Back to the Present
The bathroom door creaked as Morgana pushed it open, steam clinging to the mirror like ghostly fingers. Her bare feet made no sound against the cool wooden floor as she padded to her wardrobe, water droplets still glistening on her shoulders. Morning light filtered through her bedroom window in pale golden streams, casting everything in a deceptively peaceful glow.
She stood before the open wardrobe, fingers trailing over various fabrics. Cotton, silk, wool—each texture promised a different version of herself for the day ahead. Finally, her hand settled on a green dress tucked toward the back. The ancient floral pattern whispered of simpler times, when flowers bloomed without expectation's weight.
The dress slipped over her head like water, fabric settling with familiar comfort. The corset wasn't too tight—she'd learned long ago that breathing was more important than appearance, though in this house, that lesson had come at a cost. As she adjusted the neckline, her reflection caught her eye. The girl staring back looked almost normal, almost whole. Almost.
"Morgana!"
The voice cut through her quiet ritual like a blade through silk. Zirelle's footsteps bounded down the hallway enthusiastically, making Morgana's teeth ache. Each step echoed with joy, anticipation, all the things Morgana couldn't feel.
"Mama wants you downstairs now. We're about to leave for the market," Zirelle called again, and Morgana could practically hear the smile in her voice. That perpetual brightness following her sister like sunlight followed the day.
Morgana's hands stilled on the ribbon she'd been threading through her hair. The market. Of course—they needed provisions, needed to prepare. Because *he* was coming home.
The thought hit like a physical blow, stealing breath from her lungs and replacing it with something cold and sharp. Majesty's return. The words had been circling in her mind since dawn, since Mama had announced it over breakfast with tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "Our boy is coming home," she'd whispered, clutching her coffee cup like a lifeline. "After all these years, he's finally coming home."
But to Morgana, it didn't feel like a homecoming. It felt like a reckoning.
She sank onto her bed's edge, the mattress dipping under her weight. The pale morning light seemed to mock her now—too bright, too cheerful for the darkness spreading through her chest. Her fingers trembled as she attempted to tie the ribbon around her braid's end, the simple task suddenly insurmountable.
How do you prepare for the return of someone who broke you? How do you smile and pretend everything is fine when their name makes your skin crawl?
The dress fabric felt too tight against her ribs, though she knew it fit perfectly. It was the weight in her chest, the invisible stone that had settled there the moment she'd heard his name. An anchor of dread pulling her down into memories she'd spent years trying to bury.
"Alright," she called back, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. It was a skill she'd perfected—this ability to sound normal when everything inside was screaming. "I'll be down in a minute."
The hallway fell quiet except for Zirelle's retreating footsteps, each one accompanied by that familiar bounce. Kaia walked like someone who'd never learned to be afraid of her own shadow, never learned to flinch at footsteps in the dark.
They weren't close, she and Zirelle. They existed in the same space like two planets orbiting the same sun but never quite touching. Zirelle was the golden child, the sweet one, the daughter who'd never given their parents a moment's worry. She floated through life with an ease Morgana had never possessed, would never possess.
And today, Zirelle was practically vibrating with excitement about *his* return.
Morgana pushed herself up from the bed, legs unsteady beneath her. She moved to the mirror on the far wall—the one that had witnessed too many breakdowns, too many nights spent staring at her reflection and wondering where the girl she used to be had gone.
The face looking back was pale, drawn tight with exhaustion that sleep couldn't cure. Her eyes were rimmed with shadows that spoke of nights spent lying awake, replaying conversations that had ended years ago but still echoed in silence. The ribbon in her hair looked too neat, too perfect—like makeup on a corpse, trying to hide decay beneath.
From downstairs, Mama's voice drifted up like smoke. "You look beautiful!" The words were bright, effusive, full of maternal pride that should have warmed Morgana's heart but instead made her stomach clench.
She hadn't dressed to look beautiful. She'd dressed because it was expected, because in this house, appearances were armor and she'd learned long ago that going without protection was dangerous. Every choice—the dress, the hair, the careful neutral expression she was already practicing—was calculated for survival, not vanity.
