The loft above the main room seemed to be a space dedicated to quilting and sewing - a hobby Morgana must have spent a lot of time with. What were known to be wood-paneled walls were completely obscured by fabrics and tapestries of impressive scale.

Morgana had collected several of these blankets and weavings to provide her guests with room to settle their arrangements. They made their way out of their armor and into more comfortable clothing and secured their weapons in their bags. Reconvening in the main room, they left their packs upstairs, save for Arsa who held his close.

Frank had been sat in the cushioned armchair in front of the fire. His fever was dropping and the wound on his leg continued to heal. Morgana stayed near him, refreshing the damp cloth with cold water to soothe him.

Circe watched her with intent, enmity radiating between the two of them. Acadian and Arsa sat beside one another on one of the couches. The younger elf held his bag close, angling slightly away from his elder.

Gostor was still sipping on his keg as Flynn meandered around the room, looking at different wall hangings and things on shelves. He stopped briefly by one of the windows, picking up a small portrait made from shards of stained glass.

The portrait was of Morgana in a much finer gown than the smock she had on. It was of black material with inlaid purple things speckled throughout (it was hard to tell through the glass). Sat beside her was a young drow girl. The girl had the same silvery white hair and lilac skin and was dressed in a dusty pink ruffled dress. Both of them were smiling joyfully in the photo.

“You’re all by yourself out here?” he called out. Morgana noticed what he was holding and approached him. She gently took the frame from his hand and placed it back in the window. Caressing the side of it, she smiled.

“I am,” she said. “That photo was from another lifetime. One I no longer lead.”

Her face became sad as she returned to Frank’s side. Flynn followed and sat cross-legged in front of the fire, looking up at her.

“Who was she?” he asked.

Morgana smiled, “My daughter. My Laelynn.”

For a moment, the no-nonsense exterior of the drow melted away. A tender heart beat beyond the magic and the power.

Arsa tilted his head onto his shoulder, squeezing the egg inside the pack a little tighter, “Why isn’t she here with you?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Morgana stilled, the water dripping off of the rag and into the basin. She resumed her motion.

“Life has been unkind to me. I will never see my little girl again,” she said in a voice that wavered with a quiet rage. She nearly threw the rag into the water and emptied it into the sink. Gripping the edge of the counter, she let her hair fall over her face. She was trembling.

Arsa glanced at the others before daring to say something, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“That’s alright,” she raised a hand and faced him. “You didn’t mean anything by it. You knew not of what I’ve faced. How could you? Your beloved council made sure my people would be forgotten.”

The Archmagus. The council of the most powerful mages across the whole of Namora. Spellcasters from the continents of Ayeron, Eihimea, Upora, Pegres, and Veloquor. They governed the world as a united guild, stepping in to correct major world atrocities. Atrocities like the War of Gods.

Smaller squabbles such as the war between the Cities of Hydraan and the Empires, either side of the continent of Ayeron, were of no interest to the Archmagus. They left civil disputes to the populations they impacted. The council was far more concerned with matters of magic and power, such as the protection of the Fracture.

Acadian cleared his throat, “Yer people? The dark elf tribe?”

Morgana laughed, “Tribe? We are nothing so primitive. We are a kingdom. A nation. One that rivaled the power of that dreadful thing that makes your laws and shapes your histories.

We are not a dark elf tribe. We are Zeaguraat. The forefathers of magic. The artisans of spellcraft. The original mages.”

Crack.

At the climax of her story (one that was hardly believed by the present company), a splitting sound from Arsa’s bag drew their attention. A panic filled each of them as a small grunt came from the leather.

Arsa tried to excuse himself and rush upstairs, but he tripped over the corner of the rug, dropping the bag. Fragments of amethyst shell spilled out along with a slimy purple substance. Another high-pitched grunt shrieked out from the pack as a small violet lizard rolled out.

The creature had frail, translucent wings that clung to its back with delicate veins running through the membrane. Its large eyes looked around, blinking away the fluid that coated its form. The snout was short and rounded, almost dog-like in appearance. From its forehead, two crystalline horns poked out like gemstones erupting from a smooth cavern wall.

Morgana raised her eyebrow and narrowed her eyes, “Is… is that an amethyst dragon?”

Arsa knelt down to pick up the slippery thing. He held it in his arms, gazing down at its curious face. He felt tears forming behind his eyelids and sniffed them away. Suddenly, he became very aware of the number of eyes on him and the baby.

He stammered, “No... it's a baby amethyst dragon.”