Ninety years.
That was how long I had been trapped inside my own castle.
Time no longer felt like time. It stretched, warped, folded in on itself like one of my shadow constructs. Days blurred into decades, decades into something meaningless. The outside world moved on… without me.
And yet—
I remained.
Loneliness was… unexpected.
I had armies.
I had power.
I had knowledge beyond mortal comprehension.
And still—
Silence echoed through the halls.
I walked through my castle slowly, my footsteps the only sound in corridors that once felt like dominion but now felt like… emptiness. Vast, endless emptiness.
Even my shadows felt quieter.
I exhaled softly and raised my hand.
The seal responded instantly.
Golden threads of magic flared into existence around the walls, faint but ever-present, like veins running through reality itself. Merlin's work.
Still perfect.
Still unbroken.
Still infuriating.
"I'm getting closer…" I murmured.
For decades, I had done little else but analyze it.
Every rune.
Every layer.
Every hidden failsafe buried beneath layers of cosmic-level spellwork.
It wasn't just a barrier—it was a system. A living construct of magic that adapted, reinforced itself, and anchored directly to Merlin's existence.
As long as he lived…
This prison held.
I clenched my hand. Purple energy flickered, then died against the invisible constraint.
Still not enough.
So I turned away from the seal again.
Back to what I could control.
My artifacts.
The castle had changed over the decades. What was once a throne room and fortress had become something else entirely—
A vault.
A library.
A treasury of power.
Rows upon rows of relics filled entire wings of the castle. Weapons, rings, staffs, ancient tomes—each humming with magic drawn from worlds far beyond this one. Most came from the realms of Middle-earth and the world of Trollhunters.
Different systems.
Different rules.
Different limits.
And that was the key.
Marvel's magic—the system Merlin used—was powerful, structured, absolute.
But mine?
Mine was foreign.
Chaotic.
Unpredictable.
I picked up a dark blade, feeling the weight of it, the ancient energy thrumming within its core.
Then a book—old, worn, filled with spells written in languages that twisted at the edge of comprehension.
Then another.
And another.
I studied them all.
Obsessively.
Days turned into years.
Years into decades.
I experimented.
I combined magic systems—shadow with necromancy, necromancy with soul-binding, soul-binding with time manipulation. I tested artifacts, broke them, rebuilt them, reforged them with my own magic layered into their structure.
Some exploded.
Some nearly tore the castle apart.
Some… worked.
Very well.
I began to understand something fundamental:
Merlin's prison was designed to contain himself.
A being of order.
A master of a structured magical system.
But I wasn't that anymore.
I was something else entirely.
I had the patience of Homura Akemi—endless loops, endless retries, endless refinement.
The ambition and domination instinct of Sauron—to control, to reshape, to rule.
The raw, ancient shadow mastery of Morgana—power drawn from darkness itself.
And the balance, the control, the humanity of Claire Nunez—the ability to master that darkness without being consumed.
Ninety years…
And I was no longer the same person Merlin had sealed away.
I sat quietly in the center of my castle, surrounded by artifacts, books, shadows dancing faintly along the walls.
My eyes closed.
My mind expanded.
"I don't need to break the prison yet…" I whispered.
Because one day—
It would weaken.
Or Merlin would falter.
Or the world would change.
And when it did—
I wouldn't just escape.
I would shatter it.
The silence returned.
But this time…
It didn't feel empty.
It felt like waiting.