The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

In a kingdom cloaked in mist and bound by ancient law, where dragons wore the faces of men and magic was both worshipped and condemned, a girl was born who would bring an empire to its knees.

They would call her savior.

They would call her destroyer.

They would call her queen.

But first, they called her Morgana.

***

”Morgana!”

Her mother’s voice sliced through the thin walls of their cottage, sharp enough to drag Morgana from the edges of sleep.

She groaned, rolling onto her side. The straw mattress beneath her crackled in protest. Through the gap in the shutters, pale morning light bled into the room....too early, too cold, too gods-damned soon.

”Morgana, up! Now!”

She lay there another moment, staring at the cracked ceiling beams, at the cobwebs gathering in the corners. Her breath misted in the chill air. Winter was letting go slowly this year, like a lover who didn’t know when to leave.

With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself upright and swung her legs over the edge of the straw mattress. Her feet hit the stone floor and she hissed at the cold.

”I’m up,” she called, her voice rough with sleep.

”Then prove it!”

Morgana smiled despite herself. Her mother’s sharpness had only gotten worse as the sickness settled deeper into her bones, but Morgana had learned long ago not to take it personally. It was fear that made her mother snap. Fear that made her count every copper twice. Fear that kept her awake at night, listening to Morgana breathe, as if she might stop at any moment.

Morgana dressed quickly, rough wool skirt, a patched blouse, the shawl that smelled faintly of lavender and years-old memories. She twisted her dark hair into a braid and wrapped it around her head, pinning it in place. Plain. Unremarkable. Forgettable.

Exactly how she needed to be.

When she stepped into the main room, her mother was seated at the small wooden table, her hands wrapped around a cup of something that smelled bitter and medicinal. Her face was pale, her cheekbones too sharp beneath skin that seemed thinner every day.

Morgana’s chest tightened.

”You should rest today,” she said softly, moving to the water basin to splash her face.

Her mother’s eyes...still bright, still sharp despite the exhaustion carved into every line of her face...flicked up to meet hers. ”And you should stop fussing over me like I’m already dead.”

”Mother....”

”You are.” Her mother set the cup down with a soft clink. ”I need you to go to the market. We’re out of bread.”

Morgana dried her face on a cloth that had seen better days and turned. ”I can make flatbread. We still have flour.”

”Barely. And I need you out of this house before you drive me mad with your hovering.”

Morgana crossed her arms. ”I don’t hover.”

”Bread, Morgana. That’s all I’m asking.” She pulled a three copper coins from her pocket and slid them across the table. ”Get it from Aldric if you can. His loaves last longer.”

Morgana scooped up the coins, their weight familiar and pitiful in her palm. ”Aldric overcharges.”

”Then bargain.”

”He doesn’t bargain with me.”

Her mother’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. ”Then smile prettier.”

Morgana snorted. ”I’d have better luck threatening him.”

”Don’t you dare.” Her mother’s tone shifted, the lightness draining out of it like water through a cracked bowl. She stood, crossing the small space between them, and took Morgana’s face in her hands. Her fingers were cold. They always were now.

”Listen to me,” her mother said quietly. ”You keep your head down. You speak softly. You do nothing to draw attention. Do you understand me?”

Morgana’s throat tightened. She understood. She had understood since she was six years old and fire had leapt from her hands and consumed the neighbor’s chicken coop.

Magic.

The word sat between them, unspoken and immovable.

”I understand,” Morgana whispered.

Her mother searched her face for a long moment, then nodded and released her. ”Go on, then. And don’t let that fish seller talk you into buying anything. We can’t afford it.”

Morgana pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stepped out into the morning.

***

The market was already stirring by the time she arrived.

Merchants hauled crates and barrels into place, their voices rising in a familiar cacophony of haggling and laughter. The smell of fresh bread mingled with the tang of fish, the earthy scent of root vegetables, the faint sweetness of early spring flowers someone had optimistically brought in from the countryside.

Morgana loved the market. Loved the noise and the chaos and the way it made her feel like just another face in the crowd. Here, she wasn’t the girl with the dying mother and the too-quiet eyes. She was no one.

”Morgana!” A voice boomed from her left.

She turned to see Garrett, the blacksmith’s apprentice, waving at her from across the square. He was broad-shouldered and soot-streaked, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world.

She raised a hand in greeting but didn’t stop. If she stopped, he’d talk her ear off about the new sword he was forging or ask after her mother or, worse...ask if she’d thought any more about his offer to walk her home sometime.

She hadn’t. She wouldn’t.

”How’s your ma?” called Bess, the flower seller, as Morgana passed her stall.

”Well enough,” Morgana lied, smiling.

Bess didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. She never did. Just handed Morgana a single white bloom....a courtesy, a kindness Morgana couldn’t afford to refuse without seeming rude.

”For her hair,” Bess said softly.

Morgana’s throat tightened. ”Thank you.”

She tucked the flower into her pocket and kept moving.