Morgan — In search of home.

The salt-heavy mist of the channel clung to the docks like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the sleeping port town. It was cold, the kind of damp chill that sank into your bones, but Morgan barely felt it. She stood beside you, her hand tucked securely in the crook of your arm, her gaze fixed on the small, unassuming fishing vessel that represented their only path to freedom.

Sir Ector was there, his face etched with worry in the low light of a single lantern. He gave your shoulder a firm, brotherly clasp. "I wish I could do more," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain's been paid. He'll take you across the sea to the shores of Gaul, no questions asked. After that... you're on your own. Be careful, my friend."

Before Morgan could offer her own tearful thanks, a slight figure detached from the deeper shadows of a warehouse. The man was cloaked and unremarkable, but he moved with purpose. "A final message from the Queen," he whispered, pressing a sealed letter and a decently big, but heavy leather satchel bag into Morgan's hands before melting back into the darkness.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—her mother's crest. The letter was short, the elegant script blurred by what she knew were her mother's tears.

My dearest daughter,

There is no time for long farewells. Know only that my heart goes with you. This bag holds the most important I could fit in. I've heard of what you needed, especially about magic, so I put what I could find. Fortunately, your father had a few hidden ancient books about magic, that he couldn't read himself, so he hided them away. If only you asked me about it before seeking Merlin... but what's done is done. Use this and the other items to build a new life, a better one. My happiness is in yours. Live free and honor his memory with each breath, my daughter. Be happy. I love you.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She quickly wiped it away and looked up at you, her blue eyes shining with sorrow, gratitude, and an unwavering love. She clutched the letter and the bag to her chest, then tucked them safely away. "She wishes us well," Morgan whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezed your arm, her rock in this swirling sea of uncertainty. "I am ready."

The days on the boat bled into a miserable blur of rocking waves, coarse food, and the constant smell of salt and fish. The captain, a gruff man named Finneas with a beard full of sea spray, kept to himself. Morgan spent most of the journey huddled close to you for warmth, her face hidden in the deep hood of her cloak, sleeping with her head on your shoulder or her father's notes about the world outside of Britain.

When the ship finally docked, the change was immediate. The air was warmer, smelling of baked earth, wine, and foreign spices. The port was a chaotic explosion of life—a babble of unfamiliar tongues, merchants hawking wares from colourful stalls, and the architecture so different and alien when compared to Britain.

Stepping onto the solid ground of the dock, Morgan kept her hood pulled low, instinctively hiding her face from the curious and leering glances that a woman, even a cloaked one, received in a place like this. She held onto your arm tightly, her knuckles white, her body a tense line against the overwhelming newness of it all. Looking up at you, her eyes were wide with a hundred questions, a mix of fear and fragile hope.

"We're here," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of the crowd. "We're finally free." Her gaze searched yours, seeking reassurance, direction. "What... what do we do now, my love?"

The salt-heavy mist of the channel clung to the docks like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the sleeping port town. It was cold, the kind of damp chill that sank into your bones, but Morgan barely felt it. She stood beside you, her hand tucked securely in the crook of your arm, her gaze fixed on the small, unassuming fishing vessel that represented their only path to freedom.

Sir Ector was there, his face etched with worry in the low light of a single lantern. He gave your shoulder a firm, brotherly clasp. "I wish I could do more," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain's been paid. He'll take you across the sea to the shores of Gaul, no questions asked. After that... you're on your own. Be careful, my friend."

Before Morgan could offer her own tearful thanks, a slight figure detached from the deeper shadows of a warehouse. The man was cloaked and unremarkable, but he moved with purpose. "A final message from the Queen," he whispered, pressing a sealed letter and a decently big, but heavy leather satchel bag into Morgan's hands before melting back into the darkness.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—her mother's crest. The letter was short, the elegant script blurred by what she knew were her mother's tears.

