POV - Azra'il
The scent of lavender was the first thing that reached me.
Not the void. Not the darkness. Not the sensation of being dragged by invisible currents. Merely... lavender. And rosemary. And damp earth after the rain. And something baking somewhere nearby.
The previous memory bled directly into this one, like the pages of a wet book sticking together. One moment I was watching a boat vanish into the grey horizon, and the next—
Garden.
I was floating over a garden.
[Significant temporal transition detected. Approximately eight years since the previous record.]
I looked around, attempting to orient myself. The garden stretched before me in organised beds: medicinal herbs, colourful flowers, a fruit tree that shouldn't have grown in that climate but flourished nonetheless. And beyond it, an entire settlement.
Houses of white timber and grey stone. Dirt tracks for streets. Children running. A dog barking. The distant sound of hammering and laughter.
The thought came laden with something I didn't expect to feel. Not surprise, exactly. It was... respect, perhaps. Or the closest version of it someone like me could muster.
Kilam had promised a garden. A safe place. A new life.
And there it was. Eight years later. The promise kept in every blossoming flower.
[The settlement demonstrates functional integration between individuals with and without arcane abilities. Observation: a mage is assisting in the construction of a residential structure to the north-east.]
I looked in the direction Eos indicated. A man with hands glowing with earthy energy was levitating a timber beam whilst ordinary labourers guided it into position. No one screamed. No one fled. They simply... worked together.
[Original Demacia was founded as a refuge for all survivors of the Rune Wars. The segregation and persecution of magic users were subsequent developments.]
[Terminological precision does not imply moral approval.]
A movement in the garden caught my attention.
A young woman moved between the beds with the familiarity of one who knew every plant by name. Long black hair, tied in a loose braid that was already coming undone. A simple dress of lilac fabric, stained with earth at the knees. Careful hands pulling weeds, checking leaves, adjusting branches.
Fifteen years old. Perhaps sixteen. The awkward transition between child and adult, where the body has already changed but the world hasn't quite decided how to treat her.
Morgana.
I recognised her immediately, not just by her physical features, which had matured, but by something more subtle. The way she moved. The automatic gentleness in every gesture. The way she occasionally paused to look at a plant with the same care she would afford any other living being.
[Physical development consistent with her age group. Additional observation: there is a residual magic signature on the plants she recently touched.]
I sharpened my vision. Eos was right. The plants Morgana touched didn't just look healthy; they vibrated. The flowers bowed subtly towards her, as if she were the sun itself. There was a trail of vital energy, violet and gold, flowing from her fingertips into the soil.
[Likely unconscious. She attributes the exceptional growth to care and manure. Her potential is overflowing the physical vessel, Azra'il. It is only a matter of time until the manifestation is complete.]
Morgana stood up, wiping her hands on her linen apron. She looked at the garden with a small smile, one of those moments of private satisfaction that require no audience. Then, she turned towards the main house.
Kilam's house, I realised. Their home.
I followed her.
The interior was exactly what I would expect from a home built by a father determined to provide normality for his daughters. Simple but well-made furniture. A hearth that clearly saw regular use. Shelves lined with pots of dried herbs, Morgana's handiwork, no doubt. And on the wall, hung in a place of honour, a faded childhood drawing of a mountain with four stick figures at the base.
Kilam was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. He looked... different. Older, obviously; his hair was now more grey than black, with deeper lines around his eyes. But it wasn't just that.
He looked lighter.
The weight I had seen in him in previous memories, the constant tension, the ill-disguised fear, the sadness he hid from his daughters, was still there, somewhere. But it was buried. Beneath layers of tranquil years and nights slept without nightmares.
Morgana entered through the back door, bringing the scent of the garden with her.
"Papa, the herbs for the winter tea are ready. I'll dry them this afternoon."
"Grand, grand." Kilam didn't turn, concentrated on his cooking. "Come and eat first. You spend more time in the garden than with people."
"Well, plants don't complain."
