The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The stew was bland but warm, and Morgana was too hungry to care.

”Not bad for prison food,” Rowan said, tearing off a piece of bread.

Morgana snorted. ”Is that what this is?”

”Might as well be. We’re locked in here for a year.”

”We’re not locked in.”

”Aren’t we?” Rowan gestured around the room. ”Look at us. We wake before dawn. We work until we drop. We eat whatever scraps they throw at us. And we do it all over again tomorrow.”

Morgana didn’t argue. She couldn’t.

Because Rowan was right.

***

They were just finishing their meal when Mistress Calla appeared at the front of the hall.

The room fell silent.

Calla’s sharp gaze swept over them, and Morgana felt her stomach tighten.

”Listen carefully,” Calla said, her voice cutting through the quiet. ”Tonight, there will be a banquet in the great hall. A formal welcome for the noble daughters who have come to court.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

Calla raised a hand, and the murmurs stopped.

”Some of you will be required to serve,” she continued. ”You will dress in clean aprons. You will keep your eyes down and your mouths shut. You will refill cups, clear plates, and stay out of the way. Any mistakes will reflect poorly on this household, and on me. Is that understood?”

A chorus of ”Yes, Mistress” rose from the room.

Calla consulted her ledger. ”The following girls will report to the kitchens at sundown for assignments.”

She began reading names.

Morgana’s heart sank when she heard her own.

”Morgana of Ashford. Rowan of Ashford...”

Rowan’s eyes went wide.

”...you will serve the high table.”

Morgana’s breath caught.

The high table.

That meant the kings.

Calla finished the list and looked up. ”The rest of you will continue with your regular duties. Dismissed.”

The room erupted into motion as the girls stood and began clearing their plates.

Rowan grabbed Morgana’s arm, her face pale. ”The high table. Morgana, that’s....”

”I know.”

”We’ll be right in front of them. The kings.”

”I know.”

Rowan’s grip tightened. ”What if we mess up? What if...”

”We won’t.” Morgana’s voice was firmer than she felt. ”We’ll do exactly what we’re told. Keep our heads down. Stay invisible.”

Rowan nodded, though she didn’t look convinced.

Morgana wasn’t convinced either.

But what choice did they have?

***

The afternoon passed in a blur.

More cleaning. More hauling. More running up and down endless staircases with armfuls of linens and buckets of water.

By the time the sun began to set, Morgana’s entire body ached.

But there was no time to rest.

At sundown, she and Rowan reported to the kitchens.

The place was absolute chaos.

Cooks shouted orders over the roar of fires and the clatter of pots. Scullery maids ran back and forth with trays and platters. The air was thick with steam and smoke and the smell of roasting meat.

A harried-looking woman with flour in her hair thrust clean aprons at Morgana and Rowan.

”Put these on. You’ll be carrying wine and clearing plates. Do not spill anything. Do not speak unless spoken to. And for the love of the gods, do not stare.”

”Yes, ma’am,” Morgana said, tying the apron around her waist.

The woman nodded and turned away, already barking orders at someone else.

Rowan leaned close. ”I think I’m going to be sick.”

”Don’t you dare.”

”I’m serious. My stomach...”

”Breathe.” Morgana grabbed her hand and squeezed. ”We’ll be fine. Just follow my lead.”

Rowan nodded, though her face was still pale.

Around them, the kitchen continued its frenzied preparations. Platters of roasted pheasant and glazed pork were carried out. Tureens of soup. Baskets of bread. Flagons of wine.

It was a feast fit for royalty.

Which, Morgana supposed, it was.

Finally.....finally.....the head cook clapped his hands.

”Serving girls! Line up!”

Morgana and Rowan joined the line of girls waiting by the kitchen doors.

The head cook walked down the row, assigning each girl a task. Morgana was given a flagon of wine. Rowan was handed a tray of goblets.

”When the doors open,” the cook said, ”you walk in quietly. You serve efficiently. You do not draw attention. Understood?”

”Yes, sir.”

He nodded toward the doors. ”Go.”

The doors swung open.

And Morgana stepped into the great hall.

It was breathtaking.

The hall was enormous, vaulted ceilings soaring overhead, massive chandeliers dripping with candles, tapestries covering the walls in rich reds and golds. Long tables stretched the length of the room, already filled with nobles in silk and velvet.

And at the far end, on a raised dais, sat the high table.

Morgana’s breath caught.

There were three chairs.

But only one was occupied.

A man sat at the center, his posture relaxed but commanding. He was dressed in dark, elegant clothing, black leather and deep crimson, and his hair was dark, falling just past his shoulders.

And his eyes...

Even from across the room, Morgana could see them.

Gold.

Burning.

Draeven.

The first king.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

”Move,” someone hissed behind her.

Morgana forced herself to walk forward, following the other serving girls toward the tables.

She kept her eyes down.

But she could feel him.

Even as she moved through the room, refilling goblets and staying out of the way, she could feel his gaze.

Burning.

Watching.

She didn’t dare look up.

But when she finally did, just for a second, just a glance...

He was staring directly at her.