Merlin: the secret prince

Why?

"Everyone who is not part of my close council of advisors, leave," Arthur commanded, his voice echoing through the throne room with the cold clarity of steel. "I wish to speak with the two princes and the knights of Deria alone."

He didn't shout, yet his tone carried such weight, such finality, that no one dared question it.

Silence fell. Then, murmurs and the rustle of robes filled the room as nobles, attendants, and court officials rose from their seats and quietly exited. One by one, they left, some with wary glances, others with barely concealed curiosity or judgment in their eyes. The heavy doors closed behind them with a definitive boom.

Now, only those bound by blood, loyalty, or centuries-old magic remained.

Arthur stood tall, regal, and yet inwardly, he felt unsteady. His heart thundered behind his ribs. Betrayal had a strange weight—it didn't pierce like a blade; it pressed down like a mountain.

He looked to the center of the room where Merlin and Percival still knelt. His childhood friend. His most loyal servant. And yet... a liar.

He clenched his jaw. He couldn't allow himself to show weakness. Not now.

From beside him, Morgana stepped forward. She wore sorrow like a crown. Her poise was flawless, but pain shimmered behind her eyes.

"Rise, Prince Merlin. Sir Percival." Her voice wavered only slightly. "Speak the truth. Why did you hide this from us for so long? Did you not trust us? Were we not your family?"

Her heart was aching. Merlin—sweet, stubborn Merlin—had always been more of a brother to her than Arthur ever had. And now to learn that everything—everything—had been a lie. It tore at her like thorns in silk.

She wanted to believe there was a reason. She needed to.

Merlin's head remained bowed. His fingers curled against the stone. Shame radiated from him in waves, and his mind raced with a thousand versions of this moment. None had ended well.

Before he could speak, Gaius interjected. The old man's voice, though aged, cut through the tension like a gentle blade.

"My lady, you must try to understand. They kept this secret not from hatred or mistrust—but from love. From fear of what might happen if the truth were known too soon."

But Arthur was already spiraling.

"That may be true," he snapped, turning toward Gaius, "but he still practiced magic. In Camelot. Under my nose. After everything my father sacrificed to purge it from our kingdom. And you—you—knew. You were my father's trusted friend. And you let this happen?"

Anger pulsed in his veins, hot and choking. He felt cornered—not by enemies, but by the very people he trusted most.

Then Lancelot stepped forward. His face was calm, his posture open, but there was urgency in his eyes.

"Arthur," he said gently, "you must understand—Merlin has never once used his magic for harm. I've seen it. I owe my life to him. When that gryphon attacked the kingdom, it was Merlin who helped me slay it."

Arthur's head whipped toward him. "You knew?"

Lancelot nodded solemnly. "Yes. I discovered the truth after that battle. All those strange incidents—the timely gusts of wind, the falling branches, the lucky escapes—Merlin orchestrated them. Not for glory. Not for power. But to protect you."

Arthur looked away, jaw clenched. His stomach churned. He remembered those moments. How many times had he laughed them off as luck?

Lancelot continued, stepping closer. "While Merlin guarded you, Percival protected his prince, ensuring he would one day return to Deria. I saw the same look in Merlin's eyes today that I saw back then. He's ready now, Arthur. Ready to stop hiding. I'll stand with him to reclaim what's his. And you should know this—if you still choose to turn away from him, you'll regret it."