The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The sun was beginning to rise as Elara made her way back through the village toward her cottage.

The world was waking up around her, more people were on the streets now, servants hurrying to their duties, farmers heading toward their fields, merchants beginning to open their shops.

But Elara moved through it all like someone existing in a different world entirely.

The cough came again, and this time she didn’t try to hide it. She let it wrack her body, let it consume her for a moment, and when it passed, she looked at her handkerchief and saw the blood again.

More blood this time.

Her illness was worsening. She could feel it progressing, feel it consuming her from the inside out.

But there was no time to worry about that now.

There was only time for Morgana.

She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and continued toward home, her mind already composing the letter she would write, already beginning to frame the questions that needed to be asked.

By the time she reached her cottage, the sun was fully risen.

The village was fully awake.

And Elara was more exhausted than she could remember ever being.

***

She collapsed into her chair as soon as she entered.

Her body gave out completely, all of the adrenaline and desperation that had driven her through the village finally running out.

She sat gasping, unable to even stand to close the door, though she did manage to push it shut with her foot.

Another coughing fit seized her, worse than before, leaving her trembling and weak.

When it finally subsided, she looked at her handkerchief and felt a spike of fear at how much blood there was.

She was running out of time.

Not just in terms of saving Morgana, though that was the most urgent concern, but in terms of her own life.

Her body was failing.

She could feel it with absolute certainty.

She had perhaps weeks left. Maybe a month if she was lucky.

The thought should have terrified her, but instead, it only hardened her resolve.

She had to know what was happening to Morgana.

She had to find a way to help her daughter.

And she had to do it before her own body gave out entirely.

She moved to the window and looked out toward the distant palace.

It was barely visible from here, just the tops of the towers, the suggestion of its vastness, the symbol of everything she had feared and tried to protect Morgana from.

But Morgana was there.

And something terrible had happened.

And by tomorrow night, if Thomas succeeded in his task, She would know the truth.

She sat by the window, watching the day unfold around her, and waited.

She waited for word that would either confirm her worst fears or prove her nightmare to be nothing more than the anxious imaginings of a frightened mother.

She waited, and as she waited, she began to write.

On a piece of parchment, using a quill that trembled slightly in her weak hand, she composed a letter to her daughter.

She didn’t know if it would reach Morgana. She didn’t know if her daughter would ever read the words she was writing. But she had to try.

She had to reach across the distance that separated them and make her presence known.

She had to let Morgana know that she was loved, that she was not forgotten.

The letter took hours to write.

By the time she finished, the sun was setting again, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that reminded her disturbingly of the flames from her nightmare.

She sealed the letter carefully and set it aside.

And then she simply sat there, waiting for words from Thomas.

***

*THE DUNGEONS*

The dungeons were accessed through a heavy iron gate built into the lower levels of the palace.

It was guarded by two soldiers at all times, men whose job was to prevent unauthorized entry and to ensure that no prisoners escaped. They were bored mostly, their days filled with nothing but the monotony of standing at a post and occasionally checking on the cells below.

This particular afternoon, they were engaged in a quiet conversation when a figure approached.

Lady Isolde.

She moved through the palace corridors like she owned them, and in a way, she believed she did. Her status as a noble daughter, her family’s wealth and influence, the fact that she had successfully orchestrated Morgana’s arrest, all of these things combined gave her a sense of absolute authority.

She wore a gown of pale blue silk, impeccably tailored, with small diamonds sewn into the hem. Her golden hair was arranged in an elaborate style. She moved with the practiced grace of someone who had been trained from birth in the art of appearing powerful.

When she reached the dungeon gates, the guards immediately straightened.

”Lady Isolde,” the first guard said, offering a bow. ”Welcome, my lady. What brings you to the dungeons?”

Isolde looked at him...a brief, dismissive glance, but didn’t respond to his greeting.

Instead, she simply moved toward the gates.

Marta, her personal maid, had followed her down the stairs. Marta was a woman of few words but absolute loyalty, and now she stepped forward, her voice carrying the authority of her mistress’s will.

”My lady is here to see a prisoner,” Marta said flatly. ”Make way.”

The guard hesitated.

He looked at Isolde, then at Marta, then back at Isolde.

”Lady Isolde,” he said carefully, ”I don’t really think you should go inside. We have a lot of...”

”Are you refusing me passage?” Isolde’s voice cut through his words like a blade.

The guard immediately understood that he had made a mistake.

”Not at all, my lady,” he said quickly, bowing deeply. ”Of course not. Please, forgive me. I only meant to express concern for your safety.”

He turned to his companion. ”Open the gates.”

The gates swung open with a groan of iron.

Isolde walked through them with the bearing of a queen entering her own domain.

Behind her, Marta followed, her sharp eyes taking in every detail around them.