"Plants don't tell jokes either."
"Exactly. A clear advantage."
Kilam laughed, a loose, easy sound, the kind of laughter that comes from years of practice. He finally turned, and I saw his face soften as he looked at his daughter.
"Sit. Eat. We have important matters to discuss."
Morgana arched an eyebrow as she sat at the table.
"Important matters? That sounds ominous."
"Terribly ominous." Kilam placed a plate before her, steam rising in lazy spirals. "The Harvest Festival is tonight. The bonfires are already being set up in the square."
"Ah." Morgana relaxed. "That. I saw the preparations."
"And?" Kilam sat across from her, an expression of calculated innocence on his face. "Do you have a partner for the dance, or will I have to stand at the front door scaring off suitors with a broomstick?"
[Which thing?]
[Standard protective behaviour. Documented in multiple cultures.]
Morgana nearly choked on her food.
"Papa!" Her face flushed red. "There is no one. I don't... I don't have time for that. The herbs need drying, and Mrs Maren asked for more ointments for her arthritis, and..."
"Mh-mm." Kilam took a sip of water, clearly enjoying himself.
"And besides..." Morgana toyed with her food with her fork, not looking at her father. "The boys in the village think I'm strange. They say I talk to animals and plants. That I spend too much time in the shadows. That I'm..." she made a vague gesture, "...'odd'."
That was painful to hear. Not excessively, it was the sort of small ache one learns to ignore after feeling it enough. But still. She feels she doesn't fit in. Even here, even in this community that accepts mages, she feels she doesn't belong.
[The perception of 'otherness' often precedes the full manifestation of latent abilities. Her subconscious may be aware of her nature before her conscious mind is.]
Kilam set down his glass, his expression turning more serious.
"The boys in the village," he said calmly, "are idiots."
"Papa."
"It's true. Most fifteen-year-old boys are idiots. I was an idiot at fifteen. It's practically a requirement of the age." He reached out and touched his daughter's cheek. "They don't know how to recognise something special when they see it. Their loss."
Morgana smiled, small and reluctant.
"You're biased. You're my father."
"I am obliged to love you unconditionally. Telling the truth is optional." He leaned back in his chair. "If you don't want to go with any boy, then go with me. I still know a few dance steps from Targon. I can teach you to spin until you're dizzy."
"Papa." Morgana huffed, but she was laughing. "I'm fifteen. I'm too old to go to the festival holding my father's hand. What will people say?"
"That you're accompanied by the handsomest man at the party, obviously."
"Papa!"
"What? It's the truth." Kilam struck a ridiculous pose, running a hand through his grey hair. "Years have only refined my natural beauty."
Morgana hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"Alright, alright." Kilam raised his hands in surrender. "If you don't want the honour of my illustrious company, then ask your sister."
Morgana stopped laughing.
"Kayle?"
"Do you have another sister I don't know about?"
"Papa, Kayle won't want to go. She's likely polishing her armour this very minute. Or training. Or doing that thing where she stares at the horizon as if she's expecting a dragon invasion at any moment."
Kilam sighed, but there was affection in the sound.
"Your sister's problem is the opposite of yours. Her gaze... well, she can intimidate a grizzly bear just by existing. The boys look at her and start confessing sins they haven't even committed yet, out of fear of being judged."
Morgana let out a surprised laugh.
"That's... strangely accurate."
"I know. I live with her." Kilam stood up, gathering the plates. "But try, Morgana. Ask her. It would do her good to get away from that training field. And it would do you both good... to just be sisters for one night."
Morgana's face softened.
"I know. It's just..." she hesitated. "She's been so focused lately. The drills, the patrols. Debating with the elders. As if she's waiting for something to happen."
"She is." Kilam didn't look at his daughter as he washed the dishes. "She always is. Ever since we left Targon." A heavy sigh escaped him. "But that doesn't mean she doesn't need you. It means she needs you all the more."
Morgana was silent for a moment. Then she stood up.
