Arthur awoke to muffled sounds.
His small body was cradled against something warm, swaying gently back and forth. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was a dream, that perhaps he was still locked inside the strange haze of his new existence. But the cold in the air, the musty scent of wool, and the occasional jostle against a hard chest told him this was no dream.
He opened his eyes—a difficult, heavy process—and glimpsed only the inside of a coarse, dark cloak. A pale hand clutched the edge, its fingers long and delicate, a silver ring catching faint moonlight. Beneath, he heard the soft crunch of boots on dirt, the quiet breath of a horse, and the rustle of someone leading them away.
Arthur's mind fought to organize the jumble of images and words that floated in his head. Merlin. Uther. Artoria. The flicker of a memory—being called the Red Dragon, hearing the word Caliburn, sensing the pulsing surge of mana inside him. He had been chosen, or cursed, or both.
But now, he was being taken somewhere.
"Sir Ector is loyal," came a voice above him, low and measured. "He will raise them well. Away from the court, away from the eyes of those who would twist their destiny."
Arthur's pulse quickened. Sir Ector. He knew that name. He knew it from the myths and legends he had read long ago. Sir Ector, the foster father of Arthur—the Once and Future King.
A cold chill lanced down his spine.
Am I that Arthur? Is this… my life now?
He tried to move, to wriggle, to cry out—but all that came was a pitiful, weak noise, the soft wail of a newborn.
"Shh, little dragon," the voice murmured again, a faint chuckle curling around the words. "Save your strength. You'll need it soon enough."
Merlin. There was no doubt now. Arthur didn't need to see his face to know; the presence was unmistakable. There was an aura about this man—calm, powerful, and yet oddly detached, like a figure standing outside the flow of time, watching everything unfold with a half-smile.
They were traveling. Arthur strained to make sense of where they were.
Hours passed. The air grew colder, sharper. Eventually, he felt the distant rumble of hooves on stone, the shift of sea air cutting into the night. In the distance, the roar of waves crashing against cliffs reached his tiny, sensitive ears.
Tintagel.
They had arrived at Tintagel Castle, the legendary fortress perched on the jagged Cornish coast. In his old life, Arthur had seen pictures of the ruins—windswept stone walls, crashing tides, a place where myth and history blurred. But here, now, it was whole, alive. And he was being carried through its gates as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"We'll not tarry," Merlin's voice floated above. "The less seen, the less questioned."
"Aye," another voice answered—a knight's voice, rougher, older. "But why both children, Merlin? Was the prophecy not clear?"
Arthur strained to listen, heart pounding.
"The boy gives off waves of mana already," Merlin said softly. "Far beyond what any newborn should. It marks him. The girl… she is a quiet storm. Her presence hums, controlled, restrained. But I have seen her fate too. They are two sides of the same blade. They must both be hidden."
Arthur's mind reeled. Artoria—his twin sister. She was here too, somewhere nearby. And she mattered, just as much as he did.
The sharp wind picked up, tugging at cloaks and banners as they passed through the darkened fortress. The heavy footfalls of knights echoed off stone walls. Arthur caught glimpses now and then—a pale moon, the flicker of torchlight, the silhouette of watchmen on the battlements.
"Uther is dying," Merlin murmured, his voice suddenly low and reflective. "He will place Caliburn in the stone tomorrow. And with it, his final hope for this fractured land."
The other knight—Sir Ector, Arthur guessed—grunted. "The people will tear themselves apart over the sword. They'll fight until there's nothing left."
"Yes," Merlin sighed. "Which is why they must not know of the children. Not yet. Let them grow in the quiet shadow. Let them learn strength, patience, wisdom. Their time will come."
Arthur's newborn body was starting to fade again. The exhaustion tugged at him, but his mind burned with restless energy. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to understand.
As they reached a small chamber, warm with a low fire, he was handed over carefully. Strong arms lifted him from Merlin's grasp, wrapping him in thick blankets.
"I will guard them as if they were my own," Sir Ector promised, his voice a quiet rumble in the dark.
"Good," Merlin whispered. "Keep them safe, Ector. Britain will need them soon enough."
Arthur felt the moment when Merlin withdrew—not just physically, but in presence. The powerful, timeless aura receded, leaving the room colder somehow, emptier. For the first time, Arthur truly realized how alone he was here. No family, no familiar world, no guide except the strange pull of fate that had shoved him into this life.
His sister lay beside him, bundled in a matching basket of blankets. He turned his tiny head slightly, trying to see her. She was quiet, still, breathing softly. If she was awake, she gave no sign. If she remembered anything, like he did, she didn't show it.
Arthur closed his eyes, not from peace, but from sheer necessity.
He was in a world he didn't understand, wrapped in a legend he only half-remembered, surrounded by people who saw him not as a person, but as a symbol.
What am I supposed to do? he wondered. What do you even do when you're reborn as a king who hasn't earned the crown yet?
Outside, the waves battered Tintagel's cliffs. The night was long, cold, and full of unanswered questions.
And in that dark, Arthur Pendragon—reincarnated, confused, and utterly human—began the slow, aching wait for the future to find him.