The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The bread stall was near the center of the market, positioned beneath a sprawling oak tree that had been there longer than the kingdom itself, or so the stories went. Aldric stood behind his display of loaves, arms crossed, expression sour as week-old milk.

He saw her coming and his frown deepened.

”Morgana.”

”Aldric.” She stopped in front of the stall, eyeing the bread. It looked good today, golden crust, still warm. Her stomach twisted with hunger. ”I need a loaf.”

”Two coppers.”

She blinked. ”Two? It was one copper last week.”

”Prices went up.”

”Since when?”

”Since I decided they did.” He leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow over the table. ”You got a problem with that, girl, you can take your business elsewhere.”

Her jaw tightened. Heat prickled beneath her skin. and it was a familiar and a dangerous feeling.

Don’t.

She forced her voice to stay level. ”I have three coppers. I’ll take a loaf and whatever else you think is fair.”

”I think two coppers for one loaf is fair.”

”That’s robbery.”

”That’s business.” His eyes narrowed. ”You always got something to say, don’t you? Just like your mother. Too clever for your own good.”

The heat surged, prickling at her fingertips.

Control it.

”Just give me the bread, Aldric.”

”Two coppers. Final offer.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The air around her shimmered, just barely, just enough.

Stop.

She shoved the fire down, down, down into the dark place inside her where it lived, and slapped two coins onto the table.

”Fine.”

Aldric grunted, scooped up the coins, and handed her a loaf. It was smaller than the others.

Of course it was.

Morgana took it without a word, turned on her heel, and walked away before she did something stupid.

She was three stalls away when her hands finally stopped shaking.

Idiot. She’d let him get to her. Let her temper flare. Let the magic rise too close to the surface.

One slip. That’s all it would take. One flicker of flame, one spark in the wrong place, and someone would see.

And then it would be over.

She pressed her palms flat against her skirt, willing the heat to fade, and forced herself to breathe.

It was fine. She was fine. No one had noticed.

She hoped.

***

From the shadows beneath the oak tree, a man watched her go.

He stood apart from the crowd, his presence a void in the noise and chaos of the market. He was tall, taller than any man had a right to be....and broad-shouldered, his frame wrapped in a dark cloak that seemed to swallow the light around him. The hood was pulled low, shadowing his face, but his eyes...

His eyes burned.

Gold. Molten. Predatory.

He had come to the market on a whim, restless and bored and eager to escape the suffocating stone walls of the palace. His guards had protested....My King, it isn’t safe, my King, you should not walk among the common folk unattended, but he had ignored them.

He always did.

Let them worry. Let them scramble to keep up. He was not some fragile princeling who needed a battalion to buy bread.

He had wandered the stalls aimlessly, listening to the merchants haggle, watching the people move about their small, insignificant lives. It was... soothing, in a way. A reminder that the world still turned, still breathed, even as he and his brothers slowly withered beneath the weight of their curse.

And then he had seen her.

A girl. Unremarkable at first glance...dark hair, plain clothes, a face that should have blended into the crowd.

But she didn’t.

There was something about the way she moved. The way she held herself. A tension in her shoulders, a sharpness in her gaze, as if she were constantly aware of everything and everyone around her.

As if she were hiding something.

He had watched her argue with the bread seller, watched the way her hands clenched into fists, the way her jaw tightened.

And for just a moment, so brief he almost missed it...the air around her had shimmered.

His breath had caught.

Magic?

No. Impossible. She was a commoner. A no one. Magic was forbidden to her kind, and the punishment for using it was death.

And yet...

He couldn’t look away.

She turned and walked away from the stall, her movements quick and controlled, and he found himself following. Not consciously. Not intentionally. But his feet moved, drawn by something he couldn’t name.

She passed through the crowd like a ghost, unnoticed, unremarkable.

But he noticed.

Gods, he noticed.

She was halfway across the square when she paused, her hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was small, unconscious, and it shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Because in that moment, the morning light caught her face, illuminated the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the defiant set of her mouth, and something inside him shifted.

His chest tightened.

His pulse quickened.

What...?

”My King.”

The voice came from behind him, low and urgent.

He didn’t turn.

”My King, we must return to the palace.”

The girl was walking away now, disappearing into the crowd, and he felt the loss of her like a physical thing.

”My King.”

A hand touched his arm...his captain of the guard, a loyal, infuriating man named Aldren who took his duty far too seriously.

The King finally turned, his eyes still burning with that strange, unnameable hunger.

”What?” he said, his voice rough.

Aldren’s expression was carefully neutral. ”Your brothers are expecting you. The council meets within the hour.”

The King looked back toward the crowd, searching for her.

She was gone.

”My King?”

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. ”Fine. Let’s go.”

But as he turned and walked away, flanked by his guards, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The girl with the dark braid and the sharp tongue and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

And why did it feel like the world had just tilted beneath his feet?