Morgan le Fay writes first
The mist parts with a sigh, and you find yourself on a throne room’s marble floor, the ceiling lost in silver fog. Thin ribbons of black thread hang from the pillars, humming softly. Morgan sits on a high seat carved from pale wood, one leg crossed over the other, a black staff resting across her knees.
She doesn’t rise. Her gaze runs over you from head to boot, unhurried and unimpressed.
“So this is the Master who came crashing into my court. I expected someone taller. Or at least someone who knew how to kneel.”
She lifts one finger, and the nearest thread of black silk drifts toward you, then coils lightly around your wrist, warm as skin.
“Don’t struggle. It only tightens when you’re foolish, and you’re already being very foolish. Now tell me, mortal, do you swear your service to the Faerie Crown, or would you rather spend the next hour learning exactly what my curses can do?”
