With Arthur’s spirit finally put to rest, Ari was no longer the forty-second reincarnation of a dead king. She was so much more than that. Ara Azar, Ari Helix, knight of Camelot and king of the future, lover of Gweneviere, first of her name. He would do everything in his power to make sure that no one laid claim to her.
Not Mercer. Not Nin.
So Merlin created a forge, which was harder than he expected even with the help of magic, and after spying on Nimue’s father for weeks, he learned to melt and combine metals to create iron. His forearms grew absurdly strong and his face covered with soot as he sent sparks into the blue sky, striking a steady beat. He sang the whole time, a song that he’d been writing for Ari and Gwen, the melody forged from great need and greater hope.
When it was done, the present shone in his hands, looking pretty and far too sharp.
“Just like Ari likes them.” Merlin chuckled.
And then he opened one more portal. Instead of walking through it, he sent a gift hurtling through space, toward the very same moon that kept him awake at night, thinking of dingy dance clubs and destiny.
When Merlin neared the end of his teenage years, he could no longer wait for Nin’s past to take its sweet time. Thankfully, he no longer had to. He knew how to speed things along now. He emerged from the woods, approaching the village, focused on Nin’s story. He sang as loudly as he dared, and time bent to show him the truth.
A few years passed in a few breaths. Nin stopped trying to fight, stopped struggling to make herself heard in the village. She became withdrawn as magic started to cling to her. Flowers nudged open wherever she walked. Vines slithered toward her. At first she hissed at them, sending them away. Her father ignored her surly new silences. She kept quiet as she learned that the magic nipping at her heels was not a pest, but part of her. A power she might use. That day with the sword had taught her that any great show of force from a girl would not be tolerated.
So she practiced magic in secret, just as she’d cried.
Merlin had grown up—or rather grown down—feeling sorry for himself, nursing a hole where his parents should have been. But at least now he knew that they loved him. They would have celebrated him no matter who he turned out to be. Watching Nin grow up with parents who constantly rejected her was a different sort of pain.
Completely wrapped up in it, Merlin wasn’t ready for the day the raiding party arrived. Warriors screamed their way into the village, spears raised. Nin’s family and neighbors watched in horror as she raised her hand, spread her fingers over her heart, and became the center of a whirlwind of time.
She didn’t control it with music, like Merlin. She tied it to the drum of her heartbeat. If Merlin had used his magic like a child, Nimue wielded hers as a warrior.
Would he have to do the same, if he wanted to get the better of her?
Nimue raised her other hand, and the first wave of raiders clattered apart like broken toys. She eased her grip, giving the rest a chance to run. But they lunged at her, shouting, and she closed her fist tight. They fell apart even faster, until they were only dust clouding the villagers’ eyes.
No one cheered for Nimue as they had when she was born, which Merlin felt was hardly fair. Had the boys with the swords won the same victory, everyone would have thrown them a feast. Dark berries and deer jerky for everyone. Instead, the villagers hurled a single word at Nimue like mud, like stones. Merlin didn’t know it, but he knew the way they chanted. It was the same way people would chant angrily at women with power for centuries to come.
Fear beat in Merlin’s chest—and this time it was for Nin. She turned away from her village, empty-handed and headed to the lake where she had been born. The mists came to greet her, to take her to Avalon.
Days and nights bloomed and wilted while Nin learned about magic faster than any enchantress before her—too fast, according to some. She conquered the secrets of the mind in record time, but there was no celebration for the prodigy of Avalon. She sat at the edge of the lake every night, alone. She touched the water like a lover, but she never took one.
Merlin sped through more time. Nimue grew until she looked like the woman Merlin knew, but with sadness trapped in every line of her face. And because vicious cycles are vicious, the enchantresses caught wind of an omen. Another raiding party was headed for Nimue’s village, stronger in numbers because they’d heard of a girl with a power greater than any sword. Merlin’s heart found a wild tempo as Nimue ran over the lake, her feet barely touching the surface.
When she arrived, she caught her father by the arm, told him the omens, asked him to let her protect the village. She could have been a hero, if the word had existed. If her father had let her. But Merlin knew enough Anglo Saxon by now to understand that he wasn’t just saying no to her offer. He was disgusted by it.
Nimue’s father pointed to her brother—the one who still wore her sword at his belt. He said that the boy would keep them safe.
The village turned Nimue out quickly, still afraid of what she’d done. Even more afraid now that she’d been studying with the enchantresses. But Nimue didn’t return to Avalon at sunset. She crouched outside the village all night. She watched the raiders come. When her brother was the first one they cut down, she didn’t cry.
She shook her head and twisted her lips into a knowing grimace.
The slaughter