"I'll go find her."
Kilam smiled, the sort of smile fathers give when they see their children doing the right thing without being told.
"Good luck. You'll need it."
Morgana rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.
---------(*)---------
The settlement in the late afternoon had a golden quality, the sunlight stretching between the Petricite trees, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. Morgana walked with the familiarity of someone who knew every stone in the path, occasionally waving to passing neighbours.
"Morgana! The seedlings you gave me are blossoming!" an elderly woman called from a window.
"How lovely, Mrs Varen! Remember to water them early in the morning before the sun gets too hot!"
"Morgana!" A boy of about eight ran up to her, holding something in his cupped hands. "Look what I found!"
She stopped, kneeling to look. A fat green caterpillar, curled on a leaf.
"How beautiful! Do you know what it will turn into?"
"A butterfly?"
"That's right. Take good care of it, won't you? Keep it in a place with shade and fresh leaves."
The boy ran off, radiant, and Morgana continued on her way.
The path climbed slightly as it approached the edge of the settlement. The houses became sparser, replaced by wooden fences and crop fields. Beyond them, the Petricite forest rose like a stark, silent white wall.
The training ground sat on a plateau, at the threshold between civilisation and nature. An open space with wooden targets for archers and straw dummies for sword practice. By late afternoon, most people had already left.
But Kayle was still there.
She had grown too, taller now, her muscles defined in a way that didn't match a fifteen-year-old. Her white hair was tied in a practical bun, and she wore sweat-stained training gear. In her hands, a wooden sword she handled as if it were an extension of her own body.
She struck a training dummy with a heavy wooden blade. The movements were precise, lethal, repetitive. There was no passion in the strike, only a cold, terrifying discipline.
She stopped when she heard footsteps on the grass. Morgana approached, having swapped her soiled gardening dress for something more presentable, still simple, but clean, with her hair re-braided more carefully.
"You should be in the garden," Kayle said without turning. Her senses were far too sharp. Or perhaps it was just that bizarre connection twins have, where one senses the other's displacement of air.
"I've already finished." Morgana stopped near her, maintaining a certain distance. "The herbs aren't going anywhere."
The two of them remained in silence for a long time. It was a mesmerising scene for me, knowing how this story would end. One bowed to touch the earth, the other reached up to grasp the heavens. Light and shadow, wings and roots, the blade that separates and the hands that welcome. Two sides of the same coin: justice and compassion, judgement and forgiveness. When they were together, they seemed complete, like two reflections in a still lake. But I could see the invisible crack between them, the wind that would one day stir those waters. Each was the other's mirror, showing not only what they were, but everything the other refused to be.
"The festival begins soon," Kayle said. It wasn't an observation; it was a statement of fact. "It'll be dark soon."
"I know." Morgana hesitated. "That's why I came."
Kayle turned, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"If Papa sent you to fetch me, tell him that—"
"He didn't."
Morgana raised her hands in surrender, a gesture half-playful and half-earnest.
Kayle studied her for a moment, searching for the lie. She found none. Her shoulders relaxed, if only slightly.
"Then why are you here?"
Morgana didn't answer immediately. She walked until she was only a pace away from her sister, and then looked towards the horizon, at the settlement below, the first torches being lit, the distant sound of music beginning to play.
Silence stretched between them. Comfortable, but laden with something unsaid. Morgana toyed with the end of her braid, winding and unwinding her hair between her fingers, a nervous twitch I recognised from her adult version, when she would twist her locks.
"I..." she began, then stopped. Bit her lip. Tried again. "I don't want to go alone."
The words came out small. Vulnerable. The sort of admission that costs something. Kayle turned her head to look at her sister. Really look, not just check for threats. And something in her face shifted, a minimal relaxation of the shoulders, an almost imperceptible softening of the hard jawline.
"You don't have to go," Kayle said, her voice having lost its previous hardness. It was almost gentle. "No one is forcing you."
"I know."
