Merlin lay stretched upon the cool grass outside the barracks, just beyond the reach of the torches that flickered along the perimeter. The night wrapped around him like a velvet curtain, thick with the scent of dew and earth. Blades of grass brushed against his cloak and curled into his hair like fingers trying to hold him to the ground. The sky above stretched endlessly, studded with stars—quiet watchers he trusted more than most men.
His hands folded loosely over his stomach, and his staff rested beside him, glinting faintly in the moonlight. He hadn't bothered with a blanket. He didn't feel the cold. What he feared wasn't the night air, but the act of surrendering to sleep itself.
Sleep always came with hesitation.
He didn't like the moment before it—the empty pause when his body gave in and his mind opened, vulnerable, receptive. That's when the dreams crept in. When the walls between past, future, and present wore thin. Sometimes the dreams whispered. Other times they screamed.
But he needed them now as his first expedition beyond the Walls began at dawn. He needed any advantage he could get. So he stared at the sky for a long moment, breath shallow, dread curled in the pit of his stomach like a snake uncoiling. And then he let go.
"Come on," he whispered to the stars. "Just a little peek. I'd rather not walk into the unknown without a cheat sheet."
His eyes drifted closed. His breathing slowed. The wind passed over him like a hand brushing a fevered brow.
And the world slipped away. The next moment, he stood alone in a field of pale grass that shimmered like frost in the moonlight, though there was no moon above—only a sky threaded with glowing veins of light. They pulsed like heartbeats, casting silver reflections onto the grass and painting everything in hues not found in waking hours. The sky was alive, streaked with upside-down roots—threads of fate—linking soul to soul across the invisible fabric of consequence.
He walked forward, boots soundless on the ground.
Petals floated on the air like falling ash. The threads above him thrummed, and the field bent and shifted. Trees emerged from the haze, skeletal and bare. A clearing formed.
Then—movement.
Two shapes on the horizon, blurred by distance but pulsing with weight. They didn't just walk—they pressed against the world itself.
One moved in a crooked lurch, limbs flailing with no rhythm, but still agile. The other ran—with intent, with a speed that didn't belong in something so large. It moved like hunger given shape.
Merlin turned, scanning the air. No death. Not yet.
The others would come—smaller, dumber. But predictable. Survivable.
These two… they were the ones to watch.
The threads above him began to dim, one by one, as the vision began to unravel. But before it ended, he saw the massive tree, with thousands of lights across their leaves engulfing the sky. The air was dry like the ground beneath him.
Then he saw a girl playing with the sand, creating something from it, something familiar. He wanted to approach and ask her what was she doing and why she looked so sad and lonely, but then the horns sounded and woke him up.
No cold sweat. No lingering dread. Just… relief. Not for the girl, but because there were only two abnormal in this expedition, and he now knew their shape now.
It would be enough.
He ran to his room and dressed quickly, movements light and purposeful. His gear clicked into place with smooth familiarity, his cloak drawn over his shoulders like a promise. The staff—his real weapon—remained invisible for now. It pulsed beneath his skin, waiting to manifest, should the need arise.
It wouldn't, probably.
He found his squad already assembling in the yard, yawns and chatter filling the crisp morning air. Gunther adjusted his straps. Petra muttered about Oluo being late. Eld ran a hand through his hair for the third time in two minutes.
Merlin greeted each of them with ease.
He stopped only once—just outside the stables, where Hange stood cross-armed, hair wild as ever, eyes tired but sharp.
"You're really going," they said.
Merlin nodded, smiling. "I'll come back with stories."
"You better come back with samples."
"I'll try not to bring you a Titan head. They're heavy."
Hange narrowed their eyes. "Bring the spinal fluid."
He laughed and leaned in to hug them—brief but sincere. "Don't blow anything up while I'm gone."
"No promises."
Then it was time. Soon, they mounted up and went out of the HQ. And as the world stretched out in front of them—green and gold and wide—Merlin exhaled slowly, letting the wind tug at his cloak. And then he smiled a real smile. No performance. No charm. Just quiet joy.
Because he was ready.
Even if the others turned to give him strange looks for grinning like someone heading to a picnic instead of potential death, he didn't mind.
He was walking into the wild.
And for the first time in a long while, he belonged.
.
The gates of Trost groaned open with the sound of iron surrendering to purpose.
