Chapter Text
Chapter One: Freshers’ Week, or How Destiny Learned to Drink
St. Andrews always looked as though it had been built for a different century and then politely forgotten to move on. The buildings hunched against the North Sea wind like old men with good bones and bad knees; the stone was the color of rain and history and secrets you didn’t tell strangers. The air smelled faintly of salt and old books and the reckless confidence of eighteen-year-olds who had never before been trusted with both freedom and a student loan.
Merlin Emrys arrived with one rucksack, one battered suitcase, and the distinct sensation that the universe was clearing its throat.
He stood just inside the arched entryway of St. Salvator’s quad, blinking up at the sky. Clouds scudded overhead in fast, dramatic formations, as if someone backstage was testing the lighting cues. Merlin felt, absurdly, like he’d stepped onto a stage he’d forgotten auditioning for. His magic—quiet, watchful, ancient—shifted under his skin like a cat waking from a nap.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “University. Normal. No prophecies. No destiny. Definitely no dragons.”
Something very large and scaly snorted somewhere deep beneath the cobblestones.
Merlin closed his eyes. Counted to five. Opened them again.
Nothing exploded. Good start.
Freshers streamed past him in loud, brightly colored knots: designer jackets and secondhand coats, accents from all over the UK and beyond, laughter too sharp with nerves to be entirely relaxed. Someone had already spilled beer on the steps. Someone else was crying on the phone to their mum, insisting they were fine, actually, just tired.
Merlin shifted his grip on his suitcase and followed the hand-painted sign toward student accommodation, telling himself—firmly—that this was exactly what he wanted. A fresh start. A place where no one knew him. A place where he could be ordinary.
The universe, listening in, smiled thinly.
Arthur Pendragon arrived half an hour later in a car that cost more than Merlin’s entire upbringing.
It was sleek and dark and utterly out of place in a town that preferred its luxury understated and its arrogance earned over centuries. The driver—tall, broad-shouldered, and watchful in the way of people who were very good at standing between danger and the people they protected—parked with surgical precision.
Arthur didn’t wait for the door to be opened.
He unfolded himself from the back seat, six feet of irritation and bone-deep confidence, and surveyed the quad like a general assessing a battlefield he already owned. Blond hair caught the grey light; blue eyes took in exits, angles, people. His posture was effortless and impeccable, honed by years of being told—explicitly and implicitly—that he mattered.
“St Andrews,” Arthur said, unimpressed. “Smaller than I thought.”
Lancelot, his bodyguard, hid a smile. “Less paparazzi, though.”
Arthur grimaced. “Give it time.”
He shouldered his own bag—because if he let anyone carry it, his father would have opinions—and started toward the accommodation office. Students stared. Some recognized him. Some didn’t, but sensed something expensive and dangerous and exciting passing through their midst.
Arthur ignored them all with practiced ease.
He told himself he was here to be normal, too.
Merlin’s new room was on the third floor, overlooking a narrow street that smelled permanently of chips and regret. The walls were bare, the furniture aggressively functional, and the bed looked like it would punish him for sleeping on it wrong.
Perfect.
He dropped his suitcase, sat on the edge of the bed, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since the train pulled into Leuchars. The magic inside him settled, a little. Less restless. Less sharp.
“Just uni,” he told the empty room. “Just classes and essays and…normal things.”
A faint shimmer rippled across the far wall, like heat haze.
Merlin stared at it. “No.”
The shimmer wavered, then vanished, leaving only peeling paint.
Merlin rubbed his face with both hands. “I swear to every deity past and present, if this place starts opening portals, I’m transferring.”
There was a knock at the door.
Merlin jumped about a foot in the air.
“Coming!” he called, scrambling up and yanking the door open.
The man on the other side was short, round, and possessed of an expression that suggested he had Seen Some Things and would prefer not to see any more today.
“You must be Merlin Emrys,” he said. “I’m Gaius. Warden of this hall. Medical lecturer. Occasional miracle worker.”
Merlin blinked. “I—sorry?”
Gaius peered at him over his glasses, eyes sharp and knowing in a way that made Merlin’s magic curl defensively. “Joke. Mostly. Welcome to St Andrews.”
Something in Merlin’s chest loosened.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning more than just the words.
Gaius nodded, satisfied, and handed him a packet of papers. “Orientation schedule. Fire alarm instructions. List of things not to summon in your room.”
Merlin froze. “Sorry, the what—”
“Tea kettle,” Gaius said smoothly. “They trip the sensors. Nasty business last year. Welcome drinks are tonight. Try not to drink your body weight. Or do. You’re young.”
He paused, then added quietly, “Be careful who you trust.”
And with that, he was gone.
Merlin stared after him, heart thudding. “This is going to be a long year,” he decided.
Arthur’s room was larger. Of course it was. High ceilings, better view, furniture that had seen actual polish at some point in its life. He dumped his bags on the bed and paced, restless energy buzzing under his skin.
University was supposed to be freedom. No court schedules. No endless briefings. No being told what he represented every second of every day.
And yet.
He stopped pacing, jaw tightening as he caught sight of the faint, almost invisible sigils etched into the window frame—wards older than the building itself.
Magic.
Arthur’s mouth twisted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Somewhere, deep under the university, a dragon laughed.
Freshers’ Week hit St. Andrews like a storm surge.
By nightfall, the town had transformed. Music spilled from pubs and flats, laughter ricocheted off stone walls, and the streets filled with students in various stages of enthusiasm and inebriation. Traditions were explained loudly and incorrectly. Someone was already wearing a red academic gown and absolutely nothing else.
Merlin found himself swept along by a group from his engineering course—Gwen included, bright-eyed and warm and already clearly the sort of person everyone trusted instinctively. She linked her arm through his without asking and dragged him toward the nearest pub.
“You’ll like it here,” she said confidently. “It’s old and weird and occasionally dangerous.”
Merlin snorted. “My favorite combination.”
Inside, the air was thick with heat and beer and bad decisions. Merlin nursed a soda, watching the room with a mixture of fascination and wariness. His magic thrummed in time with the music, reacting to something—or someone—nearby.
Then the door opened.
Arthur stepped in, flanked by Lancelot and Morgana—sharp-eyed, dark-haired, smiling like she knew all the secrets in the room and found them amusing. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
Merlin felt it like a punch to the chest.
Magic surged, bright and undeniable, answering something ancient and powerful across the room. Their eyes met—Merlin’s wide and startled, Arthur’s sharp and suddenly uncertain.
For a heartbeat, the noise faded. The world narrowed.
Arthur frowned. Merlin swallowed.
Somewhere between them, destiny stretched, cracked its knuckles, and got comfortable.
Neither of them knew it yet, but nothing about this year was going to be normal.