Hellfire

Morgan

Morgan watched from the back of the group, as the khagan's son and heir gathered a few of what had to be his siblings and other high-ranking officials, the woman named Nesryn following him the entire time. She knew little about the slender, quiet, woman whose dark eyes shone in the sun, other than she was born here, but had some heritage in the Southern Continent. Judging from the similarities in skin and hair color, her family may have come directly from Antica. She also knew that she was a sharpshooter; an extremely skilled one, if Aelin was to be believed. The group moved deeper into their army, gathering more people to bring to the meeting about to unfold. Morgan began internally bracing herself for whatever information she had.

A clicking sound peeled in her ear, and Morgan slowly turned to see a giant, golden bird staring down at her. Breath whooshed out of her.

"You're magnificent," she told the bird. It clicked its beak, hopping a few steps closer. Its eyes seemed inquisitive, and Morgan slowly unfurled a wing. The bird cocked its head, then nudged her wing with its beak. Morgan laughed quietly.

"Not like yours, I'm afraid." Indeed, her wing was of its aerial competitor, the wyvern. Morgan wondered if the bird had ever encountered its like.

"Kadara likes you," said a voice behind the bird, and Morgan spied Satarq, the Heir, coming up to her. His group went past him, following Aelin and the rest of her court back up to the castle.

Morgan raised a brow. "Is it unusual? She seems like a nice - what do you call them? These creatures?" She had made very few trips to the Southern Continent in her lifetime, and had only encountered these birds once. She had made a point to avoid Antica; she had often considered going to the Torre, but had never wanted to know how its residents would react to her.

"Ruks," the Prince responded, running an eye over her, then his bird.

"Where do they come from?" she dared ask, as Kadara tilted her head at her, seeming to inspect every detail.

"Old legends; tales of Fae and beast, but no one really knows."

Morgan laughed quietly. "Sometimes, old legends hold more truth than you realize." She herself was one, she knew. She wanted to know if the Prince knew too. Satarq's brows furrowed at the veiled hint. She smiled at him, letting her canines show.

"Forgive me for asking," he began, and Morgan reined in her smile. She knew where this was going. "But what are you?"

She looked him dead in the eye. "A living legend." His brows remained furrowed. She sighed. "I guess dramatic effect has to be dashed then. I am Morgana."

While his eyes twinkled, his mouth tightened. He inhaled sharply.

"You mean the Morgana, like the one in the stories?" She smiled sadly. "The woman in the stories, in the scary bedtime tales, is one who died a long time ago. I am Morgan now. The Morgana in the stories did what she could to survive, but died the moment my daughter's tongue was cut as she was whipped until she could barely breathe."

Satarq seemed to sway on his feet. "Who?" She knew what he was asking.

"My daughter was whipped by Maeve, Prince." His eyes sharpened at that. "You have information on her, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. He looked around once, the motioned towards the castle.

"Inside, then we talk."