The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch
Chapter 9: The Kings Are Impossibly Beautiful

Chapter 9: The Kings Are Impossibly Beautiful

She turned and rummaged through the remaining bolts, pulling out a length of dark gray wool and a slightly lighter brown linen.

"These’ll do," she said, laying them on the table. "Sturdy. Plain. Won’t attract attention. Three coppers for the lot."

Morgana’s stomach dropped. She only had two.

Rowan saw her face and leaned in. "I’ve got a copper," she whispered. "We’ll split it."

"Rowan..."

"Don’t argue. You’d do the same for me."

Morgana’s throat tightened, but she nodded.

They pooled their coins and handed them over. Maren wrapped the fabric in brown paper and tied it with string, then handed it to Morgana.

"Good luck at the palace," she said gruffly. "You’ll need it."

They walked back through the market slowly, the bundle of fabric tucked under Morgana’s arm.

Rowan was practically bouncing with excitement.

"Three days," she said, grinning. "Three days and we’ll be living in the palace. Can you imagine?"

Morgana smiled faintly. "It’s just a job, Rowan."

"It’s not just anything. It’s the palace." Rowan’s eyes sparkled. "Do you know what I heard?"

"What?"

"The kings are impossibly beautiful. Like... unnaturally so. My cousin’s friend’s sister works in the kitchens, and she said the first time she saw King Draeven, she literally forgot how to speak."

Morgana raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like an exaggeration."

"Maybe. But she also said his eyes are gold. Like actual molten gold. And that when he’s angry, the air around him gets hot."

Morgana’s steps slowed. "Hot?"

"Like fire." Rowan lowered her voice, leaning closer. "There are rumors, you know. About the kings."

"What kind of rumors?"

Rowan glanced around, then pulled Morgana into the narrow alley between the butcher’s shop and the spice merchant’s stall.

"People say they’re cursed," she whispered.

Morgana’s heart skipped. "Cursed how?"

"No one knows exactly. But they’ve been ruling for centuries, Morgana. Centuries. No king lives that long unless there’s magic involved." Rowan’s eyes were wide. "And they’ve never had heirs. Not one. They’ve tried...gods know they’ve tried, but no woman has ever carried their child."

Morgana’s chest tightened.

"Some people think it’s because they’re not fully human anymore," Rowan continued. "That whatever curse they’re under has... changed them. Made them something other."

"And yet the council still wants them to produce heirs."

"Exactly." Rowan shook her head. "That’s why all these noble daughters are being brought in. The council’s desperate. They think maybe one of them will be... compatible. Different. Special enough to break whatever’s keeping the kings from fathering children."

Morgana frowned. "That sounds more like a breeding program than a selection."

Rowan shrugged. "Maybe it is. But that’s the palace for you. Everything’s politics and power."

"What else have you heard?"

"Well..." Rowan’s grin turned sly. "I heard King Kaelen... the youngest, has a terrible reputation. Apparently he takes a different woman to his bed every night and tosses them out by morning. Cold as ice, that one."

"And the middle king?"

"Thorne?" Rowan’s expression shifted, turning thoughtful. "He’s... different. Quieter. People say he spends most of his time in the library, buried in books. But when he’s angry..." She shivered. "When he’s angry, people disappear."

Morgana’s stomach twisted. "Disappear?"

"Into the dungeons. Or worse." Rowan lowered her voice even further. "There’s a reason the servants call him the Shadow King. He sees everything. Knows everything. And if you cross him..."

She drew a finger across her throat.

Morgana swallowed hard.

"But Draeven...the eldest, he’s the worst," Rowan said, her tone almost reverent. "They say he’s got a temper like wildfire. That when he loses control, things burn. Furniture. Curtains. People."

"People?"

"Well, no one’s actually died. Not that I’ve heard. But close enough." Rowan grinned. "Still want to go?"

Morgana forced a smile. "Too late to back out now."

"Good. Because I’m not going without you."

They stepped back out into the main street, and Rowan looped her arm through Morgana’s.

"It’s going to be fine," she said brightly. "We’ll keep our heads down, do our work, and send money home. A year will go by before we know it."

Morgana nodded, but her mind was racing.

Cursed kings.

Women who couldn’t carry their children.

A desperate council willing to parade noble daughters like livestock.

And now she was walking straight into the middle of it.

What have I gotten myself into?

***

That night, Morgana sat by the fire with her mother, sewing the fabric into a simple dress.

Her mother’s hands were steadier than Morgana’s, her stitches small and precise despite the tremor that sometimes seized her fingers.

They worked in silence, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft whisper of thread through cloth.

When the dress was finished, Morgana held it up.

It was plain. Gray and unremarkable. Exactly what a palace maid would wear.

Her mother looked at it for a long moment, then nodded.

"It’s good," she said quietly.

Morgana folded it carefully and set it aside.

Tomorrow, she would wear it.

Tomorrow, she would walk through the palace gates.

And tomorrow, everything would change.