The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Morgana woke to the sound of her mother moving in the main room.

She lay still for a moment, listening. The soft scrape of a chair. The clink of a cup against the table. Her mother’s cough...quieter than usual, as if she were trying to muffle it.

Morgana pushed herself upright and dressed quickly, her stomach tight with anxiety.

Last night’s argument still hung in the air like smoke.

When she stepped into the main room, her mother was seated at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. She looked up as Morgana entered, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then her mother sighed.

”Sit.”

Morgana obeyed, sinking into the chair across from her.

Her mother studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out two small coins, setting them on the table between them.

Morgana stared at them. ”Ma...”

”You’ll need proper clothes,” her mother said quietly. ”You can’t show up at the palace gates looking like a beggar. Go to the fabric seller. Buy something decent.”

Morgana’s breath caught. ”Does that mean...?”

”It means I’m not foolish enough to think I can stop you.” Her mother’s voice was tight, strained. ”You’re as stubborn as your father was. Once you’ve made up your mind, there’s no changing it.”

”Ma...”

Her mother held up a hand. ”Let me finish.”

Morgana fell silent.

”If you’re going to do this,” her mother continued, her eyes hard and bright, ”then you’ll do it carefully. You’ll keep your head down. You’ll work hard. You’ll speak softly and draw no attention to yourself. And if...if....you feel your magic slipping, even for a moment, you leave. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

Morgana nodded, her throat tight. ”I understand.”

”And you’ll write to me. Every week. I don’t care if you have to bribe a messenger or sneak letters out yourself. I need to know you’re alive.”

”I will. I promise.”

Her mother’s jaw tightened. She looked away, blinking rapidly. ”I should have taught you better. I should have found someone who could help you control it...”

”This isn’t your fault.”

”It feels like it.”

Morgana reached across the table and took her mother’s hand. It was cold, the bones too prominent beneath the skin.

”I’ll be careful,” Morgana said softly. ”I won’t let anything happen.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers. ”You can’t promise that.”

”I can try.”

For a long moment, they sat like that, hands clasped, the silence heavy with everything they couldn’t say.

Then her mother pulled away and stood, turning toward the hearth.

”Go,” she said, her voice rough. ”Buy your fabric. And take Rowan with you. That girl has a better eye for cloth than you do.”

Morgana smiled despite the ache in her chest. ”Yes, ma.”

She took the coins and slipped them into her pocket, then crossed to her mother and wrapped her arms around her from behind.

Her mother stiffened, then relaxed, one hand coming up to cover Morgana’s.

”Come back to me,” she whispered.

”I will,” Morgana promised.

Even if she wasn’t sure she could keep it.

***

Rowan was already awake when Morgana arrived at the bakery.

She was kneading dough at the long wooden table, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, flour dusting her apron and smudged across her cheek. When she saw Morgana, her face split into a wide grin.

”You’re going!” she crowed, abandoning the dough to throw her arms around Morgana. ”I knew you would!”

Morgana laughed, hugging her back. ”My mother gave me coin for fabric. I need your help.”

”Say no more.” Rowan wiped her hands on her apron and called over her shoulder. ”Da! I’m taking my break!”

A gruff voice shouted something unintelligible from the back room.

Rowan grinned. ”He says it’s fine.”

”He absolutely did not say that.”

”Close enough.” Rowan grabbed Morgana’s hand and pulled her toward the door. ”Come on. Old Maren’s fabric stall opens early, and if we’re quick, we’ll get first pick before all the other girls start buying up the decent cloth.”

***

The market was already stirring by the time they arrived.

Merchants were setting up their stalls, calling out greetings to one another. The smell of fresh bread mingled with the earthy scent of vegetables and the sharp tang of fish.

Maren’s stall was tucked into a corner near the blacksmith’s forge, her table covered in bolts of fabric in every color imaginable. She was a small, wiry woman with sharp eyes and sharper opinions, and she ran her business with the efficiency of a general commanding an army.

She looked up as Morgana and Rowan approached, her gaze sweeping over them with practiced assessment.

”Palace jobs,” she said flatly.

Rowan blinked. ”How did you...?”

”Half the village has been through here in the past two days buying cloth.” Maren gestured at her depleted stock. ”You’re late. Most of the good stuff’s already gone.”

Morgana’s heart sank.

But Rowan stepped forward, undeterred. ”We don’t need good. We just need decent. Something that won’t fall apart after one washing and doesn’t look like it was stitched together by a blind goat.”

Maren’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. ”Fair enough.”