Morgana continued to look at the settlement. The bonfires were multiplying now, dotting the gathering gloom. Silhouettes of people gathered around them, and the sound of laughter rose through the air with the smoke.
"But I wanted to try." She finally looked at Kayle, and there was something fragile in her eyes. Hope mixed with the fear of rejection. "At least once. To see what it's like. To be part of..." she gestured vaguely at the lights below, "...this."
Kayle didn't respond. She looked back at the settlement, her face unreadable. I could almost see the cogs turning in her head. Assessing. Calculating. Searching for the hidden threat in an invitation to a harvest festival.
"Festivals are distractions," Kayle said finally, her voice carefully neutral. "People drink. They drop their guard. They become vulnerable. They do foolish things."
Morgana could have argued. She could have said not everything was about vigilance, that sometimes people just wanted to have fun, that her sister needed to relax.
But she knew Kayle. So, instead, she smiled. Small. Hopeful. And said:
"Then come with me. That way, no one drops their guard."
Kayle blinked. Once. Twice. It was obvious she hadn't expected that argument.
"I..." she started, then trailed off. She frowned, as if trying to find the flaw in the logic and failing. "This isn't..."
"One hour," Morgana said quickly, before her sister could construct an objection. "Just one hour. We stay on the edge, where we can see everything. If you don't like it, we leave. No arguments."
Kayle crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. Crossed them again. She wants to go. She wants to, but doesn't know how to admit it. Silence stretched. Morgana waited without pressure, letting the choice exist in the space between them.
Kayle looked at the settlement. At the bonfires. At the people laughing and dancing, so small from that distance they looked like fireflies.
Then she let out a sigh. Long. Defeated.
"Just for one hour."
Morgana's face lit up, not with a big, obvious smile, but with something more subtle. A glint in her eyes. A relaxation of her shoulders she hadn't even realised were tense.
"One hour," she agreed, her voice carefully controlled so as not to sound too excited.
But I saw. And Kayle saw too, by the way she rolled her eyes.
"You already knew I'd say yes."
"I hoped." Morgana shrugged, but the smile escaped nonetheless. "There's a difference."
"Manipulative."
"Learnt from the best."
"I'm not manipulative. I'm a strategist."
"Mh-mm. Of course."
Kayle huffed, but there was something almost akin to amusement in the sound.
"Come on then, before I change my mind."
The sun was low when they left the training field.
The settlement was coming to life as night fell. Torches flared. Voices mingled with music. The smell of food, roasted meat, fresh bread, something sweet I couldn't identify, filled the air.
They walked side-by-side. Not as close as when they were children, those two girls holding hands fleeing Targon, but not as distant as strangers.
Something in between. Something in transition.
For a few steps, there was only silence. The comfortable kind that exists between people who don't need to fill the air with words. I watched Morgana glance sideways at her sister. At her hands, clenched into loose fists at her sides. At the rigid posture, the tense shoulders, the gaze sweeping the path ahead as if she expected an ambush among the Petricite trees.
The thought came to me with almost painful clarity. I recognised that look, the desire for connection struggling against the fear of rejection. I had seen it in too many mirrors over too many lives.
Morgana made a decision. I saw the exact moment she did. The slight squaring of her shoulders, a deeper breath. Without saying a word, she quickened her pace, overtaking her sister and putting herself a few steps ahead on the path.
The sunset light cut her silhouette against the orange sky, and for an instant, she seemed almost ethereal.
Morgana placed her hands behind her back as she walked. Not clasped. Not clenched. Open. Relaxed. Her fingers swayed gently with every step, like leaves in the wind. An invitation that wasn't an invitation. A question that required no answer.
I nearly laughed. It was brilliant, in a way only those who truly understand people can be. Morgana wasn't asking for anything. She wasn't demanding anything. She was simply... available. If Kayle wanted to, she could accept. If she didn't, she could pretend she hadn't seen. No confrontation. No embarrassment. No forcing her sister to admit something she clearly wasn't ready to admit.
