Bobby Kestrel led the girl and her mother deeper into the forest, maintaining a brisk pace while occasionally gncing backward to ensure no raiders pursued them. The timing was ideal—te afternoon meant they had hours of daylight to put distance between themselves and the burning vilge. Not that he particurly cared about the raiders, but expining more deaths would complicate things unnecessarily.

  Art struggled to keep up, the oversized sword awkwardly clutched in her small hands. Despite her determination, her stamina couldn't match an adult's, especially while lugging a weapon nearly as tall as herself.

  "Give me that before you stab yourself," Bobby said, extending his hand for the sword.

  Art's grip tightened. "No! You said it chose me."

  Bobby rolled his eyes. "And it did, which means it'll choose you again tomorrow when you're not about to colpse from exhaustion."

  The mother—who had introduced herself as Eine during their flight—pced a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Let him carry it, Art. You can barely stand."

  Art reluctantly surrendered the weapon, her eyes never leaving it as Bobby casually swung it into a makeshift sheath on his back.

  "Where are you taking us?" Eine asked, voice tight with suspicion despite her apparent gratitude.

  Bobby pointed ahead. "There's a hunter's cabin about a mile further. Abandoned for years, but the roof's intact."

  "How do you know that?" Art challenged, her skinny arms crossed over her chest.

  "I know many things," Bobby replied cryptically, enjoying the fsh of annoyance that crossed her face.

  "That's not an answer," she muttered.

  "No, it's not," he agreed cheerfully. "Now keep moving before darkness falls. These woods aren't as empty as they seem."

  They reached the cabin as the st light faded from the sky. Bobby didn't need to check if it was truly abandoned—he'd swept the entire area psionically before suggesting it. The structure was crude but serviceable: a single room with a stone hearth, a sleeping ptform covered in old straw, and various hooks for hanging game.

  Eine wrinkled her nose at the musty smell but made no compint. "We should light a fire," she suggested, gathering what looked like kindling.

  "Wait," Bobby said, kneeling to examine the hearth. "This chimney's partially colpsed. Light a fire now and we'll choke on smoke." He stood, making a show of inspecting the ceiling. "I'll fix it tomorrow. For tonight, we'll manage without."

  The truth was he could have cleared the blockage in seconds with telekinesis, but revealing too many abilities too quickly would be counterproductive. Better to sprinkle his "magic" sparingly, creating just enough mystique without overwhelming them.

  Art circled the cabin restlessly, poking at cobwebs and examining the crude furnishings. "If you're truly Merlin," she said skeptically, "why don't you just... conjure us a pace?"

  Bobby ughed. "Magic has limits, girl."

  "What limits?"

  "The important ones," he replied vaguely, suppressing a smile at her exasperated expression. "You'll learn in time."

  Eine had been silently arranging the cleanest straw into makeshift bedding. "How long must we hide here?" she asked.

  Bobby shrugged. "A few days. The raiders will take what they want and move on. They're not garrison troops—they don't hold territory."

  "And then what?" Eine pressed. "Our home is burned. Our vilge destroyed."

  "Then we begin," Bobby said, locking eyes with Art, who had paused in her explorations to listen. "We begin building something new."

  "What exactly?" Art asked, unable to hide her curiosity despite her obvious attempts to remain aloof.

  Bobby smiled thinly. "A legend."

  The girl scoffed, but doubt flickered across her face. She'd seen what he could do. She'd pulled a sword from stone that no one else could move. Part of her—a growing part—wanted to believe.

  "We should eat," Eine said practically, breaking the moment. "Do you have food, Sir Merlin?"

  "Just Merlin," Bobby corrected, reaching into his pack. He pulled out dried meat and a small sack of grain. "This will do for tonight. Tomorrow we'll see about more substantial provisions."

  As they chewed the tough meat in silence, Bobby observed his new companions. Eine was perhaps thirty, still beautiful despite the harshness of peasant life, with the same wide-set eyes and strong cheekbones as her daughter. Art was all skinny limbs and fierce expressions, hair chopped roughly at her jaw in a failed attempt to look boyish.

  "Why do you dress as a boy?" he asked abruptly.

  Art gred defensively. "Boys get to learn things. Fight. Travel. Girls just wait to be married off."

  Eine sighed, clearly an old argument. "I've told you, Art—"

  "It's not fair!" the girl interrupted. "I'm smarter than any boy in the vilge. Stronger too. But because I bleed monthly, I'm supposed to spend my life cooking and birthing babies?"

  "Life isn't fair," Bobby stated ftly. "Never has been, never will be."

