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In the aftermath, Arthur doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t rage; doesn’t put Merlin at sword-point and condemn him to a swift death.
The fears that once turned Merlin’s stomach and woke him abruptly in cold sweat—of seeing Uther’s anger in Arthur’s eyes; of Arthur’s familiar face contorting in unfamiliar ways under the weight of terror, betrayal, disgust—they fizzle out, all at once, completely.
Because Arthur simply turns and walks away.
Merlin enters the king’s chambers later that night. Arthur doesn’t ask where he’s been, why someone else served his supper. That’s when Merlin is sure.
This is exile.