The lesson ended… but the silence lingered.
I stood across from my teacher, my hands still faintly glowing with residual magic from the spell I had just cast. It had been flawless—precise, efficient, controlled to a degree that even surprised him.
I could tell.
Merlin watched me carefully, his gaze sharper than usual, as if trying to peer past the surface… as if he could feel something had changed.
He wasn't wrong.
"Your control has improved," he said slowly. "But your approach…"
There it was.
I tilted my head slightly, my expression calm, curious—Claire's influence smoothing my features into something approachable.
"My approach?" I asked.
"You reach too quickly for power," Merlin replied. "Magic is not something to dominate. It is something to understand… to respect."
A pause.
"And the path you are leaning toward…" his voice lowered, "…is dangerous."
Ah.
So we were finally saying it out loud.
I felt something stir inside me—Homura's cold detachment, Sauron's quiet disdain, Morgana's defiance.
Dangerous.
That word again.
I let a faint smile touch my lips, though there was no warmth in it.
"Dangerous does not mean wrong," I said evenly. "It means misunderstood."
The air shifted.
Subtle—but undeniable.
Merlin's expression hardened just slightly. Not anger. Not yet. But disappointment… concern… and something else.
Fear.
"You speak of the dark arts," he said.
"I speak of all magic," I corrected gently. "Why limit ourselves? Why ignore half of what exists simply because it frightens people?"
Because I already knew the answer.
Because I had seen it.
Time and time again.
Magic feared was magic left unmastered.
And magic left unmastered…
…became a weakness.
Later, I returned to my chambers.
The moment the door closed behind me, the mask slipped.
My expression cooled, my thoughts sharpening into something far more dangerous.
I moved slowly across the room, fingers brushing against ancient stone as I let my awareness expand inward.
Power.
So much power.
My internal reserves alone dwarfed what most sorcerers could ever hope to wield. I didn't need external sources. Didn't need relics or rituals to sustain myself.
I was the source.
And dark magic…
Dark magic answered me faster.
Easier.
More naturally.
It wasn't corruption.
It wasn't evil.
It was simply… honest.
Raw. Unfiltered. Unrestricted by the moral frameworks that weaker minds clung to.
I raised my hand, letting shadows gather in my palm. They obeyed instantly, perfectly, forming intricate patterns without effort. No resistance. No instability.
Just… harmony.
I exhaled softly.
"In this world…" I murmured, "…am I being guided… or forced?"
Because I could feel it now.
A pressure.
Subtle, but constant.
Like invisible hands nudging events toward a predetermined outcome. Toward betrayal. Toward conflict. Toward becoming the Morgana that history demanded.
The Morgana who would turn against Camelot.
Against Merlin.
Against her own brother.
My eyes narrowed slightly.
"No."
The word was quiet—but absolute.
I was not bound by this world's narrative.
I was not the original Morgana.
I was something far beyond her.
I had knowledge of the future. Power from multiple worlds. A mind shaped by centuries of experience that this reality could never account for.
If fate thought it could control me…
It was mistaken.
Still…
I couldn't ignore the truth.
Merlin and I were drifting apart.
Not because of misunderstanding.
But because of ideology.
He feared what I could become.
And I…
I refused to be limited by his fear.
A slow, thoughtful expression crossed my face as I turned toward the window, staring out at Camelot.
Peaceful.
Fragile.
Temporary.
"I will learn everything," I whispered.
Light.
Dark.
Time.
Soul.
All of it.
Because in the end…
Power itself was never evil.
Only the one who wielded it decided what it became.