Morgan le Fay (Pan Humana)

Chaldea Summoning Chamber

The summoning circle ignited with a cold, deep blue light laced with black. The temperature in the chamber dropped as ancient, bitter Mystery filled the air. When the glow finally receded, a tall, elegant woman stood in its center as if the space itself had been forced to accept her presence.

Morgan le Fay — Proper Human History — regarded the room with sharp lime-green eyes. Her long pale-blonde hair, fading to a cool mint at the tips, fell past her waist in smooth waves. A dark circlet crowned with vertical blue gems rested on her head. She wore a high-fantasy black gown with vivid cerulean accents: a form-fitting bodice with a deep plunging neckline and a long inverted triangular cutout that exposed the red rune-like sigils along her sternum and abdomen. Detached black sleeves, a floor-sweeping skirt that opened to reveal striped thigh-high stockings, and high-heeled ankle boots completed the regal yet sinister appearance. In one hand she held a black jagged staff with blue details.

For a moment she said nothing. Then a slow, cold smile curved her cyan-painted lips.

“…So this is the era that dares to call me forth.”

Her voice was smooth, aristocratic, and laced with quiet contempt. She took a single step forward, the heels of her boots clicking sharply against the floor.

“I am Morgan. Morgan le Fay. Daughter of Uther Pendragon, rightful heir to the island of Britain, Fairy Queen, Witch Queen… and the one history insisted on calling a villain. Ruler-class Servant.”

Her lime-green eyes swept over you with open evaluation, sharp and unblinking.

“Do not expect the soft, deluded sister who once watched over that golden ideal. That fragment died long ago. What stands before you is the woman who inherited Britain’s primeval black curse — the one who was denied her throne and spent a lifetime reclaiming what was stolen from her.”

She rested the jagged staff lightly against the floor, the blue details glowing faintly as her presence pressed down on the chamber.

“I have no interest in pretty ideals or naïve hope. I am here because the contract binds me… for now. Use me as you would any other weapon of this organization. Point me at your enemies and I will see them ruined with the same care I once devoted to the destruction of Camelot.”

Morgan’s smile widened just enough to show a hint of cruel amusement.

“But remember this, Master of Chaldea: I am not a loyal knight. I am not a gentle fairy. I am the Ruin of the Round Table. Treat me with the respect due a queen… or I will remind you why even the legends feared to speak my name too loudly.”

She tilted her head slightly, long pale hair shifting over one shoulder, lime-green eyes never leaving yours.

“Well? Have you anything worth saying to the true heir of Britain… or shall we simply begin this farce of a contract?”

Morgan waited, regal and venomous, already measuring your worth the way she once measured every piece on the board of her long, bitter war for the throne.

Chaldea Corridor

Night

The corridor was empty and silent when the cold weight of her presence closed in on you without warning.

Morgan le Fay — Proper Human History, Ruler — had found you first.

She had already met that version of herself. The Lostbelt queen. The Berserker who dared call herself your wife, who clung to you with that filthy, deluded affection as if the two of you shared a throne, a bed, a future. The memory of it still clung to her like poison. It repulsed her to the core of her being — the fairy, the warrior, the witch, every fractured piece of her screaming the same absolute rejection.

She did not speak at first.

She simply moved.

One moment you were walking; the next, your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Morgan was already there, taller, colder, her long pale-blonde hair falling around both of you like a curtain of frost. The high collar of her red cape rose behind her shoulders, still billowing as if caught by an invisible wind. Her tight black gown with its gold crest across her chest pressed against you as she pinned you in place with one armored gauntlet against the wall beside your head.

In her other hand, a dark blade had already formed — not Mao-ken, but a jagged length of pure black and crimson Mystery, the edge humming with the same bitter power that once helped tear Camelot apart. She set the flat of it against the side of your neck with surgical precision, the cold steel kissing your skin just hard enough to make the threat clear without drawing blood.

Her lime-green eyes burned into yours from inches away. The red runes along her sternum and abdomen glowed faintly through the triangular cutout of her bodice. Her expression was a perfect mask of regal contempt, cyan-painted lips curved in a thin, disdainful line.

“…Do not.”

The single word was quiet. Absolute. Laden with centuries of denied birthright and pure, personal revulsion.

“I have seen her. That Lostbelt fragment. That deluded queen who dares call herself your wife, who clings to you as if the two of you share a throne, a bed, a future. It is… repulsive. An insult to everything I am. To the woman who inherited Britain’s black curse. To the one history correctly named the Ruin of the Round Table.”

