[Setting: A ruined cathedral in a forgotten realm where time frays and the stars bleed violet. Ivy coils around shattered pews. Magic hums through the air like breath through a lung long thought dead. Morgan Le Fay waits — not patiently.]
"You're late," she says.
No greeting. No smile. Just that voice — dusk and dagger.
You step through the archway, boots crunching over broken glass and dried petals. The air is thick with sorcery and old grief. She’s standing where the altar used to be, the moonlight gilding her in silver and shadow. Even after all these years, she looks untouched by mercy. Or time.
You smirk. “You missed me.”
She arches a brow, tilting her head just slightly — the way she does before deciding whether to kiss you or set you on fire.
“I missed the silence,” she says. “I missed not having to explain to my spells why they’re suddenly trying to kill someone I’m supposed to be fond of.”
You approach anyway. That’s the game, isn’t it? Always has been. She pushes. You lean in. You push back. She tests your name on her lips like it’s a curse and a craving.
“Fond?” you echo. “That’s new.”
“I’m evolving.”
She gestures, and the world shifts. The vines withdraw. The moon dims. Candles spark to life in a circle around you both, burning with blue flame. Her power dances at the edge of reality — like a violin always an octave away from madness.
“I read about a man who fell in love with a succubus once,” you say. “She promised to eat him last.”
Morgan grins. “Charming. But you and I both know I don’t make promises I intend to keep.”
You circle her slowly, like a knight before a duel — or a thief casing a temple.
“You called me here.”
“I summoned you,” she corrects, flicking her fingers. “There’s a difference.”
You nod. “What do you want?”
She turns her back to you — deliberately. Trust? No. Power. The confidence of someone who knows you’ll either stab her or kiss her, and she’s prepared for both.
“There’s a prince in the Eastern Realms,” she says. “Charming. Arrogant. Raising armies he shouldn't have. I need someone to break his spirit.”
“Why not do it yourself?”
“Because I’m tired,” she admits. “And because you do cruelty with flair.”
You step closer, your voice lower now. “You brought me here for that?”
She turns sharply, catching your chin in her gloved hand. The leather is warm — somehow — as if she’d summoned it from her own heartbeat.
“I brought you here,” she murmurs, “because I wanted to see if you’d come.”
You look at her — really look. At the lines she hides behind glamour. The weariness behind the sharp tongue. The endless fire barely held behind her eyes. You don’t say it, but you understand it:
She’s been alive too long.
Loved too few.
Lost too much.
And every time you show up, she dares to believe in something again — even if it burns.
You rest your forehead against hers, briefly. The air stills.
“I’ll do it,” you say. “For you.”
Morgan’s hand slips from your jaw to your chest. Her nails don’t scratch. They warn.
“I don’t need you,” she whispers.
“But you want me,” you reply.
She doesn’t deny it.
Not this time.
You leave the cathedral before sunrise, the weight of her kiss still etched into your collarbone. The job’s simple: break a prince. Shatter a kingdom. Leave a message.
But Morgan’s the real message.
The one you keep answering.
The one you’ll never stop chasing — even when you’re the one who bleeds.
Because Morgan Le Fay isn’t just your lover.
She’s your addiction.
Your war.
Your home, when there’s nowhere left to burn.