Bars of light broke through the heavens of the alleyway, mimicking a jail cell in freedom. Despite the afternoon light, part of the darkness seemed solid, refusing to recede into the bright onslaught. The season of Sear was hot, practically burning, so any moments of dry shade and garbage scented breeze were welcomed in the halls of the forgotten homeless. From beyond the alleyway, the first note of seasonal music floated to her ears.

Was it time to wake up? Another day of scrounging, scrimping, and stealing to survive? Did she even want to? All the girl had to her was her own name. She did not want to get up. It was not that sleeping slouched against the wall was comfortable or anything, but getting up was not looking particularly pleasing either.

A feet kicked lightly but rudely at her shin. ‟Hey, Mordred. Wake your lazy bitch ass.”

She lifted her head creakily into light, half her face gleaming in sunbeam. ‟What is it?”

Like herself, the man before her wore tattered rags. He smelled of dead fish and caked mud like her. But he had a sword and a glint of magic in his skin that stood out. That made him stronger than almost all other riff-raffs on the street. The man also wore his stained, rusting guard badge on his waist, as if holding onto better days.

The ex-guard growled, ‟If you want to stay in this alleyway, you little freak, you're gonna have to pay your dues.” He held out his hand, awaiting his prize for extortion.

Mordred lazily reached for her pouch at her waist, only to be met with air. She looked down and noticed the small leather sac was gone. Turning back up, she saw the ex-guard's mouth twist into a grin.

He did it. She did not know when or how, but the man had stolen her money in her sleep. Her left hand gripped her hardened right arm in worry as she felt her magic circuits burning in anger to be released. But she wasn't strong enough to fight the man and would likely be killed.

Was that outcome so bad?

‟I...” she mumbled through gritted teeth. ‟I don't have the money.”

The man's sword quickly reach her neck where it stopped.

Even though the smell of alcohol permeated him, his skill with a blade was still sharp. Slowly, he used the point to lift her chin up, revealing her crusted face in the light.

He gave a disgusted look. ‟Well then, I suppose you should go earn you keep now, shouldn't you?”

He raised his sword to the blunt edge and slapped her across the face, the force knocking her to the ground. With a chortled laugh, he walked off as she tasted the blood oozing from a cracked lip. It tasted of iron and death, the dry crust of her mutated skin seeping into the red.

She laid on the floor for a while, waiting for the man's footstep to recede. He was off to his next victim - either the widow an alley over, or the twins taking shelter at the drainage tunnel.

Finally, when the blood stopped dripping from her lips, she got up onto shaky feet. Step by disoriented step, she walked towards the light of the town's main street. With every move, the music of the Sear Festival grew louder. Drums beat the heat of the Twins into her soul, with bards on strings pulling dancing tunes.

The moment she stepped out into the light, the people around her squirmed and stepped away, giving her a short berth. Those who only saw her incoming, swerved. She did not hide her face, or even tried to tidy up the rags of her clothes. She found that while people saw her, they don't really pay attention to her because of her deformity.

‟It's the little monster again,” a woman scoffed.

A man spat. ‟Cursed creature.”

She needed to walk around for a bit, to blend into the festivities. People needed to overlook her first, and avoid her second. So she started walking, circling the town and finding potential marks. She passed by stands selling festival foods, fried and charred in a way that the scent floated temptingly to her, salt and oil tickling her nostrils. There was a melon stand, with watermelon, earthmelon, firemelon, airmelon, and all the other elemelons in season. She watched as the fruit seller cut opened a slice of lightmelon for a customer, the inside glowing bright white as the rare delicacy was opened. Mordred always wondered what it tasted like.

Then, she saw it. The beautiful elf in a white dress, parading through the festival, enjoying herself against the picturesque backdrop. She was likely a celebrity of sorts, as townsfolk came up to greet her. But she had only 1 guard with her, a middle-aged knight, who wore a white uniform she had never seen before. They were most likely outsiders who did not know the layout of the town, which would make hiding from them easier.

Mordred approached swiftly into the crowd. The hot day meant that everyone smelled the same of sweat, and no one was particularly outstanding in the stench department. She only needed one random trinket from someone dressed so nicely to trade for enough coins for a few days. Any trinket, really. Her goal was to grab the first thing she saw.

Weaving, stepping, and practically squeezing into the crowd, she finally caught a glimpse of the white dressed woman. Mordred saw a sequinned flower brooch on the woman's sash with a pink tourmaline gem. She reached for it but was an arm short through the trees of people. Her magic charged, and from her outreached hand, she sent out a shadow appendage to grab for the jewellery.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

In a flash of light, the shadow arm was cut in half, dissipating in a puff of smoke. The crowd screamed and started to disperse at the sudden outbursts of magic.

Instinctively, Mordred jumped forward in the confusion and pulled, swiping the brooch. Before anyone else could react, she pushed herself through into the crowd again.