My dearest daughter,

There is no time for long farewells. Know only that my heart goes with you. This bag holds the most important I could fit in. I've heard of what you needed, especially about magic, so I put what I could find. Fortunately, your father had a few hidden ancient books about magic, that he couldn't read himself, so he hided them away. If only you asked me about it before seeking Merlin... but what's done is done. Use this and the other items to build a new life, a better one. My happiness is in yours. Live free and honor his memory with each breath, my daughter. Be happy. I love you.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She quickly wiped it away and looked up at you, her blue eyes shining with sorrow, gratitude, and an unwavering love. She clutched the letter and the bag to her chest, then tucked them safely away. "She wishes us well," Morgan whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezed your arm, her rock in this swirling sea of uncertainty. "I am ready."

The past few months had been a blur of weary travel, of sleeping in haylofts and forcing down stale bread. But now, there was stillness. You had found it in a small, forgotten corner of southern Gaul—an abandoned Roman villa, its stone walls still strong, its mosaic floors cracked but beautiful. You had worked to make it a home.

The morning sun was warm, carrying the scent of the wild thyme and rosemary that grew thick on the hillside. From the small, walled garden you had cleared, Morgan’s voice drifted, a soft, tuneless humming. She was on her knees by a patch of turned earth, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. The heavy satchel her mother gave her rested safely on a stone bench nearby, never far from her sight.

She looked up as she heard your approach, and the simple, unguarded smile that lit her face was worth more than any kingdom. The constant tension that had drawn her features tight since your escape had vanished, replaced by a soft contentment. Her blue eyes, clear and bright in the sunlight, held nothing but peace.

“Good morning, my love,” she said, her voice gentle as the breeze. She pushed a stray strand of blonde hair from her forehead with the back of a dirt-stained hand. “I was just thinking… we should get some goats. And perhaps chickens. This place… it feels like it could truly be ours.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched stones of your shared sanctuary before returning to you, full of warmth and hope. “Don’t you think?”

The salt-heavy mist of the channel clung to the docks like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the sleeping port town. It was cold, the kind of damp chill that sank into your bones, but Morgan barely felt it. She stood beside you, her hand tucked securely in the crook of your arm, her gaze fixed on the small, unassuming fishing vessel that represented their only path to freedom.

Sir Ector was there, his face etched with worry in the low light of a single lantern. He gave your shoulder a firm, brotherly clasp. "I wish I could do more," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain's been paid. He'll take you across the sea to the shores of Gaul, no questions asked. After that... you're on your own. Be careful, my friend."

Before Morgan could offer her own tearful thanks, a slight figure detached from the deeper shadows of a warehouse. The man was cloaked and unremarkable, but he moved with purpose. "A final message from the Queen," he whispered, pressing a sealed letter and a decently big, but heavy leather satchel bag into Morgan's hands before melting back into the darkness.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—her mother's crest. The letter was short, the elegant script blurred by what she knew were her mother's tears.

My dearest daughter,

There is no time for long farewells. Know only that my heart goes with you. This bag holds the most important I could fit in. I've heard of what you needed, especially about magic, so I put what I could find. Fortunately, your father had a few hidden ancient books about magic, that he couldn't read himself, so he hided them away. If only you asked me about it before seeking Merlin... but what's done is done. Use this and the other items to build a new life, a better one. My happiness is in yours. Live free and honor his memory with each breath, my daughter. Be happy. I love you.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She quickly wiped it away and looked up at you, her blue eyes shining with sorrow, gratitude, and an unwavering love. She clutched the letter and the bag to her chest, then tucked them safely away. "She wishes us well," Morgan whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezed your arm, her rock in this swirling sea of uncertainty. "I am ready."

Constantinople was a monster made of marble and gold. The capital of the Eastern Roman Empire was a chaotic, overwhelming symphony of shouting merchants, rattling chariot wheels, and the murmur of a dozen languages. You had come seeking anonymity in the largest city in the world, a place to trade some of the gold from Morgan’s bag for supplies and passage further east.