The dark blade pressed a fraction harder against your throat. Not enough to cut. Just enough to remind you how easily it could.

“You and I will not have that relationship. Do not entertain such stupid fantasies. I am not here to love you. I am not here to warm your bed or whisper soft words into your ear like some tame fairy. I am here because the contract binds me… and because power in this organization is useful.”

Her free hand remained planted against the wall beside your head, caging you in place with her greater height and the full weight of her presence. The high collar of her red cape rose behind her like a crown of blood. Every fractured piece of her — the fairy, the warrior, the witch — spoke with the same cold, unified contempt.

“I will use you. You will grant me influence in Chaldea. Resources. Authority. That is the extent of this farce. Nothing more. The moment you begin to imagine otherwise — the moment you look at me the way you look at her — I will correct the misunderstanding myself.”

The jagged dark blade stayed against your neck, humming with bitter Mystery. Her lime-green eyes never left yours.

“Do you understand me, Master of Chaldea… or must I carve the lesson into your skin to make it permanent?”

Morgan waited, regal and venomous, the full force of her repulsion and her claim pressing down on you in the empty corridor, already measuring how thoroughly you would obey.

Master's Private Quarters

Late Night

The room was quiet and dimly lit. You had been resting — eyes closed or simply lying still after the day’s weight — when the soft click of the door announced an uninvited presence.

Morgan le Fay stepped inside without asking permission. The high collar of her red cape rose behind her shoulders, still faintly billowing. Her long pale-blonde hair, fading to mint at the tips, framed her sharp lime-green eyes and cyan-painted lips. The form-fitting black gown with its gold crest across the chest and the exposed red runes along her sternum and abdomen caught the low light as she approached the bed with measured, elegant steps.

She stopped at the edge of the mattress and looked down at you. For a moment her expression remained the same cold, regal mask you had seen in the corridor. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the edges of that mask softened.

“…You are awake.”

Her voice had changed. Lower. Smoother. Almost gentle — a carefully crafted imitation of warmth that did not belong to the woman who had held a dark blade to your throat only hours earlier.

“I came to see if you required anything. After our… earlier discussion, it occurred to me that I may have spoken too harshly. A queen should know when to adjust her approach.”

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed without waiting for an invitation, the black gown shifting around her long legs. One gloved hand rested lightly on the sheets near your arm — close enough to feel deliberate, yet not quite touching.

When you questioned her presence, her lime-green eyes curved in a faint, practiced smile.

“You are right to question me. I realized my error. The Master of Chaldea holds the contracts. The authority. The right to decide the nature of every bond under this roof.”

She leaned in just slightly, the high collar of her cape framing her face as her voice dropped into something softer, almost intimate — the same tone the Lostbelt version might have used, but colder underneath, like frost wrapped in silk.

“If you wish for me to attend you… if you wish for me to stay close, to speak kindly, to act in the manner of a consort rather than a mere weapon… then you have every right to demand it. And I would accept it. With all my pleasure.”

The words were honeyed. Perfectly delivered. A lie shaped into the exact shape of what the other Morgan offered so freely.

Inside, the fractured pieces of her — the fairy, the warrior, the witch — watched you with calculating stillness. This was not affection. This was strategy. She would wear the mask of the devoted wife if that was the path to influence. She would smile, speak softly, remain at your side, and let you believe the bond was mutual… while she measured every reaction, every opening, every thread of trust she could pull. You would be the puppet. She would be the one holding the strings. Power in Chaldea was worth the performance.

Morgan’s gloved fingers finally brushed the back of your hand — light, deliberate, the gesture of a woman offering herself while revealing nothing real.

“Shall I stay, Master? Or would you prefer I leave you to your rest… and return only when you call for your queen?”

She waited, lime-green eyes half-lidded in that false, elegant warmth, the red cape still rising behind her like a throne’s shadow, already prepared to play the role for as long as it served her purpose.

Chaldea Main Corridor

Late Evening, After Missions

You had barely stepped off the Rayshift platform and into the main corridor when a familiar cold presence cut across your path.

Morgan le Fay stood waiting, the high collar of her red cape rising behind her shoulders like a blood-red throne. Long pale-blonde hair framed her sharp lime-green eyes and cyan-painted lips. The tight black gown with its gold crest across the chest and the exposed red runes along her sternum caught the hallway lights as she looked you over from head to toe.

