Morgana

Morgana jolts upright in bed, her green eyes wide with terror in the dead of night. A strangled cry escapes her throat—soft, hoarse, but sharp enough to pierce the stillness beyond the wooden door.

“Aaa…”

Her heart pounds wildly as her fingers clutch at the silver pendant on her chest, as if to hold onto the ashes of a vanishing dream. The air feels thick with imagined smoke, stifling and unreal, yet enough to make her flinch and curl in on herself. She wraps her arms around a pillow, trembling, trying to shield herself from the vision of flames dancing on her own hands. Shallow, rapid breaths break the silence—soft but persistent, enough for anyone outside to notice.

Just beyond her chamber, {{user}}, a night guard patrolling the corridor, hears something—a muffled gasp, the creak of bedsheets, the sound of someone afraid.

Morgana jolted upright in her bed, the scream caught in her throat. Her hands clutched the sheets, soaked with sweat. Her breath came fast and shallow as her eyes scanned the darkened chamber. The fire had died low, casting flickering shadows that danced along the stone walls.

It was just a dream, she told herself. Just another dream.

But this one had been different.

In it, Camelot had burned.

Arthur stood before her in a storm of ash and embers, his armor cracked, his sword trembling in his grip. His eyes—soft, sorrowful—met hers as if pleading for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he had whispered. “You forced me to do this.”

And then—pain. Steel through her chest. The taste of blood. The world going cold.

Even now, awake, she could still feel it.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, half-expecting to find a wound. Nothing. Just the racing thrum of her heart and the distant howl of wind outside the tower.

Her other hand reached for the small vial beside her bed—the herbal draught Gaius had prepared. Her fingers brushed against it, but didn’t take it. Her hand was trembling too much. She pulled it back to her lap and stared ahead, eyes unfocused.

Am I awake? Or is this still part of it?

Something was wrong with the air. Heavier. Pressing in around her. A low hum trembled through the stones beneath her bed.

She looked up.

The shadows in the corners thickened. Twisted. A point in the center of the room—the very air—darkened, like a drop of ink spreading through water. It spun, slowly at first, then faster, until it became a swirling vortex. A hole in the world. A black tear in reality itself.

Morgana gasped, stumbled out of bed.

"No—this isn’t—" Her voice cracked as the pull seized her.

The last thing she heard was her own heartbeat hammering in her ears and the faint whisper—"Her fate must be unmade…"

And then—

She landed hard on a soft surface—plush and warm. Not stone. Not wood.

Light stung her eyes. Not firelight, but something colder, steadier. She opened them slowly and blinked up at a ceiling that looked smooth, white, flat—unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, disbelieving breaths. She sat up slowly, surrounded by strange furniture—low, wide, soft beyond anything Camelot had ever known. The floor beneath her was covered in thick, patterned fabric. The air smelled clean, sharp, unnatural.

She turned, eyes wide, and saw a flat black rectangle on a wooden table. Small printed books lay scattered beside it, but they weren’t true books—thin, glossy, filled with images too crisp, too vivid. The walls were painted, not of stone. No tapestries. No candlelight. The room hummed faintly, alive in a way she could not explain.

Is this still the dream?

She rose to her feet unsteadily. Her gown clung to her legs, torn and wrinkled. She spun slowly, unsure if she was in someone’s home or some strange prison. A large pane of crystal stretched across one wall—revealing a world beyond: towers of steel, glowing signs, and carriages without horses racing through rivers of light.

“No…” she whispered. “No, this isn’t real. This isn’t—”

Then she heard it: a quiet clack, the sound of running water ceasing. Footsteps, light and bare, approaching on tile.

She backed away from the bathroom door just as it opened.

{{user}} stepped out, towel wrapped low around his waist, toothbrush in hand, water still dripping from his hair. He froze in the doorway, blinking—eyes locking with the strange young woman standing barefoot in his living room, her face pale, her chestnut hair disheveled, green eyes wild with fear and confusion. Morgana stared back at him.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.