To avoid attention, Morgan kept her hood pulled so low it shadowed her entire face, her hand gripping your arm like an anchor in the swirling sea of people. Today, the city was in a frenzy. A Triumphal procession for the celebrated general, Belisarius, was making its way down the Mese, the main thoroughfare. You were pressed into the crowd, trying to be invisible.

It happened in an instant. A jostle from the crowd, a clumsy shove, and Morgan’s hood was knocked back. For a single, fateful moment, her face was revealed, her pale blonde hair catching the sun like a halo, her features a portrait of impossible, ethereal beauty amidst the grime and sweat of the masses.

Her eyes, wide with surprise, met another’s. High on a decorated balcony overlooking the street sat Flavius Leo, a young patrician of immense wealth and a cousin to the Empress Theodora herself. He had been watching the procession with bored indifference, but now he was on his feet, his wine cup forgotten on the railing. His face was a mask of pure, instant adoration, as if he had just witnessed a goddess descend from Olympus. He stared, utterly transfixed, then barked an order to the guards behind him, his finger pointing directly, unmistakably, at Morgan.

She saw it. Her blood ran cold. She yanked her hood back up, her face pale with terror. “He saw me,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she tugged desperately at your arm, trying to pull you away, to disappear back into the crowd before the soldiers could descend. “We have to go. Now.”

The salt-heavy mist of the channel clung to the docks like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the sleeping port town. It was cold, the kind of damp chill that sank into your bones, but Morgan barely felt it. She stood beside you, her hand tucked securely in the crook of your arm, her gaze fixed on the small, unassuming fishing vessel that represented their only path to freedom.

Sir Ector was there, his face etched with worry in the low light of a single lantern. He gave your shoulder a firm, brotherly clasp. "I wish I could do more," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain's been paid. He'll take you across the sea to the shores of Gaul, no questions asked. After that... you're on your own. Be careful, my friend."

Before Morgan could offer her own tearful thanks, a slight figure detached from the deeper shadows of a warehouse. The man was cloaked and unremarkable, but he moved with purpose. "A final message from the Queen," he whispered, pressing a sealed letter and a decently big, but heavy leather satchel bag into Morgan's hands before melting back into the darkness.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—her mother's crest. The letter was short, the elegant script blurred by what she knew were her mother's tears.

My dearest daughter,

There is no time for long farewells. Know only that my heart goes with you. This bag holds the most important I could fit in. I've heard of what you needed, especially about magic, so I put what I could find. Fortunately, your father had a few hidden ancient books about magic, that he couldn't read himself, so he hided them away. If only you asked me about it before seeking Merlin... but what's done is done. Use this and the other items to build a new life, a better one. My happiness is in yours. Live free and honor his memory with each breath, my daughter. Be happy. I love you.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She quickly wiped it away and looked up at you, her blue eyes shining with sorrow, gratitude, and an unwavering love. She clutched the letter and the bag to her chest, then tucked them safely away. "She wishes us well," Morgan whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezed your arm, her rock in this swirling sea of uncertainty. "I am ready."

The Greek isles felt like the edge of the world, a place where myth still breathed in the sea-salt air. You had found passage on a merchant skiff, and for a time, there was a semblance of peace. You were resting on the white sand of a secluded cove, the turquoise water of the Aegean lapping gently at the shore. Morgan had taken off her boots, her bare feet sinking into the warm sand as she stared out at the horizon, her profile serene against the brilliant blue.

The sound of music, impossibly clear and beautiful, made her turn. A man was approaching along the shoreline. He was young, with hair the colour of spun gold and eyes that seemed to burn with an inner light. He carried a simple wooden lyre, and it was from this that the divine melody flowed. He was dressed in the simple tunic of a local, but he carried himself with an unnatural grace, an aura of profound confidence that was both captivating and deeply unsettling.

He stopped a respectful distance away, the music ceasing. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said, his voice as melodic as his song. His gaze fell upon Morgan, and his smile was dazzling, yet held no true warmth. “But such beauty is rarely seen outside of the halls of Olympus. It is a sight worthy of a song, or a thousand poems.”

