Merlin stopped walking.
He didn't turn around. Didn't move at all for a long, heavy moment. The others watched him—Adam with raised eyebrows, Kahdijah with sudden interest, Morgana with confusion, Bolt with wariness.
Then Merlin spoke.
"No."
The word hung in the air.
He turned slowly, facing the Dark Lord again. The man—Theron, once, before he became this—stood among the ruins of his empire, surrounded by the transformed remnants of his castle. His ancient eyes held that flicker of hope, that desperate belief that maybe, just maybe, he would survive this.
Merlin walked back toward him.
"I changed my mind," Merlin said quietly. "We're not going to talk."
The hope died.
The Dark Lord's face went through several expressions in quick succession—fear, anger, resignation, and finally something that looked almost like peace. He straightened his spine, lifting his chin.
"So this is it," he said. "Five hundred years, and it ends with a boy."
"I told you. I'm not a kid."
