The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Morgana had never seen so much wealth in one room.

The great hall glittered like something out of a dream or a nightmare. Chandeliers blazed overhead, their candlelight reflecting off polished silver and crystal goblets. The tables were laden with food...whole roasted boars, platters of glazed fruits, towers of pastries dusted with sugar. The air smelled of wine and rich sauces and something floral she couldn’t name.

And the people.

Lords and ladies in silk and velvet, dripping with jewels. Their laughter was bright and sharp, their voices cultured and bored all at once. They moved through the room like they owned it...because they did.

But it was the noble daughters who commanded the most attention.

They sat at tables closest to the dais, arranged like prizes on display. Each one was more beautiful than the last, blonde hair piled high, dark curls cascading over bare shoulders, gowns in shades of emerald and sapphire and gold that probably cost more than Morgana’s entire village made in a year.

They smiled and preened and laughed too loudly, their eyes constantly flicking toward the high table.

Toward him.

Morgana kept her head down, moving between the tables with her flagon of wine, refilling goblets as quietly as possible.

She had learned quickly: servants were invisible here. As long as she didn’t spill, didn’t speak, didn’t draw attention, no one looked at her twice.

Except him.

She could feel his gaze like a brand on her skin.

She didn’t look up. She wouldn’t look up.

But gods, she wanted to.

”Wine,” a sharp voice said.

Morgana flinched and turned.

One of the noble daughters, a blonde woman in a gown of pale pink silk, held out her goblet imperiously. Her lips were painted red, her eyes cold and assessing.

”Yes, my lady,” Morgana murmured, stepping forward to pour.

The woman didn’t even glance at her. She was too busy staring at the high table, her smile practiced and perfect.

Morgana finished pouring and moved on.

She made her way through the room slowly, methodically, keeping to the edges. Rowan was on the other side of the hall, clearing plates with the same careful efficiency.

Their eyes met briefly across the room, and Rowan gave her a tiny, strained smile.

We’re fine, the smile said. We’re doing fine.

Morgana tried to believe it.

She was refilling a goblet near one of the center tables when she heard it.

Laughter.

Bright, calculated, and entirely too loud.

She glanced up despite herself.

A cluster of noble daughters had gathered near the edge of the dais, their attention fixed on the high table. One of them...a tall, striking woman with dark hair and a gown of deep emerald, was speaking, her voice carrying over the noise of the hall.

”Your Majesty,” she said, her tone dripping with honey, ”surely you must be exhausted from greeting us all. Perhaps you would enjoy a dance? I’ve been told I’m quite skilled.”

Morgana’s gaze flicked toward the high table.

Draeven sat at the center, his posture relaxed, one hand resting on the arm of his chair. He looked... bored.

No....worse than bored.

He looked like he was barely restraining himself from walking out.

His golden eyes flicked toward the woman who had spoken, and for a moment, Morgana saw something flicker in his expression.

Annoyance.

”I don’t dance,” he said, his voice low and flat.

The woman’s smile faltered. ”Oh. Of course. Perhaps later, then....”

”No.”

The word was final.

The woman’s face flushed, and she stepped back, her smile tight and brittle.

The other daughters whispered among themselves, casting nervous glances toward the high table.

Morgana turned away quickly, her heart hammering.

Don’t stare. Don’t draw attention.

She moved toward the next table, but she could still feel it.

His gaze.

She risked a glance, just one, just for a second.

And froze.

He was looking directly at her.

Not at the noble daughters preening in front of him. Not at the lords and ladies laughing and drinking.

At her.

The servant in the corner with the wine flagon.

His eyes were gold and burning, and there was something in them she couldn’t name. Something sharp and hungry and intense.

Morgana’s breath caught.

She looked away quickly, her pulse racing, and forced herself to keep moving.

Don’t react. Don’t let him see.

But her hands were shaking.

The banquet dragged on.

Course after course was served. The nobles ate and drank and laughed, their voices growing louder as the wine flowed.

The noble daughters grew bolder.

They approached the high table in groups, offering smiles and compliments and thinly veiled invitations. They spoke of their families, their dowries, their accomplishments. They fluttered their lashes and touched his arm and laughed at things that weren’t funny.

Draeven barely acknowledged them.

He sat like a statue, his expression carved from stone, his answers monosyllabic and cold.

”Your Majesty, I’ve heard you’re an accomplished rider....”

”I am.”

”Perhaps we could ride together tomorrow....”

”No.”

”Your Majesty, my father sends his regards. He was hoping....”

”I’m sure he was.”

One by one, they retreated, their smiles strained, their eyes bright with frustration.

Morgana watched from the edges of the room, fascinated despite herself.

He wasn’t even trying to be polite.

And yet they kept coming.

Desperate.

It was almost sad.

”Refill.”

Morgana turned to find another noble daughter—this one with blonde hair piled high and a gown of ice-blue silk—holding out her goblet.

”Yes, my lady,” Morgana said, stepping forward.

As she poured, the woman leaned toward her companion, a dark-haired girl in silver and lowered her voice.

”He’s barely looked at any of us,” she hissed. ”What’s the point of all this if he won’t even try?”

The dark-haired girl sighed. ”Maybe he’s waiting for someone specific.”

”Who? We’re the best the kingdom has to offer.”

”Maybe he’s not interested in any of us.”

The blonde woman’s eyes narrowed. ”Then why hold the selection at all?”

”The council’s orders, probably. They’re desperate for heirs.”