Kayle saw.
Of course she saw. The girl could see an ant crossing the road fifty yards away; she wasn't going to miss fingers beckoning right in front of her nose.
Kayle's eyes fixed on her sister's hands. I watched her face, the way her jaw tightened, how her eyes darted away and back, how her steps became almost imperceptibly slower.
Morgana's hand remained there. Swaying gently. Patient as the flowers she cultivated.
Waiting.
Kayle swallowed hard. I could see the war raging behind those eyes: desire against pride, need against training, the younger sister against the soldier she was trying to become.
Kayle's fingers moved.
It wasn't a decisive gesture. It was hesitant, almost shy, so different from the girl who wielded training swords as if she were born with them in her hands. Her fingertips brushed Morgana's palm first. Lightly. Experimentally. Testing.
Morgana didn't turn. She didn't react. She continued walking as if nothing were happening, her hands still open, still waiting. She is giving her time. Giving her space. Letting Kayle come at her own pace.
How many times have I wished someone had done that for me? How many lives have I spent craving connection but not knowing how to ask, not knowing how to accept?
Kayle's fingers closed around Morgana's. Not the whole palm, just the fingers, intertwined in an almost accidental way. The kind of touch that could be undone in a second, easily denied.
But Morgana didn't let it slip.
She interlaced her fingers back. Softly. Firmly. Finally. As if saying: "I saw you. I know what this cost. And I won't pretend it didn't happen."
They continued walking like that. Morgana half a step ahead, Kayle just behind, hands joined between them like a bridge over an abyss neither of them knew how to name. Kayle kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, her face so carefully neutral it was almost comical. The perfect posture of someone who is definitely not having an emotional moment, thank you very much.
But the tips of her ears were red.
And her fingers, the same fingers that held swords without trembling, were squeezing Morgana's as if they were the only solid thing in the world.
I knew that feeling. I knew it from lives where no one bothered to build bridges for me. Where I had to build them alone or stay on the other side of the abyss forever.
Morgana said nothing. She didn't need to. The squeeze of her fingers said everything words would have ruined.
The settlement drew nearer, the bonfires becoming brighter against the darkening sky. The sound of music and laughter filled the air, promises of a night neither would forget.
And I floated behind them, an invisible witness, watching two sisters walk towards the light connected by intertwined fingers and all the love Kayle was too proud to say out loud.
The main bonfire crackled high, casting sparks into the dark sky like offerings to gods no one there worshipped anymore.
Around it, the world was noise and movement and life.
Young people danced barefoot on the hard earth, stumbling into one another, laughing at mistakes that weren't mistakes. Couples twirled together, hands interlaced, faces too close for those who didn't yet know what they felt. Children ran between adults' legs, chased by exasperated parents. The elderly sat on makeshift benches, tapping their feet to the rhythm of the music, remembering festivals in lands that no longer existed.
The music was simple. Rustic instruments playing easy-to-follow melodies. The kind of music made for tired bodies and full hearts. Morgana watched it all from the edge of the dance floor, a mug of juice in her hands. Her smile came and went, shy, as if afraid to take up too much space in that communal joy.
Kayle stood a little further back, leaning against a woodpile, arms crossed. Her gaze swept the surroundings constantly, by habit, not necessity. There was no threat here. Only people celebrating being alive.
Yet, she kept watch.
"They look happy," Morgana said softly, almost to herself.
Kayle didn't respond immediately.
"They are distracted."
"Perhaps that's why." Morgana smiled, looking at the bonfire. "Because they are together."
Kayle frowned, as if that idea needed careful examination before being accepted. The music shifted. The tempo slowed, becoming more intimate. The steps around them adjusted. Couples drew closer, arms encircling waists, foreheads almost touching.
Morgana took a deep breath.
"I think I'll get some more juice."
She turned, taking a step away from the fire.
"Morgana."
She stopped.