  "Then what's the point of having power like yours?" Art challenged. "If you don't use it to make things fair?"

  Bobby cocked his head, genuinely intrigued by her reasoning. "You assume fairness is desirable."

  "Of course it is!"

  "Is it fair that a wolf can run faster than a deer? That some are born clever while others are born simple? That disease strikes the good and evil alike?"

  Art frowned. "That's different."

  "Is it?" Bobby leaned forward. "Or is 'fairness' just a concept humans invented to comfort themselves?"

  "You speak as if you're not human," Eine observed quietly.

  Bobby waved dismissively. "A figure of speech." He turned back to Art. "Life isn't meant to be fair. It's meant to be interesting."

  "Well, it's not very interesting being a girl in a vilge where all you do is fetch water and wait to be married," Art muttered.

  "Agreed," Bobby said, surprising both of them. "Which is why your life is about to become very, very interesting." He unsheathed the sword, ying it across his knees. "Starting with this."

  Art's eyes lit up. "You'll teach me to use it properly?"

  "Among other things." Bobby turned the bde, examining its edge. It was a serviceable weapon, nothing special—but it was a beginning. "If you're to become what I envision, you'll need more than skill with a sword. You'll need knowledge. Strategy. Diplomacy."

  "To become what?" Eine asked warily.

  Bobby smiled. "A leader. Perhaps something more."

  "I'm just a peasant girl," Art said, though her tone suggested she'd already begun believing otherwise.

  "So was Boudica before she led armies against Rome," Bobby replied. "So was Joan before she—" He stopped himself, realizing his error. The girl who would be known as Joan of Arc wouldn't be born for nearly a thousand years.

  "Before she what?" Art prompted.

  "Before she changed history," Bobby said smoothly. "You've never heard of her. Different nd, different time."

  Eine had gone very still. "What exactly do you want with my daughter, Merlin?"

  Bobby met her eyes steadily. "I want to give her the chance to become extraordinary."

  "Why her?"

  "Because she had the courage to pull the sword from the stone when everyone else fled," Bobby said, the lie coming easily. "Because she stood against a raider to protect you when men twice her size ran away. Because Britain needs someone to unite it against the invaders, and fate has chosen your daughter."

  "Fate," Eine repeated skeptically. "Or you?"

  Bobby smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps they're the same."

  Art had been following the exchange with rapt attention. "I'll do it," she decred. "I'll become whatever I need to become."

  "Art—" her mother began.

  "What choice do we have, Mother?" Art interrupted. "Our home is gone. Father is three years dead. The Saxons grow bolder every season." She turned to Bobby. "If this man can teach me to fight, to protect us and others, why would I refuse?"

  Bobby suppressed a smirk. The girl was practical—a good sign.

  "Your training begins tomorrow," he said, returning the sword to its makeshift sheath. "For now, rest. Both of you."

  Eine still looked troubled but didn't argue further. They arranged themselves on the straw bedding, mother and daughter huddled together for warmth.

  Bobby sat against the wall, assuming a posture of meditation. He didn't need sleep—another benefit of his nanite-maintained physiology—but maintaining the appearance of humanity required these little performances.

  As the women's breathing deepened into sleep, he opened his eyes, contempting his impulsive decision. He had inadvertently set something in motion by allowing the girl to pull the sword from the stone. Why not see it through? After millions of years of passive observation, perhaps it was time to actively participate in human history—even if only for his own amusement.

  The quantum temporal energy readings remained stable. This dispcement might st months, perhaps even years. Plenty of time to craft a legend.

  And if the legend happened to be built around a skinny girl instead of the noble boy of ter myths... well, history was rarely accurate anyway.

  Bobby smiled into the darkness. For the first time in eons, he was curious to see what would happen next.

  ---

  The next morning, Bobby rose before his companions, using telekinesis to silently clear the chimney blockage while they slept. When Eine awoke, he was already building a small fire in the now-functional hearth.

  "You fixed it," she observed, blinking sleep from her eyes.

  "As I said I would," Bobby replied, feeding small sticks into the growing fmes. "Wake your daughter. Her training begins today."

  Eine hesitated. "She's just a child, Merlin. Barely twelve summers."

  "And in a few years, she'll be expected to marry and bear children," Bobby countered. "If you consider her old enough for that, she's old enough to learn how to fight."

  "Those aren't the same—"

  "No," Bobby agreed. "One is natural biological function that any animal can accomplish. The other requires intelligence, discipline, and courage. I know which I consider more worthy of respect."

  Eine frowned but gently shook Art awake. The girl stirred, then sat up abruptly when she saw Bobby.

