The Conquest of Mytheyr

Morgan thought she could hear the walls whispering, but though it was not unusual for her to hear voices, she dismissed it as a hallucination. She didn’t think it possible for cursed metal to have a voice. She was currently scanning for anything in the cell that might serve as a lockpick. A cell made of Blood Iron had to have a physical lock, since a spell just wouldn’t work on it. But perhaps black magic could… after all, it was unaffected by the dragon blood. Both thoughts were irrelevant, since the cell was completely bare. No wire or lose shard of metal that could be serviceable, and without use of her magic, she would be unable to diffuse a magical lock, if it did exist.

Morgan heard footsteps approaching, and by the sound of them, whoever was walking was furious, moving heavily and quickly. Morgan was suddenly overcome with fear, something that never happened without good reason. As the door was flung open, that fear was validated.

Morgan had seen the eyes of a madman, seen the face of the murderous. She knew what someone who was beyond any reason looked like, and Semele’s expression was paradigm of that. His face was three shades paler, almost ghostly, a burning intensity in his eyes, a fire of shame and hate and confusion.

It was all she could do was loosen her muscles as she was slammed into the wall. It was not a display of power and strength like it had been with Vath, but a jarring act of violence that bruised her ribs.

“How could you?” Semele screamed, his voice shaking with fury. He flung Morgan to the floor, and she cried out softly. She didn’t have the strength to fight back. She could barely stand if she tried. She simply went limp, trying to minimize the damage as Semele delivered a terrible kick to her stomach. “You’re a queen!” Semele yelled, forcing her to her feet by her wrists. “Why won’t you act like it?”

Black magic curled around her, emanating from Semele like smoke, running up his arms and wrapping around her wrists, burning and freezing at the same time, tightening cruelly and causing her to sob in agony. Semele was not in complete control of his own magic. Now it acted of its own volition, wishing only to harm Morgan, not caring what Semele’s feelings were. Semele threw Morgan again, and this time her ribs cracked when she hit the floor.

“Why… why…” Semele panted, “What am I… What have…? I…” He rushed out of the cell, the door closing and locking itself as he ran down the hall, as if some terrible thing was after him. But it was within him, always, and he could not escape that, not even if he could outrun the world.

Morgan was left in the cell, her skin still stinging from where the toxic magic had touched her. She felt some liquid trickling down her arms, and a glance told her that her wrists had been torn open by those black tendrils. She didn’t feel any pain, but that was a bad sign. She shuddered, curling into a ball and cradling her mutilated wrists to her chest. She’d had worse wounds in the past, but her magic wasn’t there save her this time. It would not be a healing sleep she fell into. How ironic, she thought, that the first Dragonkin Elf to die would be their Queen.

Morgan began to sing, though singing was not the right term. She was too weak to make any clear sound, so it was more of disjointed humming. She didn’t even know what she was humming, she didn’t care, just anything that meant she didn’t have to die in silence. Faintly, she wondered how long it would take for an elf to bleed out. It couldn’t possibly take that long, not with these ragged gashes… But she didn’t want to die here, not in a cell, a cell made of the blood of her family, her own blood seeping into the floor, her clothes, her hair. Not like this. Not alone. At least… maybe she’d see Vath again. Maybe…