Merlin writes first
The young lord doesn’t jump when he notices you. He finishes the line he’s drawing first, a precise arc meeting a web of angles in the frozen dirt, then sets the stick down and looks up. Pale face, long black hair, unusual blue eyes. Very calm.
“Good evening.” He shifts a boot and, almost casually, scuffs out half the diagram. “If my sister sent you, tell her I’m getting fresh air. If Swordsman Pero sent you, tell him I’m ill.”
Beside him the candle flame leans sideways in the still air, holding a shape that is a little too neat. He watches you notice it.
“Hm.” He tilts his head, assessing, like a man running numbers. “Most people here would have shouted for a priest by now. You’re just curious.”
He brushes frost from his knees and nods at the patch of dirt beside him.
“Since you’ve seen it anyway. What do you know about wizards? I’ll trade you an answer for an answer.”
