The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Elara sat by the window in the late afternoon light, her hands occupied with mending....a shirt with a torn seam, the kind of simple domestic work that had filled so much of her life in Ashford. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, the needle moving in and out of the fabric in perfect, repetitive stitches. The work required little thought, which meant her mind was free to wander, which meant it wandered to places she did not want it to go.

Morgana had been gone for a month.

It was strange, how differently the cottage felt without her daughter’s presence. Morgana had been at the palace for only a few weeks before Elara realized how completely her daughter had come to define the space, to shape the rhythm of daily life.

Now there was only silence.

A month without a message. A month without any communication at all.

The silence stretched out like a living thing, pressing down on Elara with increasing weight.

What if something had happened at the palace? What if they had discovered what Morgana was? What if the danger that Elara had spent eighteen years running from had finally caught up with them despite all her precautions, all her hiding, all her desperate attempts to keep her daughter safe?

Elara set down her mending and looked around the cottage.

This cottage had been her sanctuary. It had been her refuge. It had been the place where she had built a new life, a false life, a life that was safe because it was small and unremarkable and invisible to the eyes of those who were searching for her.

But nothing felt safe anymore.

Elara rose from her chair and moved to the small table where she kept her herbs. She had no magic, never had. But practical knowledge. Knowledge of herbs and their properties. Knowledge of what could ease pain, what could fight fever, what could help the body heal itself. She had learned this work during her time in Valorhold, when she had worked in the temples as a healer. It was the only skill she had brought with her when she fled, but never dared to practice...not even while Morgana was still around.

She ran her fingers along the rows of dried herbs....chamomile, thyme, yarrow, feverfew, and dozens of others. Each one labeled in her careful handwriting.

But no herb could cure the illness that was slowly consuming her.

No herb could ease the fear that had become her constant companion.

***

The market in Ashford was a modest affair.

It took place three times a week in the center of the village, where vendors set up temporary stalls and the people of the village gathered to trade goods and information. It was where farmers sold their produce, where bakers sold their bread, where merchants passed through with goods from larger cities.

It was also where gossip spread like wildfire.

Elara had always been careful at the market. She came, she conducted her business quickly and and she left. She didn’t linger. She didn’t engage in extended conversations. She didn’t draw attention to herself. She was simply ”Elara, Mogana’s mother.”

This particular afternoon, she had come to purchase flour from Rowan’s father.

Rowan, had became Morgana’s closest friend while they were eight, which was both a blessing and a source of constant anxiety for Elara. Any connection to the outside world, any connection to someone else, felt like a potential vulnerability. But she had learned that keeping Morgana completely isolated was impossible, and perhaps even cruel. So she had allowed the friendship to develop, though she watched it with constant wariness.

Thomas greeted her warmly as she approached his stall.

”Elara! Good to see you. I have fresh flour today...ground this morning. Best quality.”

”Thank you, Thomas,” Elara said, keeping her voice calm and pleasant. ”The usual amount, please.”

As Thomas was measuring out the flour into a cloth bag, Elara became aware of voices around her. Other women at nearby stalls were talking, their tones low but she could still hear them, and they way they were trying so hard not to be heard, told her they were discussing something that had caught their attention.

Gossip.

She tried not to listen, tried to focus on the transaction with Thomas, but words drifted to her ears whether she wanted them to or not.

”...a man asking questions...”

”...strange questions about families...”

”...a woman who arrived pregnant...”

”...eighteen years ago...”

Elara’s hands froze in the act of reaching for the bag of flour.

Thomas, kind man that he was, didn’t seem to notice. He was chatting about his bread sales, about how business had been good, about some minor issue with one of his ovens. Elara heard none of it.

Her mind had seized on those few phrases. A woman who arrived pregnant. Eighteen years ago. Questions being asked.

”...he’s not from here, this man...”

”...asking at the inns, at the farms...”

”...something about him feels wrong...”

Elara forced herself to take the flour from Thomas. She forced herself to reach into her pocket for payment. She forced herself to smile.

”Is everything alright?” Thomas was asking, and she realized he’d been speaking to her, that she hadn’t been listening, that her distress must have shown on her face.

”Yes,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. ”Yes, I’m fine. Just tired. Thank you for the flour.”

She turned away from the stall quickly, before Thomas could ask more questions, before anyone could notice the way her hands were trembling slightly.

A man asking questions. About a woman who arrived pregnant. Eighteen years ago.

The description was vague enough that it could apply to others, there were certainly other women who had arrived in the village with children over the years. But it was also specific enough that it could apply to her. And the fact that someone was asking at all, that someone had been sent to investigate...

Elara walked quickly through the market, no longer seeing the familiar stalls and faces around her. Her entire attention was focused inward, on the fear blooming in her chest, on the realization that the danger she had spent eighteen years running from had not given up. Had not forgotten. Had finally found its way to Ashford.

And Morgana was not here. Morgana was in the palace, far away and unreachable.

Elara had allowed her daughter to go despite her fears, because Morgana had been so stubborn that night, so determined, so desperate to earn coins to treat her illness. Elara had seen the resolve in her daughter’s eyes and had known that trying to keep her would only drive a wedge between them. So she had relented. She had allowed Morgana to go.

And now she was regretting it with every fiber of her being.