The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

She paused, letting those words settle like stones into still water.

”Some believe the Mother was lost forever,” Astraea continued. ”That she was destroyed or hidden or simply died and was never reborn. Others believe she was hidden away, protected by those who understood what her existence meant, waiting in some far corner of the world for the right moment to return.”

She looked directly at Morgana, and her pale eyes seemed to contain the weight of two thousand years of waiting.

”I think,” Astraea said carefully, ”that you might be walking toward that title. That the magic that has been dormant, waiting, hoping, might be beginning to wake up inside you. I think you are more than just a girl with the ability to manipulate magic, Morgana. I think you are something that has been waiting to be born for a very long time.”

The moment the words left Astraea’s lips, something fundamental changed in the chamber.

It was subtle at first, a tremor so slight that Morgana almost missed it. But then it grew, intensified, became undeniable.

The candles that lit the chamber flickered wildly, their flames dancing as if caught in a gale-force wind that existed only within the stone walls of this room. The light from the windows seemed to dim, as if Morgana’s magic was drawing all the brightness into itself, consuming it, transforming it into something else entirely.

The frost began at the edges of the windows, delicate crystals forming patterns of such intricate beauty that they looked almost deliberate, almost like they were being painted by an invisible artist. The frost crept across the glass, spreading inward, covering the windows with a layer of ice so clear and perfect that Morgana could still see through it.

And the objects in the chamber began to move.

The books on the nearby table trembled, their spines vibrating against the wood. The scrolls rattled like they were caught in wind. A goblet filled with water began to oscillate, small waves forming on its surface as if something deep beneath the earth was shaking.

Astraea’s white-blonde hair lifted as if caught in a breeze that existed only in this moment, only in this space between two beings of power. It floated around her head in a crown of silver, and she didn’t move to contain it, didn’t flinch or try to shield herself.

Instead, she simply watched.

Morgana gasped, feeling her magic surging through her body like a tidal wave, responding to the truth of Astraea’s words, responding to the acknowledgment of what she was, responding to the prophecy that had been spoken aloud for the first time in her life.

She tried to pull the magic back, to contain it, to apologize for the display of power that she had never intentionally summoned.

But Astraea raised a hand in a gesture that was unmistakably one of acceptance, of welcome, of recognition.

”Don’t,” Astraea said softly. ”Let it be.”

And so Morgana did.

The magic continued to pour out of her, bending the world around her to its will, responding to truth in a way that physical reality had to acknowledge. The candles danced. The frost spread. The objects trembled. Astraea’s hair floated in the invisible wind of Morgana’s power.

And Astraea simply sat, watching, her pale eyes wide with something that was unmistakably awe.

”There,” Astraea said softly, not moving, not flinching from the display of power that was radiating from Morgana in waves. ”That’s what they felt. That’s what the dragons inside them recognized. That’s your true self, Morgana. That’s who you are beneath the mask.”

Slowly, as the words settled, the magic began to subside.

The candles stilled. The frost on the windows began to melt, the ice crystals evaporating into nothingness. The objects on the table stilled. Astraea’s hair fell back around her shoulders like a silver veil.

But the power remained, a thrumming in the air, a sense of presence, a weight that suggested this room now held something far more significant than it had moments before.

”Your magic is tied to truth,” Astraea said quietly, and her voice was awed, reverent, filled with something that sounded like wonder. ”To destiny. To things ancient and powerful and fundamental to the nature of magic itself. That’s why it responds this way. That’s why it erupts when you’re confronted with the reality of what you are.”

She stood slowly and moved to the window, looking out at the palace grounds below that were now cast in early evening light.

”It recognizes truth the way a sword recognizes an enemy,” Astraea continued. ”It responds. It acts. It refuses to be contained.”

Astraea turned back to face Morgana.

”The kings want you,” Astraea said. ”Their dragons want you. The prophecy wants you. Destiny wants you. Everyone with power wants to claim you or control you or use you for their own purposes.”

She moved closer to Morgana, her pale eyes intense.

”But what do YOU want?” Astraea asked. ”That’s the only question that matters, Morgana. That’s the only choice that’s truly, completely, wholly yours to make.”

Morgana opened her mouth, searching for words, searching for an answer that she didn’t possess.

But before she could speak, Astraea raised a hand.

”That’s okay,” she said gently. ”You don’t need to answer that today. You probably don’t even know the answer yet. But you need to ask yourself. You need to understand that every other voice in your life will try to answer it for you. The kings will tell you that you belong with them. The council will tell you that you belong to them. The prophecy will tell you that you’re destined for greatness.”

She stepped even closer, and when she spoke, her voice was almost tender.

”But none of them will ask you what YOU want,” Astraea said. ”And that’s the question that matters most. That’s the choice that will determine everything else. Because power without choice is slavery. And destiny without agency is imprisonment.”