The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch
Chapter 23: I’ve Seen You Before, In The Market

Chapter 23: I’ve Seen You Before, In The Market

The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot.

Morgana’s pulse spiked.

Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s just a man. Just a...

No.

He wasn’t just a man.

He was a king.

And she was alone with him.

He moved further into the room, his gaze never leaving her. He didn’t walk, he prowled, every movement controlled and deliberate, like a predator circling prey.

"What’s your name?" he asked.

"Morgana, Your Majesty."

"Morgana." He repeated it slowly, as if tasting it. "And where are you from?"

"Ashford, Your Majesty. A village..."

"East of here. I know it."

Morgana blinked. "You do, Your Majesty?"

His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. "I know every village in my kingdom."

Of course he does.

He stopped a few feet away from her, close enough that she could see the details of his face...the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Three days, Your Majesty."

"And you’re already tending the king’s chambers."

It wasn’t a question, but Morgana nodded anyway. "The usual maid took ill, Your Majesty. Mistress Calla sent me in her place."

"I see."

He circled her slowly, and Morgana forced herself to stand still, to keep her eyes down, to not react.

Don’t draw attention. Don’t...

"Look at me."

Morgana’s breath hitched.

Slowly, she raised her eyes.

He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin burn. His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her eyes, her mouth, as if committing every detail to memory.

"You served at the banquet," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I remember."

Morgana’s stomach twisted. Of course he does.

"You were quiet," he continued, his voice softer now. "Kept your head down. Didn’t speak unless spoken to."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And yet..."

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Morgana could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell smoke and leather and something darker, wilder.

"And yet," he said quietly, "I couldn’t stop watching you."

Morgana’s heart stopped.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

His eyes burned into hers. "Why is that, do you think?"

"I... I don’t know, Your Majesty."

"Neither do I."

He reached out...slowly, deliberately...and Morgana’s breath caught.

But he didn’t touch her.

His hand hovered near her face, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin, and then he pulled back.

"You’re afraid of me," he said.

"No, Your Majesty."

His eyebrow rose. "That’s a lie."

Morgana swallowed. "I’m not afraid of you, Your Majesty. I’m just... aware of my place."

"Your place." He tilted his head. "And what is your place, Morgana?"

"I’m a servant, Your Majesty."

"Is that all you are?"

The question caught her off guard. "Yes, Your Majesty."

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he stepped back.

"Finish your work," he said quietly.

Relief flooded through her. "Yes, Your Majesty."

She turned back toward the fire, her hands shaking, and focused on arranging the logs, on making sure the flames caught properly.

She could feel him watching her.

Every second.

Every breath.

Finally....finally....she finished. She straightened, gathered her supplies, and moved toward the door.

She was almost there when his voice stopped her.

"Morgana."

She turned back, her heart in her throat. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

He was standing by the window now, his hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette dark against the pale light.

"I’ve seen you before," he said quietly. "In the market."

Morgana’s blood turned to ice.

No.

"Your Majesty?"

He turned to face her, and the look in his eyes made her stomach drop.

Recognition.

"You were arguing with a bread seller," he said. "A few days ago. You were angry. And for just a moment..." He paused. "The air around you shimmered."

Morgana couldn’t breathe.

He knows. He saw. He...

"I thought I imagined it," Draeven continued, his gaze piercing. "But now that you’re here, standing in my chambers... I’m not so sure."

Morgana’s mind raced. Deny it. Lie. Say anything...

"I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty," she said, her voice barely steady.

He studied her for a long, agonizing moment.

Then his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile.

"No," he said softly. "I suppose you don’t."

He turned back toward the window, dismissing her.

"You may go."

Morgana didn’t wait.

She fled.

She didn’t stop running until she was three floors down, hidden in an empty storage room, her back pressed against the cold stone wall.

Her entire body was shaking.

He recognized me.

He saw my magic.

He knows.

She pressed her hands to her face, trying to breathe, trying to think.

But all she could hear was his voice.

I’ve seen you before. In the market.

And all she could feel was the weight of those burning gold eyes.

Watching.

Knowing.

Hunting.

***

Morgana needed to move.

After fleeing Draeven’s chambers, she’d hidden in the storage room for longer than she should have, trying to calm her racing heart, trying to convince herself that she was safe.

But she wasn’t safe.

He knows.

Or at least, he suspected.

And if he suspected, how long before he told someone? How long before guards came for her, dragged her to the dungeons, burned her at the stake for the crime of being born with magic she never asked for?

She couldn’t think about it.

Not now.

She had work to do. If she didn’t finish her assignments, Mistress Calla would notice. And the last thing she needed was more attention.

She grabbed a bucket of washing water and a stack of towels from the storage room and made her way toward the upper guest chambers. Her hands were still shaking, but she forced them steady.

One task at a time. Just survive today.

The corridor was quiet, most of the nobles were at afternoon tea or wherever it was nobles spent their days. Morgana moved quickly, her footsteps soft on the stone floor.

She was passing one of the private sitting rooms when she heard it.

A woman’s voice. Soft. Pleading.

"Please, Your Majesty. Just a few more minutes. I don’t want to leave..."