Today was supposed to be a celebration. Mama had been planning it for weeks, ever since the letter arrived. "A feast," she'd declared, hands clasped in delight. "We'll prepare all his favorite foods, decorate the house with flowers, make everything perfect for when he walks through that door."
Morgana had nodded and smiled and agreed to help, because what else could she do? How do you tell your mother that the son she's missed desperately, the child she's prayed for every night, is the same person who taught you what fear tastes like?
She reached the stairs' top and paused, hand gripping the banister until her knuckles went white. Below, she could hear Zirelle's bright chatter, Mama's warm laughter, the sounds of a family preparing for joy. The sounds felt foreign, like music played in a language she'd forgotten how to speak.
"Thank you, Mama," Zirelle was saying, her voice sweet as honey, genuine in its warmth.
Morgana's jaw clenched involuntarily. Of course she was thankful. Of course she was excited. Zirelle had nothing to fear from Majesty's return. She'd been too young to understand, too innocent to see the cracks beneath his perfect facade. To her, he was just their older brother, the family hero who'd gone away to become something greater.
But Morgana remembered. She remembered the weight of his gaze, the careful way he'd chosen his words, the promises he'd made and broken with equal ease. She remembered the girl she'd been before him and the hollow shell she'd become after.
Taking a deep breath that did nothing to steady her nerves, she descended the stairs. Each step felt like walking toward her own execution, though she kept her face carefully neutral, movements controlled. By the time she reached the bottom, she'd managed to pull her expression into something resembling normalcy.
The front door stood open, morning air flowing in with jasmine and fresh earth's scent. Mama stood silhouetted in the doorway, her face radiant with anticipation. She'd put on her best dress, the blue one with embroidered flowers, and had even pinned her hair up in the style she used to wear when Morgana was small.
"You look beautiful," Mama repeated as Morgana appeared, reaching out to clasp her hands together in that gesture of delight she'd perfected over the years. Her smile was wide, genuine, untouched by the tension radiating from her eldest daughter like heat from a flame.
Morgana's lips curved upward in response, though the expression felt foreign on her face. She nodded once, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she spoke.
"I can't believe he's really coming home," Zirelle bubbled, practically bouncing on her toes as she linked her arm through Morgana's. The contact was meant to be sisterly, affectionate, but it felt like a chain around Morgana's wrist. "It's been so long, I was starting to think we'd imagined him."
The joke landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of discomfort through Morgana's carefully constructed composure. She forced out a small laugh that sounded more like a cough.
"Of course we didn't imagine him, silly," Mama chided gently, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "He's just been... finding himself. Becoming the man he was meant to be."
Finding himself. The euphemism sat bitter on Morgana's tongue. Is that what they were calling it now?
"Do you think he's changed much?" Kaia asked, directing the question to both of them but looking expectantly at Morgana. "I mean, it's been three years. People change a lot in three years, don't they?"
Morgana's throat felt like sandpaper. "I'm sure he has," she managed, the words scraping against her vocal cords like broken glass.
But even as she said it, she wondered if it was true. Could someone like Majesty really change? Could the essential core of a person—the part that chose cruelty over kindness, power over compassion—really be transformed by time and distance?
Mama turned and began walking down the path with a spring in her step that made her look twenty years younger. Her joy was infectious, spreading through the morning air like perfume, touching everything except the cold space around Morgana's heart.
"Come along, girls," she called over her shoulder. "We have so much to do and so little time. The market will be crowded, and we need the best cuts of meat, the freshest vegetables. Everything must be perfect."
As they walked, Zirelle kept up steady chatter about the preparations, the menu, the flowers they would pick for centerpieces. Her voice was bright and musical, painting pictures of a celebration that would be remembered for years.
But Morgana heard none of it. All she could hear was the echo of a voice from three years ago, sharp and cold and promising things that still made her wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
He was coming back.
And nothing—nothing in this carefully constructed life she'd built—would ever be safe again.