The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Morgana had only been in Draeven’s presence a handful of times, but she recognized that look. It was the look of someone barely restraining an explosion of force. It was the look of a man who wanted to burn something down.

He ascended the dais steps and moved toward the throne on the left.

But before he sat, his eyes swept across the room.

And they landed on Morgana.

For just a fraction of a second, their gazes met.

And in that fraction of a second, Morgana saw something flash across his face....a furious possessiveness, a rage at her captivity, a desperate need to do something that he could not do.

Then he sat, and his expression returned to controlled fury, and his golden eyes remained fixed on the council as if he could burn them all to ash with his stare.

Next came Kaelen.

The youngest king. The one they called the Storm King because of his white-blonde hair and the pale ice-blue of his eyes. He moved with the grace of someone who had been trained in combat his entire life, who understood his body as a weapon, who was comfortable with power the way others were comfortable with breath.

His gaze swept the room as he ascended the dais, cataloguing everything, assessing every detail.

When his pale eyes landed on Morgana, they sharpened.

She saw something flicker in them, but then he looked away.

He sat in the throne on the right, his pale eyes never leaving her face.

And finally came Thorne.

The middle king. The Shadow King. The one with dark eyes that seemed to see through everything, through everyone, to the truth beneath all lies and pretense.

He moved like a predator.

Like something ancient and dangerous wrapped in the shape of a human man.

His gaze swept the room, but unlike his brothers, his expression revealed nothing. No fury like Draeven. No possessive calculation like Kaelen.

Just absolute, perfect stillness.

When his eyes landed on Morgana, they fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. He looked at her like he was committing every detail of her to memory.

Then he sat in the throne in the center, and his dark eyes continued to watch her with that same unnerving intensity.

***

Draeven sat on his throne and felt the rage building in his chest like a fire with no outlet.

Two days. Two days of knowing that Morgana was locked in the dungeons. Two days of sitting in meetings and signing documents and pretending to conduct the business of the kingdom while his mind was consumed with the image of her alone in the dark, afraid, facing the very real possibility of execution.

But he had understood the logic, as much as he’d hated it. If he acted now, if he used his power openly to save her, the court would interpret it as weakness.

So he’d done nothing.

And now, watching her stand in the center of that vast floor in her chains, small and terrified and utterly alone, he felt the fury in his chest reach a level that was almost impossible to contain.

His hands gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly that the carved wood began to creak under the pressure.

His golden eyes never left her face.

***

Kaelen’s pale eyes tracked Morgana as she was led to the center of the floor.

She looked fragile.

That was the word that kept circling through his mind. Fragile. Breakable. Like if someone squeezed too hard, she might simply shatter.

He’d seen her afraid before.

He’d seen it when he’d summoned her to his chambers, when he’d touched her, when he’d barely stopped himself from claiming her right there. She’d been afraid then...of him, of what he might do, of the power that radiated from him.

But this was different.

This wasn’t fear of him.

This was fear of death.

This was the primal, animalistic fear of someone who understood, on a bone-deep level, that their life was about to end.

And something about watching her experience that fear....something about seeing her small and chained and facing judgment, made Kaelen want to burn everything to ash.

He forced himself to remain still, remain composed, even though every nerve in his body was screaming at him to move.

He glanced at Draeven.

His oldest brother looked like he was about to explode. His hands were clenched so tightly on the armrests that Kaelen could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was locked, the way his golden eyes burned with barely restrained fury.

Then he glanced at Thorne.

And that was when Kaelen understood that something was happening that he hadn’t anticipated.

Thorne’s expression was too calm.

Too controlled.

Too absolutely certain.

Thorne looked like a man who knew exactly what was about to happen. Thorne looked like a man who had planned something. Thorne looked like a man who was about to do something that would change everything.

Kaelen’s pale eyes narrowed.

He glanced back at Morgana.

And he understood: whatever was about to happen, it was going to involve her.

***

Thorne sat in his throne and felt the weight of the past two days settle on his shoulders.

Two days of investigation.

Two days of questioning servants, reviewing records, tracing movements, building a case so airtight that no one could deny what had happened.

Two days of working with Simon, to uncover the conspiracy that had been orchestrated against Morgana.

And what he’d found was exactly what he’d expected: lies, manipulation, a careful frame constructed by someone intelligent enough to cover their tracks, careful enough to recruit accomplices, arrogant enough to believe it would never be discovered.

Lady Isolde.

Of course it was Isolde.

Thorne had known it almost immediately. He’d known it from the moment his brother told him Morgana had been arrested.

And now, sitting on his throne, watching Morgana stand in chains in the center of the throne room, Thorne allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.

Because he had already seen the records. He had already spoken with Petyr....the servant whom Simon had found, the servant who had witnessed Isolde taking the necklace from Margot’s chambers.