The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The comment was casual, delivered with the ease of someone who understood exactly what had transpired in these chambers, and Morgana’s entire body flushed a deep, burning red.

Rowan looked at Morgana curled up in the enormous bed, her dark hair spilled across white pillows, her skin bearing the unmistakable marks of passion, and she shook her head slowly before walking toward the bed.

”Morgana,” she said, reaching out to gently shake her friend awake. ”Morgana, get up.”

But before Rowan could finish, Agnes made a deliberate sound....a soft clearing of her throat that carried a wealth of meaning.

Rowan froze immediately, understanding in an instant what she had just done.

She had called her ”Morgana.”

Not ”my lady.”

Not ”Lady Morgana.”

Just... Morgana.

In a palace where every word was measured, every title mattered, every formality was observed, she had just slipped into intimate familiarity in front of witnesses.

Rowan’s face flushed, and she quickly adjusted, turning to Morgana with a expression of careful propriety.

”My lady,” she said, her voice now perfectly formal, ”it’s time to get up.”

Morgana’s eyes fluttered open again, still heavy with sleep, and for a moment she smiled at her friend without thinking about anything else.

”Rowan calling me ’my lady,’” she said, her voice still hoarse from the exertion of the night before, ”is the sun rising from the wrong side this morning?”

But then she saw Rowan’s stiff posture. She saw Agnes’s expression....not unkind, but knowing. She saw the other maids exchanging glances, clearly trying not to smile.

And understanding crashed down on her like a wave.

They all knew.

They all KNEW what had happened.

The color drained from her face as suddenly as it had flooded into it, replaced by an even deeper blush as she became acutely aware of exactly what she must look like. Her hair was completely disheveled. Her skin bore the marks of passionate hands and lips....bruises on her neck, on her shoulders, on her breasts where they were visible above the sheet. There was a tenderness to her entire body that spoke of hours spent being thoroughly claimed.

She cleared her throat and attempted to sit up, trying to muster whatever dignity she could salvage.

”Good morning, Agnes,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, attempting to sound as proper and ladylike as possible given the circumstances.

The old woman shook her head with a slight smile and moved to the bed, beginning to adjust the pillows so that Morgana could sit comfortably.

”Good morning, my lady,” Agnes replied, her tone carrying no judgment, only a kind of knowing understanding that came from decades of experience in a palace full of passion and intrigue.

She gestured to the maids, and they stepped forward, placing their trays on a nearby table.

”His Majesty asked me to come attend to you, my lady,” Agnes said, her weathered hands fluffing pillows with efficient care. ”He wanted to ensure you had everything you needed.”

Morgana felt her face burning again at the implication of those words.

She looked at the trays the maids had brought....one laden with food of every variety, clearly designed to restore energy and strength, and another with various jars and bottles of salves and oils that were distinctly meant for soothing sore muscles and tender skin.

”Thank you, Agnes,” Morgana said quietly, not quite able to meet anyone’s eyes.

Agnes settled her against the pillows with the efficiency of long practice, arranging them so that Morgana was comfortable enough to eat. The old woman’s movements were gentle, her hands careful, her expression maternal in a way that suggested she had done this many times before for many different people.

The maids arranged the food within easy reach, and Agnes began to move about the room with quiet efficiency, gathering Morgana’s scattered clothing and folding it carefully.

***

As Morgana picked at the food....fresh bread, soft cheese, fruit, honey cakes that smelled heavenly, Agnes paused in her work and turned to her.

”His Majesty asked me to tell you something, my lady,” the old woman said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

Morgana’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Her heart had already begun to race.

”He said to tell you that he has some duties to attend to this morning and so he won’t be able to accompany you,” Agnes continued, and Morgana felt a small, irrational pang of disappointment despite knowing this was inevitable. ”But he said you would be having dinner with them this evening.”

The food suddenly felt very difficult to swallow.

Morgana’s face burned so intensely she thought she might actually catch fire. She focused very deliberately on the plate in front of her, on the bread and cheese, on anything that wasn’t Agnes’s knowing expression or Rowan’s carefully neutral face.

Dinner. With all three kings.

The implication was staggering.

She picked at the food mechanically, not tasting it, her mind spinning with questions and implications and a feeling that was somewhere between anticipation and terror.

Agnes continued her work, moving about the room with the easy confidence of someone who had seen this exact scenario play out many times before.

Rowan stood quietly by the window, watching Morgana with an expression that was difficult to read.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward silence, Morgana finally set down her plate.

”I should return to my own chambers,” she said quietly. ”To change. To... prepare for the day.”

Agnes nodded as if she had been expecting this.

”Of course, my lady,” the old woman said, moving to help her up.

The maids assisted, and Morgana found herself being dressed in fresh clothes....a simple day gown of pale green that was far less impressive than the gowns she’d been wearing since arriving at the palace, but somehow more comfortable. Her hair was brushed and arranged in a simple braid, her face was washed, and she was made as presentable as possible given the circumstances.

Throughout the process, she could feel Rowan’s eyes on her, could sense her friend’s barely-contained anxiety, could feel the weight of questions that Rowan was clearly desperate to ask but wouldn’t, not with Agnes and the maids present.