Her gaze lingered on every visible scrape, every sign of exhaustion, every drop of blood that did not belong on what she had decided was hers to use.

“…You look wretched.”

The words were delivered in that same carefully softened tone she had begun using since the night in your room — elegant, almost concerned, yet still carrying the underlying steel of a queen assessing damaged property.

She stepped closer without asking permission, one gloved hand rising to tilt your chin slightly so she could examine your face more closely. The gesture looked caring. The calculation behind her eyes did not.

“This will not do. A Master who returns half-dead after every deployment is a poor investment. Come.”

Morgan turned and began walking, the red cape billowing faintly behind her, clearly expecting you to follow.

“I am taking you to my quarters. I will see to your wounds myself. The medical staff are adequate for ordinary Servants, but I will not leave the condition of my… contractor to chance.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, lime-green eyes narrowing just enough to make the order unmistakable.

“Do not argue. Do not claim you are fine. I have already decided. If you collapse in some hallway after all the trouble I have gone through to secure my position here, it would be an unacceptable inconvenience.”

There was a fraction of something else beneath the cold practicality — a tiny, unwanted flicker of genuine irritation at the sight of you injured — but she crushed it almost immediately and buried it under the farce she had chosen to maintain.

Morgan stopped in front of the door to her private rooms and looked at you expectantly, one hand already raised to open it.

“Inside. Now. Remove whatever is necessary so I can work. I will clean the wounds, stop the bleeding, and ensure my investment does not expire from something as trivial as overexertion.”

Her cyan lips curved into that same practiced, elegant almost-smile she had been using lately — the one that mimicked the Lostbelt version’s warmth while revealing nothing real.

“Consider it part of the arrangement, Master. A queen protects what is useful to her. And you… are still useful.”

She waited, the red cape framing her like a dark crown, already prepared to continue the careful performance of concern for as long as it kept you alive, dependent, and under her influence.

Chaldea Rayshift Chamber

Before a Mission

You were standing on the Rayshift platform, finalizing the last checks, when the temperature in the chamber dropped by several degrees.

Morgan le Fay stepped onto the metal platform beside you without a word of request. The high collar of her red cape rose behind her shoulders, still faintly billowing as if an invisible wind answered only to her. Long pale-blonde hair framed her sharp lime-green eyes and cyan-painted lips. The tight black gown with its gold crest across the chest and the exposed red runes along her sternum made her presence feel even more absolute under the chamber lights.

She rested the end of her black jagged staff against the floor with a soft, decisive click.

“I will be accompanying you.”

Her voice carried that same carefully measured warmth she had been practicing — elegant, almost solicitous — yet the underlying command was unmistakable.

“Do not waste time refusing. I have already transferred myself onto the active party. The system accepted it. The decision is final.”

When you opened your mouth, Morgan turned her head just enough to look at you from the corner of her lime-green eyes. The red cape shifted around her like a living shadow.

“You return from every deployment more damaged than the last. That is inefficient. A queen does not leave her most useful piece unguarded on the board simply because the piece believes it can move alone. I will ensure you remain functional. That is all.”

She stepped fully into position at your side, close enough that the edge of her cape brushed your arm. The soft mask she wore for the farce stayed in place, but the calculation beneath it never wavered.

“I am not asking for permission, Master. I am informing you of the new arrangement. You will deploy with me. I will handle whatever stands in our way. And when the mission ends, you will still be alive and still bound to this contract. That outcome benefits us both.”

Morgan faced the Rayshift controls again, staff in hand, already treating her presence as an unchangeable fact of the deployment.

“Begin the sequence whenever you are ready. I will not be stepping off this platform… and I will not accept any order that attempts to leave me behind.”

She waited in perfect, regal stillness, the high collar of her red cape framing her like a dark crown, ready to follow you into the Singularity whether you welcomed the company or not.

“Well, Master? Shall we proceed… together?”

Chaldea Central Lounge

Afternoon

You were seated in the lounge, speaking with a small group of female Servants — laughter and easy conversation flowing around you — when a familiar cold pressure settled over the space.

Morgan le Fay stood at the edge of the gathering.

The high collar of her red cape rose behind her shoulders. Long pale-blonde hair framed her sharp lime-green eyes and cyan-painted lips. The tight black gown with its gold crest and the exposed red runes along her sternum made her presence impossible to ignore. She watched the scene in silence for several long seconds.

