chapter 42

Chapter 42

The carriage rolled through the lonely mountain path, its wheels creaking softly in the silence. The sky above was heavy with cloud, casting a pale gray light upon the world below. Inside the carriage sat a woman, motionless as a statue, draped in robes of black and silver. Her hair, white as fresh snow, spilled down her shoulders like strands of moonlight. Her face, ethereal and flawless, seemed untouched by time, her beauty so otherworldly it hardly belonged to mortal realms.

Suddenly, the carriage halted. No word was spoken from the driver, no sound of hoof nor wheel. Morgana did not question it. She stepped down with unhurried grace and found herself facing the abrupt end of the path. Before her rose a great stone wall, ancient and cracked, but pulsing faintly with unseen power.

Without pause, Morgana stepped forward and passed into the wall. Her form vanished like smoke.

On the other side, the air was thick and electric. A dark sky churned above, laced with purple lightning that danced across black clouds. The land stretched barren and twisted, and at its heart stood a castle—a grotesque thing of jagged spires and crooked towers, forged from stone as dark as obsidian.

Morgana lifted the edge of her cloak, walking the narrow path that led to the castle gates. There, standing guard, were two creatures—not human, not beast, but something forgotten by time. Towering and hunched, their flesh was gray and scaled, with arms too long and eyes glowing like burning coal. Horns curved from their skulls, and their mouths bristled with sharp, uneven fangs.

Morgana raised a hand and spoke in a language older than kingdoms:

"Zentha'al kra morith ne'drel."

("The bound servant returns to the flame.")

The wind answered with a howl, sweeping her silver hair back as the creatures bowed their heads and parted. She entered.

Inside the castle, the halls writhed with life. Creatures like those at the gate moved with purpose—carrying scrolls, grinding bones, pouring blood into carved bowls. None dared meet Morgana's gaze as she passed. She descended into the lower halls, into the chamber of gathering.

There they sat—seven of them—at a long blackened table lit by green flame. As she entered, silence fell. All eyes turned to her.

"Join us," said the figure at the table's end. He bore a wide scar across his face, and one of his arms ended not in flesh, but in a gnarled limb of living iron, clawed and ever-shifting.

Morgana stepped forward and folded her arms across her chest. "Great One," she intoned with reverence. The man dipped his head in acknowledgment, and she took her seat.

"We need to strike now, while the iron is hot," said a chubby man to the left, his fingers stained with ink and blood.

"We must be cautious," said another, his voice raspy, his eyes sunken.

A woman in red silk, her pupils slitted like a serpent's, spoke: "We must prepare for Sevrath Zolmûn."

("The Evil One.")

"Razel is right," rumbled the Great One in his deep, ancient voice. He turned his gaze to Morgana. "And what say you?"

All eyes again turned to her.

Morgana's voice was smooth as still water, cold as ice. "We must prepare for Sevrath Zolmûn's return. But the world must be shaped for his arrival. There is much work to be done."

"And what do you propose?" asked the Great One.

"Humans are weak and blind. They feast on their pride and devour one another with envy and suspicion. We need only plant a seed—whisper a lie, ignite a flame—and they shall burn their own houses down. Their chaos will be our offering. The sacrifice shall be ripe."

A silence followed, then murmurs of approval echoed through the room.

The Great One nodded. "Then so it shall be."

The gathering ended.

Later, in a shadowed chamber lit by dull green fire, Morgana stood before the Great One once more.

"And how fare the Aragon?" he asked, his voice low.

"I hold one of their blood," Morgana answered. "The dead daughter."

"Good," he said with dark satisfaction. "When the stars align and the gate cracks open, we shall need an Aragon's blood for the ritual."

Morgana lowered her head. "It shall be ready."

She turned and left. As she stepped out into the howling wind, her silver hair caught the light of lightning. She paused, gazing back at the castle, its dark towers piercing the sky like claws.

Then, drawing her cloak over her head, she vanished once more into the wall, the storm behind her swallowing all trace.

The world was still unaware. But the tide was turning.