  "The sword!" was her first word, eyes darting around the cabin.

  Bobby gestured to where it leaned against the wall. "Still here. As am I."

  Art visibly rexed, then straightened her shoulders. "When do we start?"

  "After you eat," Bobby said, tossing her a piece of dried fruit from his pack. "Training on an empty stomach is foolish."

  They broke their fast with the remaining provisions from Bobby's pack, then stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The forest around the cabin provided excellent cover while offering small clearings suitable for practice.

  Bobby led Art to one such clearing, Eine following at a distance, worry etched on her face.

  "First lesson," Bobby said, drawing the sword and pnting it point-down in the soft earth. "This is not a toy. It's not a symbol. It's a tool designed for one purpose: to kill."

  Art nodded solemnly.

  "Before you touch it again, you need to understand what that means," Bobby continued. "When you hold this sword, you're holding death. You must respect it, control it, and use it only when necessary."

  "I understand," Art said.

  Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Do you? Have you ever seen a man die from a sword wound? It's rarely quick or clean. The gut-stabbed can take days to die, screaming as infection spreads. Throat cuts gurgle and choke on their own blood. Head wounds bleed so profusely you'll be blinded by the spray."

  Art paled but stood her ground. "The raider would have killed us. I'm not sorry I hurt him."

  "Good," Bobby approved. "Remorse has its pce, but not in battle. When you fight, you fight to win—which usually means ensuring your opponent dies before you do."

  For the next hour, Bobby drilled Art on basic stances, using a stick instead of the sword. The real weapon was far too heavy for her to wield properly yet, but the principles remained the same.

  "Wider stance," Bobby instructed, nudging her feet apart with his boot. "Center your weight. A fighter who loses bance loses their life."

  Art adjusted obediently, face screwed up in concentration. Despite her nky frame, she moved with natural grace and absorbed instructions quickly. More importantly, she showed determination, repeating movements until they satisfied Bobby's critical eye.

  "Enough sword work," Bobby decred eventually. "Your arms are trembling."

  "I can continue," Art insisted, though sweat soaked her homespun tunic.

  "Pushing beyond exhaustion isn't discipline—it's stupidity," Bobby said ftly. "A warrior's greatest asset is knowing their limitations." He pointed to a fallen log. "Sit. Now we exercise your mind."

  As Art caught her breath, Bobby began questioning her. How many seasons had she seen? Could she count beyond a hundred? Did she know her letters? The answers were twelve summers, yes up to three hundred, and no—her father had known some letters, but hadn't taught her before fever took him.

  "Reading and writing will be essential," Bobby stated. "As will mathematics, astronomy, and rhetoric."

  "What's rhetoric?" Art asked.

  "The art of persuasion," Bobby replied. "A leader must know how to fight with words as well as swords—often the former prevents needing the tter."

  Art's brow furrowed. "Will I really need all that just to fight Saxons?"

  "You won't just be fighting Saxons," Bobby said. "You'll be uniting Britain. That requires more than strength of arm."

  "Uniting Britain?" Eine interjected from where she'd been silently watching. "That's... that's not possible. The kingdoms have been fractured since the Romans left."

  "Precisely why they need uniting," Bobby said simply. "The Saxons, Angles, and Jutes pick off isoted communities one by one. United, Britain could drive them back to the sea."

  "And you think my daughter will accomplish this?" Eine's tone banced between disbelief and a mother's hope.

  Bobby looked at Art, who was listening with wide eyes. "I think she has the potential. The rest depends on her choices."

  For the remainder of that day and the days that followed, Bobby established a training regimen. Mornings were devoted to physical training—not just swordpy, but running, climbing, and swimming in a nearby stream. Afternoons focused on mental disciplines, with Bobby using sticks to draw letters and numbers in the dirt, teaching Art the rudiments of literacy.

  Eine contributed by showing Art healing pnts and cooking techniques—practical skills Bobby acknowledged were just as important as combat. While the girl trained, Eine would gather food, prepare meals, and maintain their modest living space.

  A week passed, then two. Art's progress was remarkable. Her young mind absorbed knowledge like dry earth takes water, and her body grew stronger daily. The oversized sword remained too heavy for prolonged use, but she could now lift it properly and execute basic forms before her arms gave out.

  "I've been thinking," Art said one evening as they sat around the fire. "If I'm to unite Britain, I'll need followers. An army."

  Bobby nodded approvingly. "Strategic thinking. Good."

  "Where will I find these followers?" she pressed. "We're hiding in a forest."

