A Warlocks' Disguise {ArthurxFem!Merlin}

UPDATED 1/16

A Few Weeks Later (1 Month After Arrival)

The weeks following Arthur's victory passed in a blur of routine, Camelot returning to its usual rhythm. The clang of swords echoed in the training yard, market chatter filled the air, and the steady hum of royal duties gave the castle its perpetual energy. Merilyn, too, had found her place—though not without effort. Being Arthur's servant was no easy feat. His gruff commands and pointed jabs at her mistakes grated on her nerves, but she'd learned to endure them, to meet his superiority with a quiet resolve.

Arthur still didn't trust her completely—not yet—but there were moments. Brief flickers where his sharp edges softened, where his irritation gave way to something closer to tolerance. For Arthur, it was progress, and Merilyn had learned to count even the smallest victories.

The morning sun was still low in the sky, casting the courtyard in a pale golden light as Merilyn made her way to the stables. The air was brisk, carrying the earthy smell of hay and damp stone. She rubbed at her brow, her muscles protesting as she grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the stable wall.

Inside, the smell of horses and earth filled her nostrils, mingling with the faint sweetness of fresh straw. The monotonous task of mucking out stalls had become a fixture of her mornings, a chore she had come to loathe for its mind-numbing repetition. Yet, she tackled it without complaint, scraping the pitchfork across the straw-strewn floor with a practiced rhythm. Her muscles ached, her arms heavy from days of endless work, but she pressed on, her mind wandering as she moved.

Arthur sure knows how to keep a servant busy, she thought bitterly, rolling her eyes. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the tournament—Valiant's cursed shield, the snakes, the helplessness that had gripped her when no one would believe her. And Arthur, always so convinced he didn't need help. Proud. Stubborn. Reckless. He'd risked everything because he couldn't admit his own limitations.

A creak of the stable door pulled her from her thoughts. The sound of boots against stone echoed in the quiet, and Merilyn didn't need to look up to know who it was. Arthur strode in, already clad in his training gear, every inch the commanding prince. He moved with a purpose that seemed to demand the world make way for him, his presence filling the small space with ease.

Merilyn tightened her grip on the pitchfork, sighing internally as his sharp blue eyes swept over the stables. His gaze settled on her, appraising her work with the efficiency she had come to expect.

"Busy morning?" he said, his voice light, though the edge of superiority was unmistakable.

Merilyn leaned on the pitchfork, wiping her brow with the back of her hand before throwing him a look of sarcastic resignation. "Just cleaning up after your beloved horses," she muttered, her words pitched just loud enough for him to hear.

Arthur's lips twitched, amusement breaking through the usual sternness of his expression. "Good. You're getting faster at it."

She shot him a glare, though it lacked any real venom. His arrogance, once infuriating, now felt more like a constant annoyance she could brush aside. "You know," she quipped, leaning heavily on the pitchfork, "I think you love these horses more than your knights."

Arthur shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. "They're more obedient."

Merilyn snorted. "Well, glad to see your priorities are in order, Sire."

Arthur stepped closer, his presence filling the small space with an unspoken authority that always seemed to follow him. He stopped just outside the stall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on her. That look—calculating and unwavering—made Merilyn's grip on the pitchfork tighten.