PROLOGUE

Heat. Unbearable heat relentless in its quest to scorch the flesh from Merlin's bones and boil the blood in his veins. And pain. Pain the likes of which Merlin had never felt before and hoped to never feel again. It was the type of pain that leaves men screaming, but Merlin couldn't scream. He couldn't even cry. He was just too damn tired.

He could feel the agonizing heat move up his legs, but his feet were far past feeling anything anymore. They hung beneath him, two giant lumps of dead and blackened flesh that were useless to him now. He would never run or walk again. He knew this instinctually and was surprised to discover how unattached he seemed to his lower appendages. Perhaps, if he lived through his ordeal, he would be more inclined to grieve for his lost ability to walk, but for the moment he was content with the pounding of his beating heart and the irregular, but strong gush of air he managed to take into his lungs. Besides, if Arthur were to be believed Merlin had never really learned to walk like a normal person to begin with.

Arthur. His prince and friend was out there somewhere, dead or alive he did not know. It was because of Arthur that Merlin was hanging from a tree, arms trussed high above his head. It was because of the damn prince of Camelot that Merlin found himself in the middle of the Valley of the Fallen Kings being tortured for information on where Arthur was hiding. Merlin was not angry with his friend in any way and knew that if the prince could he would have saved his servant by now. No, Merlin was not angry, he was simply pointing out an irrefutable fact. Ever since he'd become protector and unwanted advisor to the crown prince of Camelot his life had taken an unexpected turn…and not for the better.

Merlin had tried to warn him. He had tried to tell Arthur what a bad idea it was to go hunting in the Darkling woods when Morgana's goons were still lurking about, but the prince would not listen. He had merely thrown caution to the wind, as always, and went hunting anyways, making sure he insulted Merlin as much as possible on the way. And then, as always, came the running and the fighting in which Arthur always seemed to come out on top, thanks to a certain warlock. The day would be saved and the prince would make some ridiculous speech about how Merlin owed him for not allowing him to perish even though it had been Merlin who told him not venture out in the first place.

Only, this time Arthur hadn't come out on top. This time there had been no gentle teasing or arrogant smiles of victory. This time there had only been blood. Arthur's blood. More of it than Merlin ever cared to see.

Strangely, Merlin was less frustrated with the inherent stupidity of his prince than he was with his own sudden helplessness. He was Emrys, for gods sake. He was rumored to be the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth. How was it that some conjurer of cheap tricks could detain him? How was it the foolish man who delighted in the sound of his screams could touch him at all?

Verbana. Verbana was the answer to both those questions and he could feel its power slicing through his veins like a jagged blade. It was such an innocent thing to have caused him so much grief, so much agony. He had tried to bend his magic to his will, tried to send those who had meant him harm where they could never touch him, but every time he tried his power was choked off with a rush of cold and a stab of pain in his gut.

He was entirely at their mercy and they had already proven that mercy was in short supply.