The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Morgana woke before dawn.

She lay in the darkness for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the house, the creak of old wood settling, the soft whisper of wind through the shutters, her mother’s breathing from the next room.

This was the last time she would wake up here.

The thought sat heavy in her chest.

She pushed herself upright and dressed slowly, carefully. The gray dress her mother had helped her sew hung on a peg by the door, and she pulled it on with trembling fingers. It was simple. Plain. Exactly what a servant would wear.

But it felt like armor.

She braided her hair tightly, pinning it in place, then wrapped her old shawl around her shoulders. She had packed a small cloth bag the night before, a spare shift, a comb, the white flower Bess had given her, pressed and dried between the pages of her mother’s old prayer book.

Not much.

But it was all she had.

When she stepped into the main room, her mother was already awake.

She stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, her thin frame wrapped in a blanket. She didn’t turn when Morgana entered, but her shoulders stiffened slightly.

”Ma,” Morgana said softly.

Her mother turned.

Her eyes were red.

Morgana’s throat closed.

”Come here,” her mother said, her voice rough.

Morgana crossed the room, and her mother pulled her into a fierce embrace...tighter than Morgana had expected, desperate and shaking.

”I’m sorry,” her mother whispered into her hair. ”I’m sorry I can’t protect you from this. I’m sorry I can’t....”

”Stop.” Morgana’s voice cracked. ”You’ve protected me my whole life. You taught me how to survive. That’s enough.”

Her mother pulled back, cupping Morgana’s face in her cold hands. ”You listen to me. You keep your head down. You trust no one. And if anything, anything....feels wrong, you leave. Do you hear me?”

”I hear you.”

”Promise me.”

”I promise.”

Her mother’s eyes searched hers, then she nodded and released her.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

”Take this,” she said, pressing it into Morgana’s hands.

Morgana unwrapped it.

Inside was a piece of bread, still warm, and a small vial filled with something dark and viscous.

”Honey,” her mother said. ”From old Marta’s bees. It’ll help if your throat gets sore. Or if you need something sweet when the world feels bitter.”

Morgana’s vision blurred. ”Ma...”

”Don’t cry.” Her mother’s voice was firm, though her own eyes glistened. ”You’ll ruin your face, and you need to look presentable.”

Morgana laughed through the tears, tucking the bundle into her bag.

Her mother kissed her forehead, her lips cold and trembling.

”Go,” she whispered. ”Before I lose my nerve and lock you in your room.”

Morgana nodded, swallowing hard.

She picked up her bag, took one last look at the cottage, at the worn table, the cold hearth, the familiar walls that had sheltered her for eighteen years and stepped out into the dawn.

She didn’t look back.

If she had, she would have seen her mother sink to her knees by the hearth, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

***

Rowan was waiting at the edge of the village, practically vibrating with excitement.

She wore a dress similar to Morgana’s....dark brown linen, practical and plain, and her wild auburn curls were barely contained beneath a scarf. She grinned when she saw Morgana and threw her arms around her.

”We’re doing this!” she said, her voice bright. ”We’re actually doing this!”

Morgana managed a smile. ”We are.”

”Are you ready?”

”No.”

Rowan laughed. ”Good. Me neither.”

They started walking.

The road to the palace wound through the countryside, cutting through fields and forests and small clusters of farmhouses. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink.

It was beautiful.

Morgana tried to memorize it, the way the light caught the dew on the grass, the way the birds sang in the trees, the way the world felt quiet and new.

She didn’t know when she would see it again.

”Do you think they’ll separate us?” Rowan asked after a while, her voice quieter now.

Morgana glanced at her. ”What do you mean?”

”The servants. Do you think they’ll put us in different quarters? Different jobs?”

Morgana hadn’t thought about it. ”I don’t know.”

”I hope not.” Rowan’s smile was smaller now, uncertain. ”I don’t think I can do this without you.”

Morgana reached over and squeezed her hand. ”You won’t have to.”

Rowan squeezed back.

They walked in silence for a while, the road stretching out ahead of them.

And then, around a bend in the road...the palace came into view.

Morgana stopped.

Rowan gasped.

It was massive.

The palace rose from the landscape like something out of a dream or a nightmare. Towering stone walls, dark and ancient, stretched toward the sky. Turrets and spires pierced the clouds, their peaks crowned with iron and gold. Banners flew from the ramparts, deep crimson emblazoned with the golden dragon sigil of the realm.

The main gates were enormous, black iron wrought into intricate patterns of flames and claws, flanked by stone dragons whose eyes seemed to follow anyone who approached.

And beyond the gates, Morgana could see the palace itself...sprawling and labyrinthine, a city within a city, with courtyards and gardens and buildings that seemed to go on forever.

”Gods,” Rowan breathed. ”It’s...”

”Terrifying,” Morgana finished.