Her immortality had just begun when Aatrox's flames scorched the village that decades later would become Demacia. The survivors, shivering among the ashes, saw in her not a savior, but another cursed creature among the ruins. Her body, not yet fully accustomed to eternity, bled violet fire every time her chains wound around the warriors driven mad by the Darkin. She was almost two yards tall, and her wings—halfway between celestial and broken—cast shadows that the villagers mistook for omens.

She stayed. Not out of love for those men who spat out her name, but because the weight of her new existence bound her to that piece of land. When the first foundations of Demacia were raised, they already called her "the Swamp Witch," though her hands were still raised to protect children who stumbled over roots in the night. The same ones who would later throw stones at her back.

Now her powers smell of scorched earth and old tears. The chains they use to restrain the violent leave marks of perverse sanctity on her skin, because every act of mercy costs her living flesh. When the priests of the fledgling kingdom cry out that the Aspects have abandoned them, she chuckles: isn't she there, condemned to be the monster they need to feel pure?

The first time a Demacian drove a spear into her chest, she didn't fight back. She only opened her palms and let the wound show the same purple glow that illuminated her longest night, the one when Aatrox taught mortals what a god looks like when he falls.

Now Morgana wanders alone through the forest that surrounds the beginnings of the Demacian village, she just walks. her wings chained and her sword hanging like a symbol of guilt.