Beyond them, the world stretched wide—no longer the safety of stone and soot, but an ocean of wind and grass and silence far too loud.
Merlin rode near the center of Levi's formation, cloak rippling behind him, his expression quiet. Gone was the playful glint in his eyes, the teasing smile he wore in training. In its place was something steadier—measured. Focused.
The others felt it too.
The older Survey Corps members rode with their jaws tight, hands already close to their gear, scanning the horizon with practiced dread. No chatter. No bravado. Just grim familiarity. He could feel it in them—the pressure beneath the skin. Not fear, exactly. More like readiness sharpened by memory.
They had all been out here before. Most had lost someone.
Merlin straightened in his saddle, letting some of that quiet gravity settle into his bones. His gaze swept the trees and the movement of clouds like they might whisper warnings.
"My squad," Levi's voice came low and clipped from a gallop, "will be on Capture Objective Alpha. The other senior officers will signal if they spot a small one. Our route runs parallel to Formation East—intercept if needed."
Eld gave a silent nod, then turned his horse with effortless control, signaling the others to follow him as they split from the main body with practiced ease, cutting across a patch of light forest. Petra rode at his left, Eld ahead, Gunther and Oluo flanking. Merlin fell in just behind Levi as this was his first expedition, watching the Captain's back like a shadow waiting to unfurl.
Their objective was simple in words, difficult in execution: capture a small Titan.
And for Merlin—extract clean spinal fluid samples from at least two others.
The first hour passed in silence save for hoofbeats and the occasional birdcall. The fields rustled with the late summer wind. No sign of Titans.
The second hour brought motion as the first Titan emerged from behind a collapsed barn—seven meters, dull-eyed, shuffling slow. Too big and with no capture value.
Levi didn't speak. He just moved. Steel hissed, lines fired, and within seconds, the creature hit the ground with its nape carved open like paper. Clean and precise.
The second came minutes later—fast, lunging. Petra lured it forward, and Merlin moved with an agility he hadn't shown them this outside training. The way he twisted mid-air like ribbon. The smooth arc of his descent. The grace that turned death into art.
He landed lightly, two blades buried in the Titan's neck before it even finished roaring. The body dropped. Steam hissed.
Gunther let out a low whistle. "Show-off."
Merlin just smiled faintly, wiping a speck of blood from his glove, blood that was already smoking as it disintegrated. No abnormalities yet. No sign of a capture target.
But the calm wouldn't last—it never did. Still, for now, the squad moved together—fluid, tight, confident. And Merlin, from the edge of his senses, could feel something stirring on the horizon.
.
After five hours, deep into Titan territory, the wind suddenly shifted as they crossed the hill—soft, but heavy with the scent of plants and earth.
Merlin's fingers twitched on his reins.
They were moving through a clearing now, overgrown with weed and the broken remains of stone fences. Nothing too remarkable—at least not to the others. But he knew this place. He'd seen it before—half-sunken into the blur of a dream. The roots of a crooked, fallen tree next to some weirdly formed rocks on flattened earth where something too large had rolled through.
There was an eerie stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath as he felt a thread pulled tight in his chest.
"Slow up," he said quietly, guiding his horse closer to Petra. "We've passed through here already, haven't we?"
Petra glanced at him. "What? No—first time through this sector."
Merlin frowned.
Then the Titan stepped into view. It wasn't huge. Not by Survey standards. Maybe six meters, with a slack jaw and vacant eyes. Its limbs hung loosely with a clumsy gait.
Gunther exhaled. "Looks standard."
Eld nodded. "Might be our target."
The horses shifted nervously. Petra reached for her gear.
Merlin's heart snapped into place.
"Don't." His voice was sudden, sharp. Unmistakable.
Everyone froze.
"It's an abnormal," he said firmly, staring at the creature. "It's faking."
Oluo scoffed. "What? It's barely moving—"
And then it moved faster than any of them expected. The Titan dropped to its hands and charged, its joints bending wrong, like a marionette being yanked by a cruel hand. Dust exploded behind it. Petra cursed, yanking her horse out of the way.
Levi barked, "Scatter—!"
But Merlin was already gone. His ODM lines fired like lightning while his cloak whipped behind him as he twisted through the air, sailing in a perfect arc to intercept. His eyes tracked every twitch, every shift of the Titan's shoulders. It was going for the horses—no, the center—trying to split them apart.
