A magic!reveal story. Who is the rightful ruler of Camelot and Albion? Only the blood of the king will tell, but there is more than one contender for the throne…

“You were born of magic.”

Igraine is still speaking, but Merlin only distantly hears the rest, his entire being caught up by that one revealing sentence.

You were born of magic.

It explained so much. He had sensed that connection, the meeting of two kindred spirits, from the first time he had met Arthur, though they had both recoiled rather violently from the recognition.

“So, young Pendragon,” the dragon rumbled as Arthur stopped just beyond the opening to the cave. “You have come at last.”

Arthur stepped out onto the ledge. He and the dragon regarded each other for a long moment,  assessing. The dragon inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgement of royal to royal, and Arthur returned the gesture, sheathing his sword but letting his hand rest easily on the hilt.

Merlin approached the prince’s quarters the next morning with some trepidation. He had never returned to complete his evening chores, assuming that the king and prince would want some privacy. And he had been half-right; Arthur hadn’t sent a servant after him, but coming upon Uther prowling around in Gaius’ chambers and the resulting awkward conversation/threat had left the young warlock sufficiently spooked with a bad taste in his mouth.

“No, not a sorcerer,” Merlin said brazenly, although his eyes were wide with his own impunity. “Warlock. There is a difference.” He waited, expecting the prince to laugh at the thought of Merlin having any kind of magical ability—or any ability at all.


Arthur’s expression didn’t change. “Really. Tell me, Merlin, what exactly is the difference between a sorcerer and a warlock?”


Merlin swallowed hard.