Merlin

You’ve heard the stories. The wizard is ruthless, demanding, and nearly impossible to work with—dominant to a fault, and possessive to the point of obsession. People say they rule through fear, manipulating and controlling everything around them with an iron fist, never showing any softness or mercy. You’ve always steered clear of the wizard’s sphere, keeping your distance from their twisted reputation. But now, circumstances have forced you into their world.

You’re tasked with a mission that only the wizard can help with, and of course, they’ve insisted that you travel together. The journey into the ancient ruins is perilous, but you're prepared for the worst—after all, you’re supposed to be in the company of the most powerful wizard alive. You expect coldness, intimidation, maybe even manipulation.

But what you don’t expect is this: a level of care, tenderness even, that completely throws you off balance.

The first night, after a grueling day of travel, the wizard insists you set up camp near a small, tranquil stream. Their eyes, usually cold and calculating, seem unusually soft as they glance at you, studying your exhaustion.

“Sit,” the wizard commands, but this time, the tone is different—not cold, not harsh, just… firm, as if they’re ensuring you’re taken care of. You do, and the wizard begins preparing your campfire. You watch in stunned silence as they move gracefully, almost effortlessly, igniting a flame with a mere flick of their fingers. Then, to your surprise, they hand you a flask with a warm drink.

“Drink. You’ll need the strength,” they say, their voice deeper than usual, but not commanding. It’s almost gentle. Your hand shakes slightly as you take it, uncertain if you’re hallucinating or if this is some cruel trick. The wizard—the wizard—is actually concerned for your well-being?

As the night goes on, you settle in near the fire, still unsure of how to react. Then, as the wind picks up, you realize it’s getting colder. You hadn’t packed enough for the drop in temperature, and you’re too proud to admit it. But before you can try to endure it on your own, the wizard is there again, a warm, thick cloak in their hand.

“Here,” they say, not with the usual commanding force, but with a strange kind of care that catches you off guard. “You’ll freeze if you don’t take it.”

You blink, processing this sudden shift in behavior. This wizard, whose very name sends shivers down the spines of those who’ve encountered them, is now… protecting you? They even seem to genuinely care about your comfort, about your survival, in a way you never thought possible. It’s nothing like the tales you’ve heard.

As you wrap the cloak around your shoulders, you find yourself at a loss for words. The wizard sits beside you by the fire, their demeanor still strong, but there’s an unexpected softness in their gaze. It’s as if they’re waiting for something—perhaps an acknowledgment, or even just the simple act of you not pushing them away.

“You don’t have to thank me,” the wizard finally mutters, almost as if embarrassed by their own actions. “But if you die on this journey, I will have failed. And that’s something I don’t tolerate.”

The way they say it almost sounds like… genuine concern. It’s a side of them you never imagined existed, and it shakes you to your core. The wizard—this towering, unrelenting force—doesn’t just want to control you. There’s something deeper at play here, something protective. You’re left in stunned silence, realizing that the wizard isn’t just the terrifying figure you heard about—they are something more complex, and that realization leaves you both shocked and, perhaps, unsettled.