Kayle had moved away from the woodpile. Her arms were no longer crossed. Her hands hung restlessly at her sides.
"This music..." Kayle cleared her throat, shifting her gaze to the fire. "It isn't made for watching."
Morgana turned slowly, her face a mixture of surprise and something softer. Kayle breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Like someone preparing to face a foe.
"Do you want... to dance?"
For a moment, Morgana didn't answer. Her face lit up in a way I hadn't seen yet, open, genuine, almost childlike in its joy.
"I do."
The word came out simple. Honest.
Kayle extended her hand. Not with rigidity or haste. She simply held it out, letting the choice exist.
Morgana accepted without hesitation. They entered the circle together. No one stopped to look. No one pointed or commented. They were just two more amongst so many, and perhaps that was what made it so special.
The dance was slow. A gentle sway, more embrace than choreography. Kayle started stiff, of course she did, but gradually her shoulders relaxed. The movements became more fluid.
Morgana led without appearing to. Adjusting to her sister's rhythm, filling the gaps Kayle left, making something that should have been difficult feel easy.
For a moment, Morgana rested her forehead against Kayle's shoulder.
Kayle remained motionless.
Then, slowly, so slowly I almost didn't catch it, she leaned in too.
The bonfire spat sparks. Someone laughed in the distance. The music carried on, indifferent to the small miracle happening within its beat.
[Yes?]
[Like what?]
[You underestimated the depth of the bond.]
I watched Morgana say something low in Kayle's ear, and saw Kayle roll her eyes and then smile. A small, nearly hidden smile, as if it were a secret just for them.
[Hatred would be easier.]
Morgana laughed at something Kayle said. The sound was light, carefree, so different from the restrained, melancholy laughter I knew from her adult version.
[You sound surprised.]
Kayle twirled Morgana in a clumsy movement, and they nearly stumbled. Instead of stiffly correcting themselves, they laughed, really laughed, clinging to one another to keep from falling.
[The frustration she demonstrates—]
The music faded. They stopped dancing but didn't separate immediately. They stayed there, close, catching their breath.
And I understood, finally, why these memories hurt so much. It wasn't because they showed conflict. It was because they showed the opposite. They showed what existed before. What was lost. What Morgana still carried in her heart every time she looked at the horizon and thought of her sister. It is easier to move on from someone you hated than someone you still love.
On the edge of the square, sitting on a bench, Kilam watched. Haldor was beside him, mug in hand, saying something about this year's harvest. Kilam nodded at the right moments, making appropriate sounds, but his eyes never left his daughters.
They were dancing. Together.
Kayle, his Kayle, who slept with a knife under her pillow, who woke before dawn to train, who looked at the world as if it were a threat waiting to happen, was dancing.
And smiling. Not the tense smile she wore when trying to appear normal. A real smile. Small, nearly hidden, but real.
I saw the moment Kilam realised it.
His face was transformed. The lines of worry he had carried for eight years, since the mountain, the boat, the decision to flee, softened. His eyes became misty, shimmering in the firelight.
He said nothing. He didn't have to.
Haldor stopped talking, following his friend's gaze. He saw the twins dancing, saw Kilam's expression, and smiled.
"You did it, old friend."
Kilam shook his head, still gazing at his daughters.
"They did it. I just... tried not to get in the way."
"Nonsense." Haldor clapped him on the shoulder. "You brought them here. Crossed an entire sea. Built a home. Gave them this." He gestured to the festival, the laughing people, the community they had built from nothing. "That is you, Kilam. All of that."
The music changed again. Faster now. Morgana pulled Kayle into an impromptu twirl, and for the first time that night, I heard Kayle laugh. The sound was strange. Unfamiliar. Like a door that hasn't opened in a long time finally giving way. But it was a laugh. Real.
Kilam turned his head, hiding the tears that finally escaped. Haldor pretended not to notice.
"Another mug?" Haldor offered.
"Please."
They walked towards the cider barrel, letting the daughters have their moment.
