The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

The afternoon light slanted through the high windows of Draeven’s office, casting long shadows across the polished desk.

Spread before the First King were documents. Not the usual paperwork of state business, trade agreements, military reports, administrative decisions. These were different. These were worse.

Trial petitions.

Formal requests for the proper procedures to be followed. Legal frameworks to be honored. Constitutional processes to be respected.

Each one was a nail in Morgana’s coffin.

Draeven sat at his desk, a quill in his hand, and stared at the documents without truly seeing them.

He had been trying to read them for the past hour. Trying to focus his mind on the words, on the official language, on the procedural requirements that governed how trials were conducted in the kingdom.

But his mind was elsewhere entirely.

It kept returning to the dungeons. To a cold stone cell. To a girl sitting alone in absolute darkness.

He looked down at the document before him.

It was a petition from Lady Margot’s family, requesting that the trial proceed with maximum speed. They wanted justice, or what they perceived as justice, and they wanted it quickly.

They wanted Morgana executed.

Draeven raised his quill and prepared to sign.

Then he set it down without signing.

He picked it up again.

Set it down.

His hand was trembling slightly with barely contained fury.

The anger wasn’t directed at the document, or at Lady Margot’s family, or even at the bureaucratic machinery of justice that was grinding forward relentlessly.

The anger was directed at himself.

At his own powerlessness.

At his own constraints.

At the fact that he was a king, one of three kings with absolute authority, and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop this trial from proceeding without creating exactly the kind of disaster that would destroy Morgana far more thoroughly than execution ever could.

He looked at the document again.

The words seemed to swim before his eyes.

"...in accordance with proper procedures..."

"...the accused shall be tried..."

"...the evidence shall be presented..."

"...judgment shall be rendered..."

Each phrase was a step forward on a road that led to Morgana’s death.

And Draeven was sitting here, signing the documents that made that road official and legal and undeniable.

He picked up the quill again and forced himself to sign.

The signature was sharp and angry, the letters slashing across the parchment with barely controlled violence.

He set the quill down and immediately moved to the next document.

Again, he stared at it without reading it.

Again, his mind drifted.

Two days.

The trial was in two days.

And in two days, Morgana would stand before the council. The evidence against her would be presented. The witnesses would testify.

And unless something changed, unless someone found proof of what had really happened....she would be convicted.

And after conviction came sentence.

And after sentence came execution.

Two days.

Draeven’s jaw tightened.

He raised the quill to sign the second document.

And paused.

Because he had done everything he could do. He had summoned Simon, the one weapon the kings possessed that could move through shadow and subterfuge and uncover truths buried beneath lies.

If anyone could find the proof they needed in two days, it was Simon.

But if Simon couldn’t...

Draeven forced the thought away.

He signed the document.

And reached for the next one.

***

The palace corridors were beginning to grow quiet as afternoon shifted toward evening.

Most of the palace staff had completed their duties and moved to the lower levels or their quarters. The nobles who frequented the upper halls had retired to their chambers or the entertainment rooms.

It was that liminal time between day and night when the palace existed in a state of quiet transition.

A figure moved through the corridors.

He was cloaked in a dark, nondescript hood, the kind of cloak that drew no attention, that made the wearer blend into shadows and stone and the general atmosphere of any space.

But those who looked closely....and there were a few, servants with sharp eyes, guards with training, would have seen more than the hood suggested.

The man beneath it was in his early forties. His build was lean and muscular, the kind of physique that came from decades of physical work and physical discipline. His face, when visible, was sharp and intelligent, marked with scars that spoke of a lifetime spent in dangerous situations.

His eyes were the most striking feature. They were dark...almost black, and they moved constantly, taking in everything, assessing every detail, missing nothing.

This was a man who had spent forty years learning to see what others missed.

His name was Simon.

And he moved through the palace corridors like he owned them, though no one would have known it from watching him. He made no grand gestures. He drew no attention. He simply moved, silent and purposeful, toward the office of the First King.

Guards stepped aside for him without being told.

Servants noticed him and then, in a strange way, seemed to not notice him at all, their minds simply accepting his presence and moving on to other concerns.

This was the gift of a lifetime spent in shadow work: the ability to move through the world in such a way that people’s eyes slid past you, their minds forgot you almost immediately, their consciousness simply refused to register your existence.

Simon reached the corridor leading to Draeven’s office.

***

Captain Rhen stood at his post outside Draeven’s office.

He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, with the bearing of someone who had served in military positions for most of his life. He was alert, professional, and absolutely attentive to his duty.

But when the hooded figure approached, something changed in his demeanor.

His eyes, which had been scanning the corridor, suddenly focused.

Recognition flickered across his face.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t demand identification or do any of the things that normal protocol would have dictated.

Instead, he simply stepped to the side.

And he opened the office door.

"Your Majesty," he called into the office, his voice respectful and brief. "Your visitor has arrived."

Then he stepped back to his post, allowing the hooded figure to enter.

The door closed behind Simon with a soft click.