He moved faster, and the wind screamed past him. He flipped, blades drawn, and in one clean motion, slashed through the nape before it could lunge again.
The Titan hit the dirt, skidding with a long, wet crunch.
Steam hissed and, for a moment, no one spoke.
Then Petra exhaled. "Shit."
Gunther muttered, "He called it. He actually called it."
Oluo rubbed the back of his neck. "How the hell did you know?"
Merlin landed lightly, cloak fluttering, blades still humming in his hands. He didn't gloat. Just turned to face them with a faint smile.
"I told you," he said, "I'm good at reading people."
"Titans are not people," Oluo muttered and before anyone could ask again, Levi rode past them, eyes on the corpse, but his voice cutting through the aftermath like a thrown knife.
"So this is what you meant," he said without looking, "when you said you could read Titans too?"
Merlin tilted his head, meeting Levi's gaze just long enough to smile—cool, unreadable.
He shrugged. "Something like that."
Levi tched and kept riding.
But Merlin saw it—the faintest shift of approval in his posture. And behind him, the squad was watching him a little differently now, no longer just the graceful recruit with too-pretty smiles, but something else. Something useful.
He sheathed his blades and walked back toward his horse, quiet satisfaction threading through his chest like silk.
One down.
.
Two hours later, the sun was well past its peak when the signal flared from the southern tree line. Three green bursts—arched high into the sky.
"Titan located. Small. Slow. Possible capture target."
Levi's squad was already moving.
The terrain sloped downward into a narrow clearing surrounded by uneven rocks and scattered debris—good for containment. Bad for horses. The rest of the support team was already working, maneuvering carts and anchor gear into place.
Merlin stayed near the back as they rode in, his eyes half-lidded, his breath even. But inside, he was listening, not to voices, but to threads.
He could feel the spell-threads he'd woven into the cloaks of those in the Survey Corps—the smallest enchantments. No one noticed. They weren't meant to. But each strand shimmered faintly with magic tuned to perception, reaction, courage.
Little boosts. Not enough to change fate, but enough to shift it. A soldier too frozen to move might find their legs working again. A hand that trembled on the blade might suddenly steady. The Titan they aimed to capture loomed ahead—barely four meters. Small. Thin. Its mouth opened and closed uselessly, twitching like a puppet with no strings. Its head turned slowly, eyes cloudy.
"Good," Levi said. "Petra, Eld—flank left. Gunther, Oluo—block the fallback line."
Merlin stayed center, watching not the Titan, but the people.
A scout nearby fumbled with his gear. Merlin brushed his fingers over the reins once—and the shimmer at the edge of his spell deepened. The soldier's hands stilled. Focus returned. Another near the rocks was breathing too fast. Merlin whispered a word under his breath—Breathe.—and his charm pulsed gently.
None of it was visible. Only Merlin's faint shift in expression—slightly unfocused. Eyes flicking without anchoring.
Levi noticed, but didn't say anything. Not when the net guns fired, nor when the small Titan roared and thrashed against the anchors. Or even when Petra dodged with a breath to spare, or when Eld's blade bit into the creature's ankle to weaken it without killing.
But then Gunther swerved wrong. A piece of broken terrain caught his horse's hoof, throwing the beast off-balance. Gunther jerked sideways, blade drawn too late, body tilting dangerously toward the Titan's reach.
And Merlin moved, not his body, but his will. A whisper in the fabric of reality. A tug. And something stopped the Titan's hand inches before it could grab Gunther.
Nothing visible, of course. There wasn't light or flash. But Gunther twisted back upright, regained balance, galloped on without ever knowing.
Only Levi saw, his eyes snapping to Merlin—still mounted, still calm, though his brow creased with quiet strain. He hadn't moved. But something about him had.
Levi didn't speak, but his grip on the reins tightened.
The Titan was secured moments later—pinned and netted, thrashing harmlessly against reinforced anchors as the other squads cheered and quickly began the binding procedures.
The danger was over, but Levi's eyes didn't leave Merlin for a long time. He didn't say anything, though. Not yet. But he would.
Merlin felt it, even before he turned and met Levi's gaze. However, he just smiled in response, calm and unreadable.
And Levi—without breaking eye contact—tched.
.
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