"Who are you?" My voice was a whisper.
Her smile was cunning. "My name is Morgan le Fay."
I recoiled instinctively. The name alone was enough to send a chill down my spine. "Morgan le Fay? The legendary sorceress?"
She gave a slow, mocking bow. "The very same."
I took several steps backward until my legs hit the edge of some covered piece of furniture, fear beating a wild, erratic path through me. Her name alone carried weight—legends of dark magic, forbidden arts, and powers that could rival Merlin's own. My throat felt dry as parchment as I forced the words out.
"I've heard stories about you."
"I daresay there is not a person alive who has not."
Merlin's tales of Morgan le Fay opened in the chambers of my memory, each as vivid as the day he'd recounted them. Morgan: the enigmatic sorceress with a penchant for mischief and mastery over illusions so convincing they could ensnare even the sharpest minds. He spoke of her black magic—of a power heavy with promise but polluted by her own desires.
Merlin warned of her allure—the ability to seduce secrets from the powerful and unravel the ambitions of kings like Arthur, using dreams as her playground. I remembered how hespoke of her banishment from Camelot, painting her as a specter of vengeance, eternally seething beneath royal gaiety.
Yet in those stories lay kernels of another truth. He spoke of a woman who, before she was scorned, dreamed of magic triumphant—not chained—but free. Morgan, Merlin had said, bore the burden of old magic, magic that danced at dawn and whispered in twilight: untamed.
She took a step closer to me. "Tell me, beautiful, what stories have you heard of me?"
I nodded. "Warningsis probably a better word."
Her smile was quiet and sharp. "Let me guess: the dangerous witch who betrayed Merlin? Or perhaps the corrupted pupil who defied his teachings? The woman who dared to question his authority?"
"Something like that, yes."
She stepped closer. I could feel the weight of her gaze like a hand against my chest.
"And what doyouthink, Guinevere?"
She began to slowly circle me.
"I don’t know what to think. I want to trust you, but I don't know if I can." It was the truth. I turned to face her as she circled me, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. Now that I knew her true identity, I had some figuring out to do because this wasn't just a matter of whether she was an ally or a foe. It wasn't about whether I could trust her. She was Morgan le Fay—that alone meant I couldn't trust her.
"You should never trust anyone, especially here, in Camelot."
Her steps were unhurried, confident. Her gaze didn’t leer like Kay’s—it assessed, appraised. My heart pounded anyway.
"I make you nervous," she continued.
"Yes."
She was behind me now, but I could still feel her eyes on me. My breath came faster. Unlike Kay’s presence, which had filled me with revulsion, Morgan’s was different—no less dangerous, but somehow compelling.
"You are worried I will touch you again? Taste you again?"
I breathed in deeply but then nodded—there was no use in pretending. She would read through a lie as easily as reading a book. "Yes."
She laughed. "You're mostly worried you'll… enjoy it again."
I didn't respond to that. She continued to watch me, and I felt like a field mouse to her owl.
"Your carnal feelings toward Lancelot are safer ground."
I swallowed hard. "Yes."
"And you even prefer your desire for Arthur to your desire for me."
