Her first thought was that she had died again—that the swarm, the Church, the exhaustion had swallowed her whole. But then the ache in her limbs made itself known, dull and heavy, the ache of a body pushed far beyond its limits.
She blinked, adjusting to the faint light filtering through a crack in the broken cellar roof. Dust drifted in the air, caught in the narrow shaft of morning sunlight.
Still alive.
The thought came with equal parts relief and disbelief.
She pushed herself upright slowly, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. Her body felt strange—hers and not hers at once. In her old life, she had been a man: taller, broader, weighed down by long hours of work. This body was the opposite: lithe, slender, delicate, and yet humming faintly with a strange vitality.
Curiosity overcame her fatigue. She shifted closer to the light and studied her reflection in a shard of broken glass half-buried in the dirt.
The girl staring back at her was unfamiliar and yet achingly vivid.
Jet-black hair spilled down her shoulders, tangled and unkempt, but still catching faint glimmers of silver where the sunlight touched it. Her skin, though pale from hunger and hardship, held a smoothness her former life had never known. A small nose, sharp cheekbones, and lips that seemed almost too full for her gaunt frame gave her a fragile beauty. Her eyes—Morgan's eyes—were dark, nearly black, deep pools that seemed to shimmer faintly, as though magic itself stirred in their depths.
She touched her face, tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the softness of her skin.
"So this is me now…" she whispered, her voice quiet, uncertain.
For a long moment, she simply stared, torn between awe and alienation. She was beautiful—hauntingly so, in a way that even hunger and grime could not erase. And yet, that beauty belonged to someone else. A girl who had died screaming as her power tore her apart.
I'm borrowing her face. Her body. Her life.
Her chest tightened. She wasn't sure if it was guilt or fear that weighed heavier.
Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus. Brooding wouldn't keep her alive.
She checked her body more carefully now. Beneath the rags she wore, her frame was slender but wiry, honed by years of surviving the streets. Scars marred her skin here and there—small cuts and scrapes, reminders of a hard life. But there was also something new, something impossible to miss.
When she closed her eyes and focused, she could feel it: a pulse, deep within her chest, not like a heartbeat but layered over it. A thrum of power, faint but constant, as if magic itself now ran in her veins.
It was both terrifying and intoxicating.
She exhaled shakily. "A witch… I really am one."
The word sat heavy on her tongue. In this world, it meant death, fire, and the wrath of the Church. But it also meant power. And after one lifetime spent in monotony, in weakness and routine, power stirred a strange thrill deep inside her.
Still, she couldn't afford to linger. She needed to know where she stood—both in this city and in the story she remembered.
Pushing herself to her feet, she edged toward the cellar's cracked entrance and peered into the alley. The city was waking: carts creaked by, peddlers called their wares, and the ever-present smell of smoke and sewage drifted through the air.
Nothing looked different. But everything had changed.
She pulled back into the shadows, mind racing. If this is really Greycastle, then… where am I in the timeline? Roland…
She frowned, dredging up memories of late-night reading.
The capital was still under the rule of Wimbledon III—no, wait. He should already be dead by now. Which meant…
Morgan crept out later, keeping to side streets, ears sharp for gossip. In a city like this, information traveled faster than coin. And it didn't take long.
At a baker's stall, two women whispered heatedly.
"Did you hear? Timothy is king now."
"Of course I heard! Everyone has. They say he locked the First Prince in the dungeon like a criminal."
"And the Fourth? That wastrel Roland? Banished to Border Town, of all places."
Morgan's stomach dropped.
So it's already begun.
Timothy's ascension. Gerald's capture. Roland sent to Border Town. She was not before the story. She was in it. The wheels of history were already turning, and she was caught in their teeth.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She knew what came next: Timothy consolidating power, Gerald dying in chains, Roland dismissed as useless even as he quietly built his foundation far from the capital.
The story had already started.
And she was a witch, alone in the heart of the capital where the Church's grasp was strongest.
Morgan retreated to her cellar hideout, her mind whirling with thoughts.
She could try to leave the capital, but that meant crossing patrols, checkpoints, and worse—the open countryside where witch-hunters prowled. And even if she escaped, where would she go? She had no money, no allies, nothing but a dangerous power she barely understood.
Yet the alternative—staying here, waiting to be found—was a slow death.
Morgan sat against the wall, drawing her knees close. Her dark eyes flickered faintly in the gloom as she whispered to herself:
"If Roland really is in Border Town already… then maybe my only chance is to reach him."
The words sounded impossible. But so was everything about her existence now.
She lifted her hand, watching as faint shapes stirred in the air around her fingers—a moth's wings, half-formed before dissolving. A small reminder of the chaos lurking within her.
Her life as Morgan had already ended once.
She couldn't afford to waste the second.