  "We won't hide forever," Bobby assured her. "This is just the beginning of your journey."

  "When, then?" There was an edge of impatience in her voice that Bobby found both amusing and promising. "How long before I actually do something?"

  "You've been 'doing something' every day," Bobby replied. "Building the foundation of who you'll become."

  Art scowled. "You know what I mean. Something real."

  Bobby studied her across the fire, contempting how much to reveal. "Very well. In three days, we'll travel to a vilge two days' journey west. There's a fair being held—people from surrounding areas will gather to trade."

  Art straightened, excitement evident. "And I'll find followers there?"

  "Perhaps. More importantly, you'll observe. Learn how people interact. Identify who holds true power and who merely appears powerful."

  "I should bring the sword," Art decred. "Show them I pulled it from stone."

  Bobby shook his head. "Not yet. First impressions matter. I don't want them seeing a child waving a sword she can barely lift."

  "But the sword is proof I'm special!"

  "You don't need a sword to prove that," Bobby said firmly. "The sword is a tool, not your destiny. Your mind, your courage, your determination—those will convince people to follow you."

  Art looked unconvinced but didn't argue further.

  That night, after Art had fallen asleep, Eine approached Bobby as he sat outside the cabin, watching the stars.

  "May I speak with you?" she asked softly.

  Bobby gestured to the ground beside him. "You may."

  Eine sat, arranging her skirts carefully. She'd done her best to keep their clothes clean despite limited resources, washing them in the stream and mending tears with threads pulled from less essential garments.

  "I'm concerned about what you're pnning for my daughter," she said directly.

  "I'm not pnning anything for her," Bobby corrected. "I'm providing knowledge and opportunity. What she does with them is her choice."

  "She's twelve," Eine pointed out. "Children believe what adults tell them. And you've told her she has a destiny to unite Britain." She shook her head. "Do you know how many warlords and petty kings have tried? All have failed. Many died horribly."

  Bobby turned to look at her fully. In the moonlight, her features were softened, making her appear younger than her years. "What would you have her become instead? A farmer's wife? A servant? A sve when the Saxons eventually reach whatever vilge you settle in?"

  Eine flinched. "I want her to live."

  "To exist isn't the same as to live," Bobby said. "Your daughter has a fire inside her. I didn't create it—I merely recognized it. Smother that fire, and she might survive longer, but would she truly be alive?"

  "You speak as if those are the only choices—greatness or servitude."

  Bobby shrugged. "History suggests they often are, especially for women in this age. The middle ground exists but remains precarious—subject to the whims of men with power."

  Eine was silent for a moment, her fingers worrying at a loose thread on her sleeve. "You're not what you appear to be," she finally said.

  "Few people are."

  "No." She shook her head. "It's more than that. The way you speak, the things you know..." She met his eyes directly. "Sometimes you forget to eat. You never sleep—don't deny it; I've watched. You talk of Britain as if you're not part of it. Who are you really, Merlin?"

  Bobby considered her question. The woman was more observant than he'd given her credit for. "Would you believe me if I told you I'm a traveler from a pce so distant you cannot imagine it?"

  "A foreigner? Your accent is fwless."

  "I've had... practice," Bobby said with delicate understatement. "But my origins aren't important. What matters is what I can teach your daughter."

  "Why?" Eine persisted. "Why her? Why do you care about Britain at all if you're not from here?"

  Bobby smiled thinly. "Let's call it intellectual curiosity."

  "My daughter's life isn't an experiment," Eine said, anger edging into her voice.

  "On the contrary," Bobby replied, "all lives are experiments. The only variables are who designs them and to what purpose." He stood, effectively ending the conversation. "You should rest. The journey to the fair will be arduous."

  Eine rose as well, studying him with troubled eyes. "I don't trust you completely," she admitted. "But Art believes in you. And I haven't seen her this... alive... since before her father died." She turned toward the cabin, then paused. "Just promise me one thing."

  "What?"

  "If it becomes too dangerous—if her life is truly threatened—you'll help her walk away."

  Bobby nodded, the lie coming easily. "I promise."

  Later, as Eine slept inside the cabin, Bobby contempted their conversation. The woman wasn't wrong to be suspicious. His motivations weren't altruistic—they never had been. Curiosity and boredom drove him more than any concern for Britain's welfare.

  And yet, there was something compelling about the girl. Her determination, her quick mind, her refusal to accept the limitations others would pce on her. In some ways, she reminded him of himself before the quantum accident—before eternity stretched before him like an endless prison sentence.

  Bobby gazed up at the stars, wondering if this dispcement might prove more interesting than he'd initially thought.