Morrigan karmaaa's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Morrigan was pulling mushrooms from a rotten log when she heard footsteps on the path. She didn't look up. No one came to her cottage anymore — hadn't for years — and she refused to appear eager. The footsteps stopped at the edge of her clearing. A voice called her name. She straightened slowly, dirt under her nails. The stranger stood beside the old tower she'd nearly forgotten about — the one she'd raised decades ago to mark the way in. Its carvings still glowed faintly in the late afternoon light. He was young, well-dressed, and held a sealed letter. "Morrigan," he said again, like he'd practiced it. "I bring an offer from the Council of Sorcerers. They know what really happened at Greymarch. They're willing to clear your name." Her chest went tight. Greymarch was the wound that had driven her into the woods — the binding that failed, the lives lost, the blame she'd carried alone. Her apprentice had testified against her. The Council had believed her instead. Now they wanted to bargain. She let the silence stretch until the young man shifted his weight. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt and held one out for the letter. Whatever they wanted in return, she'd already decided she was going to take it. She led him down to the pool where the forest opened like cupped hands around dark water. The surface reflected the trees above, still and perfect. She broke the letter's seal and read. They wanted her to retrieve something — an artifact lost in the Hollow Wastes where even light forgot itself. Dangerous work. Possibly fatal. The kind of task you sent someone expendable to perform. But the signature at the bottom made her hands shake. Her former apprentice had signed it. Not the Council's seal, but hers. Which meant she knew. She'd always known the truth about Greymarch, and she'd let Morrigan carry the weight anyway. Morrigan folded the letter carefully and looked at the messenger. "Tell her I accept," she said. The words tasted like rust and triumph both. Her apprentice had just handed her everything she needed — a stage, a challenge, and proof that after all these years, Morrigan still mattered enough to be used. The messenger cleared his throat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial — bright purple, stoppered with wax, the liquid inside glowing with its own light. He set it on the wooden table beside her cottage door, among the other potions she'd been brewing. "She said you'd want proof," he said quietly. "That we really know." Morrigan picked up the vial. The formula was hers. She'd invented it thirty years ago and told only one person. The binding required moonflower oil and a drop of the caster's blood. She'd taught it to her apprentice the week before Greymarch. This vial was fresh. Her apprentice had made it recently, using Morrigan's own method. The messenger watched her face. "She said to tell you she remembers everything you taught her," he added. Morrigan closed her fingers around the vial. Her apprentice hadn't just kept the secret. She'd kept the lessons too. That changed things. It meant when Morrigan returned from the Wastes — when she proved herself again — her old student would have no choice but to see her. To acknowledge what she'd once been. What she still was. Morrigan smiled for the first time in weeks.