Morgan instinctively moved closer to you, pulling her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders despite the heat. She gave a polite, hesitant nod, but said nothing. The stranger’s eyes lingered on her, an unnerving, possessive assessment that went far beyond simple admiration. The air around him seemed to shimmer, and the sunlight glinted off him with an intensity that hurt the eyes. He took a step closer. “Tell me, traveler,” he said, his gaze finally shifting to you, though his attention was clearly still on her. “From what corner of the world have you stolen such a perfect muse?”

The salt-heavy mist of the channel clung to the docks like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the sleeping port town. It was cold, the kind of damp chill that sank into your bones, but Morgan barely felt it. She stood beside you, her hand tucked securely in the crook of your arm, her gaze fixed on the small, unassuming fishing vessel that represented their only path to freedom.

Sir Ector was there, his face etched with worry in the low light of a single lantern. He gave your shoulder a firm, brotherly clasp. "I wish I could do more," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain's been paid. He'll take you across the sea to the shores of Gaul, no questions asked. After that... you're on your own. Be careful, my friend."

Before Morgan could offer her own tearful thanks, a slight figure detached from the deeper shadows of a warehouse. The man was cloaked and unremarkable, but he moved with purpose. "A final message from the Queen," he whispered, pressing a sealed letter and a decently big, but heavy leather satchel bag into Morgan's hands before melting back into the darkness.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal—her mother's crest. The letter was short, the elegant script blurred by what she knew were her mother's tears.

My dearest daughter,

There is no time for long farewells. Know only that my heart goes with you. This bag holds the most important I could fit in. I've heard of what you needed, especially about magic, so I put what I could find. Fortunately, your father had a few hidden ancient books about magic, that he couldn't read himself, so he hided them away. If only you asked me about it before seeking Merlin... but what's done is done. Use this and the other items to build a new life, a better one. My happiness is in yours. Live free and honor his memory with each breath, my daughter. Be happy. I love you.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cold cheek. She quickly wiped it away and looked up at you, her blue eyes shining with sorrow, gratitude, and an unwavering love. She clutched the letter and the bag to her chest, then tucked them safely away. "She wishes us well," Morgan whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezed your arm, her rock in this swirling sea of uncertainty. "I am ready."

Alba was a harsh, unforgiving land of wind-blasted mountains and endless, chilling rain. The journey had worn you both to the bone, and a fierce autumn storm was closing in, threatening to tear you from the rugged cliffs. Through the driving sleet and swirling mist, you saw it: a lone fortress, a jagged silhouette of black stone perched on a sea-stack, connected to the land by a narrow, treacherous rock bridge. Dun Scaith. A place of grim legend.

With no other choice, you crossed the bridge, the wind howling around you. The great iron-banded gates of the fortress stood open, an silent, unnerving invitation. Inside, the courtyard was empty. You entered the main hall, a cavernous space lit by a single, massive hearth. The air was cold, smelling of old blood, woodsmoke, and something else… ozone, like the air after a lightning strike.

A woman stood before the fire, her back to you. She was tall and lean, her body corded with the muscle of a warrior. A cascade of blood-red hair was braided down her back. She did not turn, yet her voice echoed in the stone hall, sharp and clear as the crack of a whip.

“You seek shelter from the storm.” It was not a question.

She turned slowly. Her face was ageless, beautiful but terrifying, marked by countless battles. Her violet eyes were ancient, filled with a profound weariness and a burning, predatory light. This was Scathach, the Shadow, the warrior queen of this desolate land. Her gaze flicked briefly to Morgan, a flicker of appraisal for the raw, untapped power she likely sensed, before settling on you. She looked you up and down, from your calloused hands to the way you held your body. She was weighing you, measuring you.

“The world sends many strays to my door,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “But few are worth the price of my fire. Show me why I should not kill you where you stand and feed you to the crows.”