And I stayed there, floating at the edge of the memory, watching two sisters dance under the stars of a world that hadn't yet learned to hate them.
The thought came unbidden, heavy as a portent.
[You do not know that for certain. The memory has not ended yet.]
The bonfire crackled. The music played. People laughed, danced, lived as if there were no tomorrow.
The thought died before it finished.
Because the sky changed.
At first, it was subtle. A shimmer on the horizon that could be mistaken for a falling star. Some people pointed, smiling, making wishes as they always did when they saw lights in the sky.
But the light didn't fall.
It descended.
Controlled. Purposeful. Tearing through the darkness of night with a golden trail I recognised even before I understood what I was seeing.
That shimmer. That specific gold that did not warm, only revealed. That did not illuminate, only judged.
I knew that light.
[Energy signature compatible with—]
The music stopped. Not all at once, it died away gradually, instrument by instrument, as more and more faces turned to the sky. The dancing ceased. The laughter went silent.
The entire settlement held its breath.
The light continued its descent, and now I could see the shape within it. It wasn't a person. It wasn't an angel with flaming wings coming to reclaim what she had abandoned.
It was a sword.
Long. Elegant. Burning with starfire, the blade shining with the same power I had seen crackling on Mihira's back in the previous memory.
I searched the crowd for Kayle and Morgana.
They had stopped mid-dance, faces turned to the sky like everyone else. Their hands were still joined, fingers still interlaced in that hesitant and precious way.
But their eyes...
Kayle looked at the sword like someone dying of thirst looks at water. There was hunger there. Recognition. The shimmer of the sky reflected in her eyes like a promise finally fulfilled.
Morgana looked at her sister. Only at her sister.
And I saw, I saw the exact moment she understood. The moment Kayle's hand loosened around her fingers, not letting go completely, but... bracing. Already distancing herself. Already being pulled towards that golden light descending like a verdict.
Then the memory began to unravel at the edges.
The darkness pulled, and the last thing I saw was the face of fifteen-year-old Morgana. Her dress still crumpled from the dance. Her fingers still extended towards a hand that was already escaping.
And in her eyes, those blue eyes that would one day be shadows, I saw the mourning begin even before the loss occurred.
-----------
💬 Author's Note
----------
Okay… I can already hear the chaos happening in the comments.
Yes.
I know.
I know there is a certain group of readers who probably just went completely feral after this chapter. Yes, you. The Kayle/Morgana shippers. Don't even try to hide. I've seen you on AO3. You are not subtle.
And before anyone asks:
No, I did not write this scene thinking about you.
…but I'm also not going to pretend I didn't know exactly what I was doing.
Jokes aside, this memory was something I really wanted to show for a long time: Kayle and Morgana before everything fell apart. Before the wars. Before the ideologies. Before they became two near-mythical figures locked in a conflict that lasted centuries.
Before all of that… they were just sisters.
Two teenagers at a harvest festival.
Laughing. Dancing. Holding each other's hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And honestly? That hurts more than any battle.
Because when you see moments like that, you start to understand why Morgana could never truly hate Kayle.
Now… about Kayle.
I'll just say one thing: Kayle has always been very proud. Very rigid. Very disciplined.
The kind of person who would rather fight an army alone than admit she needs someone.
But sometimes pride doesn't stop a person from feeling things.
It only stops them from admitting it.
So… who knows?
Maybe Kayle cared about Morgana's presence far more than she would ever allow herself to say out loud.
Maybe holding Morgana's hand meant more to her than she would ever confess.
But anyway… that's just a completely innocent hypothesis from the author.
Don't look too deeply into it.
Or do. I know you will.
Now tell me: did you also lose your minds over the hand-holding scene, or was that just me?
And finally
Happy International Women's Day to all the amazing women reading this story, and also to the incredible men who know how to appreciate and respect them. 🌸💐💃
Enjoy the wholesome moment while it lasts.
Because… well…
you all saw the sword coming down from the sky.