The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The kings knew, on some level, that Morgana was significant. Their dragons recognized her. And the pull was so strong that even duty could barely hold them back.

Cedric walked across the empty ballroom to the high table where the kings had sat all evening.

He looked at the three chairs....empty thrones, waiting.

Hurry, Greaves, Cedric thought, his mental message reaching out to the investigator even though the man was dozens of miles away. The investigation becomes urgent. The kings are reaching a breaking point.

He pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote a quick note, sealing it with his personal sigil.

A servant appeared almost immediately.

”Send this by the fastest courier,” Cedric commanded.

”Yes, my lord.”

The servant disappeared into the night.

Cedric remained in the empty ballroom for a long moment, staring at the three empty thrones.

He didn’t know how this story would end.

But he knew, with absolute certainty, that the ending was coming fast.

***

”GREAVES’S INVESTIGATION”

The road east from the capital was long and winding.

It took Greaves half a day riding to reach the small village of Ashford, barely enough hours of rehearsing his cover story until it became second nature.

A wool merchant, traveling the provinces, looking to purchase quality fleece for export. It was simple. Believable. The kind of story that would allow him to move freely through a village without raising suspicion.

By the time Greaves arrived at Ashford’s edge, late in the afternoon, he had become someone else entirely.

His posture was different...less rigid, more the slouch of a man accustomed to long travel. His clothing, while still neat, bore the dust of the road. He carried a leather satchel containing samples of various wools, which he’d purchased and brought with him specifically for this purpose.

He looked exactly like what he claimed to be.

And that was the entire point.

***

Ashford announced itself gradually.

First came scattered farmhouses...small, modest structures with smoking chimneys and vegetable gardens. Then the outskirts of the village proper: a blacksmith’s forge, a small mill with a water wheel turning slowly in the late afternoon light, a storage facility for grain.

Then the village square.

Greaves rode into Ashford slowly, taking in every detail with the careful observation of someone trained to notice things others missed.

The village was small. Perhaps two hundred people, maybe fewer. The kind of place where time moved differently than in the capital...slower, more deliberate, marked by seasons and harvests rather than political intrigue and council meetings.

The architecture was practical rather beautiful. Timber-framed cottages with thatched roofs. Stone buildings that had stood for generations. A central market square with a stone well at its center, worn smooth by centuries of use. A few shops arranged around the perimeter...a baker, a butcher, a general store, the tavern.

But what struck Greaves most was not what he saw.

It was what he felt.

There was an undercurrent to the village. Not hostile, exactly. Not frightening. But something underneath the surface pleasantness. A tension that didn’t quite have a name.

The few people moving about the square in the late afternoon. a woman carrying a basket of laundry, an old man mending a net on a bench, a boy leading a donkey, moved with purpose but also with a kind of caution. They didn’t linger. They didn’t chat with neighbors. They seemed focused on completing their tasks and returning to their homes before darkness fell.

And when Greaves rode past, their eyes tracked him.

Not with the open curiosity of villagers greeting a stranger, but with something more guarded. Something more watchful.

Interesting, Greaves thought, dismounting his horse outside the tavern. A quiet village, certainly. But there’s more to it than simple quietude.

He tied his horse to the post and carried his satchel inside.

The tavern was exactly what Greaves expected...dim, smoky, smelling of ale and old wood and something vaguely earthy that suggested the floor hadn’t been properly cleaned in some time.

The interior was simple: wooden tables arranged haphazardly around the space, a long bar of dark oak, shelves behind the bar lined with various bottles and glasses. A fireplace occupied one wall, though the fire was only a low smolder despite the evening chill.

The tavern keeper was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with the weathered face of someone who’d spent significant time outdoors before settling into tavern work. His name, he told Greaves, was Hal.

”Welcome, friend,” Hal said, his tone professional but measured. ”What can I get you?”

”Ale,” Greaves said, settling onto a worn stool at the bar. ”And information about accommodations. I’ll need a room for a few days while I conduct business in the village.”

Hal began pouring ale with practiced efficiency. ”Got one upstairs. Two copper pieces a night, includes breakfast. Thin breakfast, mind you, but it’s honest.”

”That will do.” Greaves accepted the ale and took a measured sip. It was bitter and slightly warm, but not unpleasant. ”I’m a wool merchant, traveling the provinces. Heard Ashford might have some quality operations worth investigating.”

Hal set down another glass and polished it with a cloth, his expression neutral.

”Is that so,” he said, not as a question but as a statement.

”Yes.” Greaves opened his satchel and pulled out several samples of wool...different grades, different colors, different textures. ”I’m looking for suppliers who might be interested in direct trade with the capital. Good margins for those who can provide consistent quality.”

Hal examined the samples with the eye of someone who knew his wools, but his expression remained unreadable.

”There’s some sheep operations in the area,” he said finally. ”Though most of the trade is handled through intermediaries these days. Not much direct dealing with individual merchants.”

”I see.” Greaves accepted this information with a nod. ”Well, I’m here anyway. Might as well spend a few days, see what’s available, talk to the locals. Perhaps you could recommend someone who might know about wool production in the area? Someone knowledgeable about local business?”