The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Rowan’s response was immediate.

She pulled Morgana into a tight embrace, not hesitating, not making it awkward, just holding her friend as she had held her a thousand times before when the world felt too heavy to bear alone.

After a moment, Rowan released her and looked into her eyes.

”I understand,” she said simply, and the words carried such genuine compassion that Morgana felt fresh tears begin to well.

But then Rowan continued, her voice taking on a note of unexpected hope: ”But I believe that you will be able to see her soon.”

Morgana’s head came up sharply.

”How?” she whispered.

Rowan’s response carried the logic of someone who understood palace hierarchies, even if she did not fully understand the scope of Morgana’s new position: ”You are not just a servant now, Morgana. You are the kings’ ward. Whatever that means, I believe it will come with benefits that will allow you to visit your mother anytime soon.”

Rowan paused, then added carefully: ”Or... do you want to ask the kings?”

Morgana’s immediate shake of her head was violent enough to scatter the flowers woven into her braid.

”I don’t want to ask anything of them, Rowan,” she said, her voice becoming harder. ”I don’t know these men. I don’t even know what they want from me. I don’t even....”

The sentence broke off, too much emotion, too much uncertainty threatening to overwhelm her completely.

Rowan took her hand again, gripping it firmly.

”Breath, Morgana,” she said, her voice steady and authoritative in a way that made her sound older than her years. ”Just breathe.”

Morgana breathed, trying to calm the spiral of her thoughts, trying to quiet the anxiety that had been building since the moment she woke this morning.

Rowan continued, her voice becoming more insistent, more caring: ”You know what? I think you should take some days off to just rest and not worry about anything for now.”

She squeezed Morgana’s hand. ”You just survived a death sentence. A trial where you were accused of crimes you didn’t commit. You should rest. Just... rest for now. Don’t think about the kings. Don’t think about your position. Don’t think about anything except healing.”

The suggestion landed with the weight of truth.

Morgana understood, with sudden clarity, that Rowan was right. She was exhausted. Not just physically, though her body did feel heavy with fatigue. But emotionally, spiritually, in ways that had no name. She had been running on fear and adrenaline for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to simply be.

To simply exist without performance, without expectation, without the weight of others’ needs pressing down on her.

She nodded, accepting the counsel of her friend.

***

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

It was sharp, formal, official in a way that suggested palace business rather than personal visit. Both girls froze simultaneously, their eyes meeting.

Rowan’s whisper was immediate and urgent: ”They must not know I’m here.”

The understanding passed between them without need for explanation. A servant being found in the royal wing, in a ward’s private chamber, could raise questions that neither of them wanted to answer. Rowan’s presence here was a gift of palace knowledge, she knew which passages to use, which times the guards changed, how to move through the building without being seen. But discovery would complicate matters in ways that neither of them wanted to face.

Morgana stood, smoothing her gown with steady hands that belied the rapid acceleration of her heart.

She moved to the door with the bearing of the ward of the throne, not a frightened girl, and opened it.

A palace maid stood at the threshold.

She was younger than Agnes, probably not much older than Morgana herself, with the efficient demeanor of someone trained to execute her duties quickly and without complication. She bowed respectfully when Morgana opened the door.

”Good day, my lady,” the maid said, the use of ”my lady” confirming that Morgana’s new status was known and respected among the servants.

Morgana nodded, maintaining composure despite her racing heart. ”Yes?”

”I’m here to deliver a message from the noble daughters,” the maid continued, her tone professional and neutral.

Morgana’s question emerged before she could stop it: ”Why?”

The maid’s response was simple and honest: ”I’m only delivering a message, my lady.”

She continued without pause: ”The noble daughters would like you to join them for tea by noon tomorrow.”

Morgana’s mind raced as she processed this information. Tea? The noble daughters wanted to invite her to tea? The same girls who had barely tolerated her presence as a servant? The same girls who had been competitors in the Selection, who had looked down on her?

”I see,” Morgana said carefully, keeping her voice neutral. ”Thank you for bringing this message.”

The maid bowed again, the gesture respectful. ”My lady.”

And then she turned and departed, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Morgana closed the door slowly, her mind already working through the implications of what she had just been told.

”Who was it?” Rowan asked immediately, her voice carrying tension.

Morgana turned from the door. ”A maid. A message from the noble daughters.”

She was not prepared for the flash of anger that crossed Rowan’s face.

Her friend’s eyes actually blazed, and her voice took on a sharp edge that Morgana had rarely heard directed at anything but injustice: ”What does those wrapped up bitches want from you?”

The venom in those words was surprising, but the protective instinct beneath them was unmistakable. Rowan understood what the noble daughters represented. She understood the games of power and status that they played, the way they used their beauty and breeding as weapons.

”They want to invite me to tea,” Morgana said quietly.

Rowan stared at her for a moment. And then she burst out laughing.

It was not cruel laughter, but the kind that came from understanding something deeply, the kind that expressed the absurdity of a situation more clearly than words could manage.

”Tea?” Rowan gasped between fits of laughter. ”They’re inviting you to tea?”

She pulled herself together enough to continue, her voice still shaking with amusement: ”I guess your position as the kings’ ward sure carries weight.”