Man, he’s got no rhythm.

Arthur chuckled, watching as the tiny pixie flitted around the lumbering centaur, guiding him in a clumsy yet oddly graceful dance set to dwarf drinking songs.

Merlin nudged Arthur, pointing to a group of dark elves gathered around a makeshift bar, serving ale. Now, there’s something I never expected—any elf enjoying dwarven beer. I thought they’d turn their noses up at anything that wasn’t wine.

Arthur smirked. And look at that—one’s already out cold after just one mug! By the gods, the dwarves are having fun tonight.

They shared a hearty laugh, the warmth of the moment filling them both with a deep sense of contentment. For a brief time, the weight of their responsibilities lifted, leaving only the simple joy of sharing in this incredible bond.

Arthur sighed, a smile still wide on his face. You know, Merlin, I never imagined we’d see something like this in our lifetime—a sanctuary where even the most stubborn of magical creatures can come together and live in peace.

Merlin nodded, his expression softening. It’s a rare sight, Arthur. But then again, so is a king who can bring such a diverse crowd together. You’re a good man my friend.

Arthur glanced at Merlin, a playful glint in his eye. Well, I had a bit of help from a certain wizard. Not too bad, considering we once dreamed of being famous pirates. Instead, we ended up kingdom builders.

Merlin grinned. Speak for yourself, Your Majesty. I’ll always be your first mate before anything else and a pirate at heart.

As their laughter carried into the night, a shadow suddenly soared through the sky toward them. Merlin glanced up just in time to see a bat fluttering through the air, its wings slicing through the moonlight with practiced grace. It dove toward Nimble, and just before reaching them, the creature’s form shifted. In a smooth, effortless motion, Queen Guinevere landed lightly beside Arthur, transforming back into herself.

Arthur barely had time to react before she wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. You’re back, she whispered against his shoulder, holding him close. Arthur chuckled, his arms instinctively pulling her closer. Took us long enough, didn’t it?

Merlin smirked. Oh sure, no hug for the wizard?

Guinevere shot Merlin a playful look before leaning over and pulling him into the embrace as well. You’re family too, Merlin. You’re stuck with us.

Arthur and Merlin’s hearts sank in unison. Only the two of them knew the truth—Merlin wouldn’t live past the spell that would create the island. The weight of it sat between them, unspoken but suffocating. Arthur held Guinevere a little tighter, pressing a kiss to her head while Merlin forced a grin to hide the lump forming in his throat. For tonight, they let the illusion of forever linger just a little longer.

For a moment, the three of them simply sat there, wrapped in warmth above the greatest celebration Camelot had ever seen.

After landing among the revelry, Arthur leaped from Nimble, only to be immediately whisked away by Guinevere, who wasted no time pulling him onto the dance floor. Merlin grinned as he watched his friend get dragged into a lively waltz, shaking his head before throwing himself into the celebration in his own style.

The festival was a storm of energy—laughter, music and the scent of rich food filling the night air. Merlin let himself get caught up in it, immersing himself in the electric energy of the celebration, letting the crowd carry him away. He laughed with jubilant fairies, their delicate wings shimmering as they twirled through the air around him. Later, he shared drunken stories with unicorns resting in the courtyard by his tower, their kind eyes full of amusement and mild confusion at his increasingly elaborate tales. Even the mischievous leprechauns managed to wrangle him into a wild river dance, their laughter bright as bells as they spun and stomped in rhythmic abandon.

Above the castle, the sky itself seemed to celebrate. Griffins and dragons, longtime rivals, set aside their tension—not out of fondness for each other but out of respect for Arthur and Merlin. For one night, in honor of the ones saving magic, they soared together in a mesmerizing aerial dance. Their feathers and scales reflected the moonlight, turning the night sky into a dazzling swirl of silver, gold and iridescent hues. Pairs of griffins intertwined their talons and spiraled downward together in breathtaking free falls, their trust in each other absolute. Onlookers gasped as they plummeted toward the earth—only to unfurl their massive wings at the last possible moment, separating and soaring back upward in perfect synchronization. Below, children of every species reached up, giggling as the low-flying griffins brushed past them, teasing with playful swoops.

The drinks flowed endlessly, and Merlin indulged in every bit of it. He had his fill of roasted meats and enchanted pastries that shimmered with magic. He joined the dwarves and elves in their rowdy drinking games, holding his own against centuries-old warriors who had long mastered the art of revelry. He even found himself in an impromptu singing contest with a trio of sirens, much to the delight of the crowd—though by the end, the sheer amount of ale he’d consumed had caught up with him, and he found himself forgetting the words entirely. Slurring through the verses, he threw his arms up in exaggerated defeat as the sirens’ laughter rang out, their haunting melodies effortlessly carrying the song without him.

But as the moon reached its peak, its silvery glow washing over Camelot, Merlin felt its weight like a noose tightening around his fate. The time was near, and the moon, in its quiet indifference, seemed to remind him of the cost he would soon have to pay. With a final glance at the revelry around him, Merlin quietly slipped away.

He found himself drawn to an empty balcony overlooking the castle grounds outside the wall. Below, hundreds of tents stretched across the open fields, housing families of magical creatures from every corner of the world. The sight was breathtaking. Their sanctuary. Their last hope.

Merlin exhaled slowly, letting the festivities settle over him. He had no regrets. At least, none that mattered. He had lived a life fuller than most. He had fought, he had learned, he had laughed and he had loved. If his life was the price to preserve the future of magic, he would pay it gladly.

Still…a small part of him wished he had just a little more time.

That looks like a bright future to me, he murmured to himself, voice barely more than a whisper.

Before he could turn toward the stairs, a voice interrupted his solitude.

We agree!

Merlin turned to find Arthur, Guinevere, Marian and Oroz standing behind him, drinks raised high. Their faces were warm with affection, their eyes shining with the weight of everything they had been through together. No words were needed. The gesture said it all.

Merlin grinned, his chest tightening. With a deep breath, he stepped forward, reaching for the cup Arthur held out to him.

Merlin stood among his friends, the weight of his impending fate pressing down on him, though he wore it with a resigned smile. The silence between them was thick, filled with the things they all wished they could change but couldn’t. Arthur finally broke it, his voice carrying a familiar, teasing lilt despite the raw emotion beneath. I had to tell them, Merlin. Guinevere threatened me with vampire mind control.

I did no such thing! Guinevere huffed, throwing up her hands. You gave it up so easily I didn’t even need magic!

Lord Oroz chuckled, shaking his head. In Arthur’s defense, I knew since the night I returned with the seed.

Merlin raised a brow. "Of