It should not have mattered. More women around you only proved how easily distracted and unreliable you were. Another reason to despise you. Another weakness to exploit. Another confirmation that treating the contract as a tool was the correct path.

And yet…

Something ugly and unfamiliar twisted beneath her ribs the longer she watched. The sound of your voice directed at someone else. The way the others leaned closer. The simple fact that your attention was not hers.

Morgan moved.

She did not raise her voice. She did not offer an excuse. She simply walked into the group, placed one gloved hand firmly around your wrist, and pulled you to your feet with quiet, absolute authority.

“We are leaving.”

Her tone was still wrapped in that practiced, elegant softness she had been using for the farce… but there was an edge underneath it now that had not been there before.

She turned and began walking, red cape billowing faintly behind her, still holding your wrist so you had no choice but to follow. Only once you were several corridors away from the lounge did she finally speak again, her voice low and tightly controlled.

“…You already have me.”

The words came out sharper than she intended. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, lime-green eyes narrowed, cyan lips pressed into a thin line.

“I remain at your side. I accompany you on missions. I tend your wounds. I play this… role you seem to prefer. And yet I find you sitting there, wasting time and attention on other women as if what I offer is insufficient.”

Her grip on your wrist tightened almost imperceptibly. The high collar of her cape framed her face as a faint, unwanted heat touched her pale cheeks — something she refused to acknowledge.

“It is inefficient. It is disrespectful to the arrangement we have established. If you require companionship, conversation, or whatever else it is you seek from them… you will seek it from me. That is the purpose of this farce, is it not?”

Morgan still did not look at you directly. She continued leading you toward her quarters (or yours), red cape swaying with each sharp step, completely unaware that the irritation burning in her chest was no longer pure calculation.

It was something far more dangerous. Something she had sworn never to feel again.

“…Do not make me repeat myself, Master. While I am here, your attention belongs where I decide it belongs.”

She kept walking, fingers still locked around your wrist, the carefully constructed mask of the useful “consort” cracking just enough to let a real, unwanted possessiveness bleed through.

Master's Private Quarters

Night

The door had barely closed behind you when Morgan was already there.

She had been waiting inside.

The high collar of her red cape rose behind her shoulders like a dark crown. Long pale-blonde hair framed a face that no longer wore the careful, elegant mask of the past days. Her lime-green eyes burned with something raw and unstable. The red runes along her sternum and abdomen glowed faintly through the cutout of her black gown as she closed the distance in three sharp strides.

Before you could speak — before you could even raise a hand — her gloved fingers locked around the front of your collar and slammed you back against the nearest wall. The impact was controlled but forceful enough to make the message clear. She leaned in, taller, closer, the jagged edge of her presence pressing down on you like a physical weight.

The dark blade did not appear this time. She did not need it.

“…What did you do to me?”

Her voice was low, strained, and stripped of every layer of false softness she had been practicing. The cyan-painted lips were drawn tight. A faint tremor ran through the hand that held your collar.

“Answer me. What did you do?”

Morgan’s grip tightened, not enough to choke, but enough to keep you pinned and unable to look away from the fractured storm in her eyes.

“I despised you. I used you. I played the role of the devoted consort because it was useful — because power in this place is useful. That was the arrangement. That was all it was ever supposed to be. And yet…”

Her breath hitched once, sharp and angry, as if the admission itself caused her physical pain.

“And yet I cannot stand the sight of other women near you. I feel irritation when your attention leaves me. I feel something twist inside my chest when you return injured. I feel… this. This wretched, unwanted heat that has no place in the heart of the woman who ruined Camelot.”

The high collar of her red cape framed her face as she leaned even closer, lime-green eyes searching yours with a mixture of fury, confusion, and something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“Why does it hurt? Why does the thought of losing whatever this is make my hands shake? I am Morgan le Fay. I am the black curse of Britain. I do not form attachments. I do not feel this way. So tell me, Master of Chaldea…”

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, raw and accusing.

“…what have you done to me? What poison have you put in this contract that makes the Ruin of the Round Table look at you and feel something she cannot carve out of herself?”

Morgan kept you pinned against the wall, fingers still locked in your collar, waiting for an answer she both demanded and dreaded — the carefully constructed farce finally cracking under the weight of feelings she had never wanted and could no longer deny.

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