The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

”No...”

”He had no right to touch you.”

”I’m a servant,” Morgana said, her voice breaking. ”He can do whatever he wants.”

”No.” Draeven’s voice was sharp. ”He can’t.”

He crossed to her in two strides and shrugged off his coat.

Then, gently, he draped it over her shoulders, covering her.

The fabric was warm, still holding his heat, and it smelled of smoke and leather and something darker.

Morgana pulled it tight around herself, her eyes burning.

”Thank you,” she whispered.

Draeven’s jaw tightened. ”You shouldn’t have to thank me for this.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, his expression torn between fury and something else.

Something softer.

”Go,” he said quietly. ”Go back to your quarters. And stay away from him.”

Morgana nodded and turned toward the door.

But before she could leave, his voice stopped her.

”Morgana.”

She turned back.

He was watching her with those burning gold eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made her breath catch.

”If he summons you again,” Draeven said softly, ”you come to me first. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

”Go,” he said.

And this time, she did.

***

Morgana didn’t sleep that night.

She lay in her narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, Draeven’s coat still wrapped around her like armor.

She could still feel Kaelen’s cold hands on her skin. Could still hear his mocking voice. Could still see the way Draeven’s eyes had burned when he’d found them.

If he summons you again, you come to me first.

She didn’t know what that meant.

Didn’t know if it was protection or possession or something else entirely.

All she knew was that she was caught between two kings, one who burned, one who froze, and she had no idea how to survive either of them.

***

When the morning bell rang, Morgana rose before the others, washed her face in cold water, and dressed quickly. She folded Draeven’s coat carefully and tucked it into her trunk, hidden beneath her spare shift.

She couldn’t return it.

Not yet.

Not without drawing more attention.

She joined the other servants in the lower hall, keeping her head down, avoiding Rowan’s concerned gaze.

Mistress Calla assigned her duties....laundry today, in the lower levels, and Morgana was grateful.

The laundry rooms were hot and loud and far away from the nobles, the kings, the danger.

She could disappear there.

At least for a little while.

The day passed in a blur of steam and soap and endless piles of linens.

Morgana scrubbed until her hands were raw, until her back ached, until she was too exhausted to think.

It was exactly what she needed.

***

By late afternoon, the laundry was nearly done. The other girls had started to drift away, some to prepare for the evening meal, others to tend fires in the upper chambers.

Morgana was folding the last of the tablecloths when one of the senior maids, a woman named Marta, poked her head into the room.

”You,” she said, pointing at Morgana. ”Take these up to the council wing. Third floor, east corridor. Leave them in the linen closet outside the meeting chamber.”

She thrust a heavy bundle of freshly pressed cloths into Morgana’s arms.

”Yes, ma’am,” Morgana said.

Marta disappeared, and Morgana hefted the bundle and made her way out of the laundry.

The council wing was quieter than the rest of the palace.

Morgana climbed the stairs slowly, the bundle heavy in her arms, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone.

She’d never been to this part of the palace before. It felt different here, more austere, more serious. The corridors were lined with dark wood paneling instead of tapestries, and the air smelled of parchment and candle wax.

She found the linen closet easily enough, a narrow door tucked into an alcove near the end of the corridor.

She was just setting the bundle down when she heard voices.

Low. Urgent.

Coming from the room next door.

Morgana froze.

The voices were muffled, but she could make out words.

”...running out of time...”

”...decades, and still nothing...”

”...the prophecy was clear...”

Morgana’s pulse quickened.

She knew she should leave.

Knew she should walk away, mind her own business, stay invisible.

But something in those voices, something desperate, something dangerous, made her pause.

She moved closer to the door.

It was slightly ajar....just a crack, barely noticeable, but enough that she could hear more clearly now.

”The council grows restless,” a man’s voice said. It was deep, authoritative. ”The people whisper. Our enemies watch. And still, the kings have no heirs.”

”Because they can’t,” another voice snapped. Older. Sharper. ”The curse won’t allow it.”

”Then break the curse.”

”Do you think we haven’t tried?” The older voice was bitter now. ”We’ve brought in healers, mages, oracles. We’ve consulted every text, every prophecy, every scrap of ancient knowledge we could find. And the answer is always the same.”

”The Mother of Dragons.”

Morgana’s breath caught.

”Yes,” the older voice said. ”The one destined to break the curse. The one whose bloodline can carry their seed. The one who will birth the next generation of dragon kings.”

”And you believe this... prophecy?”

”I believe we have no other choice.” The older voice sighed. ”The curse was laid two centuries ago. Since then, no woman....noble or common, mage or mortal, has ever conceived a child by any of the three kings. They are... barren. Cursed to rule forever but never to pass on their line.”

”Unless they find her.”

”Yes. Unless they find the one the prophecy speaks of. The Mother of Dragons. The woman whose blood calls to theirs. The only one capable of bearing their heirs.”

There was a long pause.

Then the first voice spoke again, quieter now. ”And you truly believe she exists?”

”She must. The prophecy was spoken by the last Oracle of the Flame before she died. And her prophecies have never been wrong.”