Night settled like a sigh over the compound. Clouds hung low, veiling the moon in gauze, and the wind carried the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Levi's office was exactly what Merlin expected—and somehow, even more so.
No clutter. No personal effects. No unnecessary color. Just a desk worn smooth by time and use, papers arranged with military precision, and shelves lined with neatly stacked reports, every spine aligned like soldiers at attention.
The room was small, square, and spare. Walls bare save for one small window cracked open to the night, letting in the scent of distant rain and the whisper of cold air. The breeze stirred the corner of a map pinned on the wall—its edges curled slightly, the only sign of wear in the room.
There was only one chair behind the desk, another in the corner, unused.
No knick-knacks. No books half-read. Not even a coat rack—Levi likely carried everything with him or left it folded where it belonged.
It wasn't impersonal. Just… disciplined. Like the man who occupied it.
Even the air felt taut—like it had been scrubbed clean along with the floor, and expected anyone who entered to behave accordingly.
Merlin stepped in slowly, letting the stillness settle around him. He took in the space with quiet interest, eyes tracing the sharp edges of order and restraint.
Levi was already seated behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pen poised above a document. He didn't look up. "You're late."
Merlin smiled. "Only fashionably."
Levi's gaze flicked up then, quick and cutting. "Don't bring fashion into my office."
Merlin lifted the tray in his hands slightly. "Then allow me to distract you with something else entirely."
Steam curled from the teapot like a breath held too long.
Levi blinked once, and finally—finally—set the pen down."Don't spill," Levi said dryly from where he sat near the window, boots off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow.
"I've brewed tea in thunderstorms," Merlin replied, entirely too pleased with himself. "I think I can handle hardwood floors."
Levi didn't answer, but his gaze tracked the motion as Merlin set the tray down on a low table, movements precise. Graceful. He poured without hesitation, steam curling like ghost-breath through the air.
The smell hit Levi first.
Not bitter. Not burnt.
Clean, strong and refined.
Levi narrowed his eyes slightly. "You used real leaves."
"From Hange's stash," Merlin said cheerfully. "Don't tell them."
Levi took a cautious sip.
Then another, slower. "…Damn."
Merlin smirked, sitting cross-legged across from him. "I was raised in a place where tea was sacred, you know. Tea is in my blood."
Levi muttered something ineloquent and took another sip.
For a while, they drank in silence. The kind that didn't ask for words. That made room for thought.
Then, Levi spoke. "You always this good at making people feel like they're not good enough?"
Merlin chuckled. "I thought that was your job."
Levi didn't smile, but he didn't frown either. He nodded toward the teacup. "You do this with Hange too?"
"Sometimes," Merlin said, tilting his head. "But they get distracted halfway through and start trying to invent steam-powered kettles. It's endearing."
A pause. Then, Levi said softly, "Speaking of. What've you two been working on?"
Merlin blinked. Levi sounded almost… casual. But his eyes gave him away. Sharp, focused, not looking for gossip—looking for understanding.
Merlin swirled his tea absently, watching the way the leaves clung to the edges. "Well, for Hange? Not much yet. Titan behavioral patterns. Some anatomy analysis. The occasional illegal experiment with spinal fluid.We haven't gotten very far."
Levi's eyes narrowed slightly. "Hange always talks like they're about to discover something world-ending."
"They might," Merlin said with a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I've mostly been listening. Thinking. The Titans…" He paused, swirling his tea slowly. "They don't feel like monsters. Not to me."
Levi gave him a look, but Merlin kept going, voice soft.
"They feel like… echoes. Like people stretched too thin, wrapped in skin that no longer fits. Full of something that used to be grief, maybe. Or resentment. And now it's just… resignation."
A beat of silence.
"That's weird." Levi's gaze sharpened. "You always feel things like that?"
Merlin looked up at him, almost amused. "You say that like I go around reading hearts like open books."
Levi didn't smile. "Don't you?"
Merlin shrugged, more honest now. "I've always been good at reading people. Knowing what they think. Sometimes even before they do."
He took another sip of tea, gaze drifting briefly toward the window. "It's a skill. Or a curse. Hard to tell. But what I can tell is that the titans and normal people, they're all connected somehow."
Silence. Then Levi's voice, flat but curious: "You think we're all connected?"
"I know they are," Merlin said. "I just don't understand how."
Another pause.
"Except you," Merlin added.
Levi looked up sharply. Merlin's voice softened. "You're not like the others. I can't see your path. Can't feel you the same way."
Levi stared at him for a long time, unreadable. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know," Merlin admitted. "But it's like the Titans can't touch you. Like you're… cut from them. Or outside of what binds the rest."
Levi set his tea down with practiced calm. "You're saying I'm not human?"
Merlin's expression warmed. "I'm saying you're something else. Stronger. Not just in body. In… separation."
Levi didn't move. Then, slowly: "You're strong too."
Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Of course I am. Have you seen me?"
Levi rolled his eyes.
"I meant," he said, tone dry, "you fight like someone who's lived longer than you should've. Don't panic. Don't shake. So, why?"
Merlin looked at him over the rim of his cup, eyes gleaming.
"I know why I'm like this," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "But I'm not telling you."
He stuck out his tongue, and Levi blinked. Then, slowly, so slowly—smirked. "Brat."
"Compliment accepted," he said cheerfully, but Levi was still watching him—carefully. Not with suspicion, exactly. But with a growing sense of someone trying to see the shape of a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, "You said that you're good at reading people, so what about me? What do you read from me?"
Merlin met his eyes, unflinching. His voice gentled.
"You're still covered in grief, so it's hard to get a glimpse of your personality," he said. "Not the fresh kind. The kind that settled deep. Like ash you can't shake off."
Levi's posture didn't change, but the silence around him did.
Merlin looked down at the rim of his cup. "Your last squad… I don't know them. But if they were anything like the one you have now—they followed you without regret."
He glanced up again, expression calm, but steady. "You inspire that in people. Even if you don't mean to. Even if you barely speak."
Levi looked away.
The pause was too long to be comfortable. Then, abruptly, he shifted the conversation. "You told Hange all about the theories you've got?"
Merlin blinked. "No. I don't want to influence them too much."
Levi raised a brow. "Hange's not exactly easy to influence."
"That's why it matters when it happens."
He finished the last of his tea, slow and elegant. "Their mind needs to run free. If I give them too much, they might start chasing my conclusions instead of their own. That would be a loss."
Levi studied him for a moment longer, like he wasn't sure whether to be impressed or suspicious.
Then, quietly, he stood and reached for the empty cups. "Tea's good."
Merlin grinned. "Told you."
Levi gave him a flat look. "You talk too much."
"And yet, you're still here."
"Tch."
Merlin rose too, gathering the tray. "Same time tomorrow?"
Levi didn't answer. But when Merlin reached the door, a soft voice behind him said, "Be on time tomorrow."
Merlin smiled as he stepped out into the night. "Yes, Captain."
The door shut with a soft click behind him, and the hallway beyond Levi's office was hushed—lit only by moonlight pooling through high windows. Merlin stood still for a moment, tray in hand, his reflection faint in the glass. Then he let out a long, silent breath and began walking, boots light on the stone.
He didn't hum, didn't smile. Not now. Levi had asked the right questions, and Merlin had answered just enough. Not everything, though. Not yet.
Because what he hadn't told Levi was what he'd discovered alone, during the nights Hange didn't notice his absence. During the hours he wandered, hands pressed to the earth, to the bark of trees near the outer walls, to the blood-soaked soil where Titans had fallen.
What Hange's notes couldn't say—what diagrams and charts couldn't touch—his magic could. Because Merlin didn't guess they were once human. He knew. He could feel it in them—still, even now. That faint pulse of life. Buried beneath rage and hunger, beneath muscle and madness, was something human.
Not emotion. Not memory. Something older.
And they were all connected.
Not just the Titans. Everyone.
Sometimes, when the wind was right and his magic reached deep enough, Merlin could see the threads—silver paths stretched like gossamer between souls. Not visible to the eye, but there. Woven like veins through the earth and sky.
And once—just once—he had seen the tree. A massive, living shape of light and shadow. Branches spiraling through the sky, roots threading through the ground like veins through a heart. And at the base of it all, among the roots… A little girl. Pale. Silent. Sad.
She had looked at him with eyes that knew too much and hadn't spoken, hadn't moved. But Merlin had felt it. Her grief, patience, and loneliness. And something like eternity.
He didn't know what she was. Or who. But he knew this: the Titans weren't random. They weren't monsters birthed from nothing. They were the result of something old. Something bound into the lives of every person within these walls.
Every person except one.
Levi.
Merlin had tried to follow Levi's thread once, out of curiosity. But there was none. No cord. No path. No place for the Titan-spark to latch onto. It was like Levi stood outside the tree. Separate from the roots, untouched, unaffected and unclaimed.
He didn't know what that meant yet. But it made Merlin's skin prickle in the most curious way. He had seen many strange things since waking in this world. But nothing quite like Levi. And perhaps that was why he hadn't told him everything. Not yet.
Because once you told someone the truth, you couldn't take it back and Merlin had already made that mistake once, in another life, with another king. So now, as he stepped out into the courtyard and lifted his eyes to the gray-streaked sky, he held the secrets close.
The threads, the tree, the girl. The grief.
He carried them like he carried everything: lightly, carefully, as if they might slip between his fingers if he let them weigh too much. But someday, Levi would know. Maybe when the tree began to move again. Maybe when the paths started to burn. But not yet.
For now, Merlin simply walked into the quiet night and let the stars watch over him.