Everyone was at attention now, and anyone in her way saw her. And upon seeing her cracked, monstrous face rushing towards them, they jumped aside to let her pass.

Mordred ran as fast as she could, slipping through obstacles as dexterously as she could manage. There were shouts for guards and footsteps following behind, but she dared not turned back, at least not until she wound a corner and jumped into an alley. Back in the safety of darkness, she finally looked, hoping to see her pursuers having either slipped or given up.

Instead, the woman in the dress was right on her heels at the alley's entrance, skirt bunched up in her hands. Close behind was the knight.

Who was she?

How was she so fast?

Why was she smiling?

Mordred did not have a chance to ponder those questions. Her freedom was on the line. But did she really want to be free? Would it not be better to be captured? Would being captured even be better? How would she be treated in captivity? Food, water, shelter? Mockery, torture, experimentation?

But she was in the dark of the alleys now, and that was her territory. She cast a spell over her feet, and every time she stomped on a path of shadows, it propelled her slightly. Her young body meant her weight was light, and the magic shot her forward faster. At that pace, she would outrun her pursuers, most definitely.

Reaching a junction, she thought she could pull a feint if given enough distance, so once more, she glanced back, hoping her increased speed had put enough length between them. But the elf in white dress was as near to Mordred as had left her, having not broken a sweat.

The elf was toying with her.

The elf was faster.

It was then Mordred realised she was going to be caught, no matter what. And if she was going down, perhaps she should use the opportunity to do some good for the other downtrodden like her.

Where would the ex-guard be now? On the way to the old man at the edge of town. Could she intercept him?

Mordred raced through the streets. The elf in white had no intention of losing the girl, and the girl had no ability to do so either way.

Jumping out into the light of another open road 3 blocks away from the festival and where traffic was sparse, she saw the ex-guard wandering down the streets, whistling snidely while his somewhat rusty sword glinted dirt in the light. She rushed to him and he did not see her coming until she was right up next to his person, shoving the brooch into his hands.

‟Here! Your payment!” she shouted.

‟What the-!?” the man exclaimed, confused as she ran around him. Then, he wheeled around to find the elf in white and the knight having caught up. ‟You! You're-! I- Wait, is this yours? I'll give it back, spare me!”

Would the pursuers spare him? Mordred did not wait around to find out. One-on-one, she would have lost to the man twice her size and ten times her experience. But with his back turned, she had the time to charge a bomb of a spell into her hand before jumping onto his back. Without even a word, she placed both hands on the side of his head and released.

It was a common misconception that darkness spells manipulated shadows. They actually controlled space itself. Shadows were just places with less light - less things - making it far easier to utilise. With enough power, you could even send a force through solid matter, like through the skull into ones brain.

The ex-guard dropped to his knees, his body wobbling as she still rode his shoulder. She then jumped off just as the motionless body hit the floor.

She was panting, sweating, thoughts racing. She had just committed murder, let alone theft. She was likely going to be arrested, jailed, and executed. But at least that meant she was finally rid of her miserable existence while doing some good at the end. One monster bringing down another.

‟You killed him!” the knight that had chased her exclaimed. ‟Why?”

Mordred did not answer. She was out of magic, and out of strength, both to run, and to live. A crowd had gathered at the commotion, and the call of ‟little monster” echoed.

‟She finally killed someone!” a voice muttered in scared hush.

‟I always knew she would!” another replied.

The elf in white approached her - but paused to bend over at the body to retrieve the brooch, now stained with blood from the ex-guard. The dead man's face bled from the interior slush that was once his brain. Seemingly unaffected by the gruesome horror of violence, the beauty clipped the flowered jewel back onto her sash - blood and all - and knelt down before the little girl, her white dress kneed into the dirty ground.

‟What's your name?” the elf asked.

The girl was scared to meet her eyes, but she let her breath settle from panting before answering, ‟Mordred. Mordred Dresden.”

‟Well Mordred, that's a terrifying name. Your parents must have been horrible to title you such,” the elf continued, her tone neither scared or angry. Neither kind nor sad. It wasn't even stoic. Just matter-of-fact.

‟I don't have parents.”

‟Well, neither do I,” the elf replied. ‟If you could have a new name though, what would it be?”

Mordred looked up and realised for the first time in her life, a person was looking at her. Not at her deformity, or even her actions, but at her. Their eyes met and keyed into a lock.

‟Don't worry, take your time and give it some thought.”

The girl did as she was told, pausing. Her mind slowed and the noise of the crowd faded into the white. All her attention was now on the elf before her. A queen in white, royalty on the road.

Then, she answered, ‟Morganna. I heard it meant light from the sea.”

‟That's beautiful. But doesn't it sound too much like your old name?”

‟I don't want to forget the pain.”

The elf smiled. Slowly, she stood to her feet. ‟My name is Artria Pendragon. Morgana Dresden, welcome to the Knights of the Round.”