Chapter 8

Within the Dark Forest – The Palace of Witches

The palace of Morgaine le Fey and her son was a wound carved into the land—an ancient citadel whose battlements clawed at the sky like splintered fingers. Demons stalked the outer courtyards, silhouettes of sinew and horn drifting between cracked pillars and crumbling archways. Their yellow eyes glowed in the gloom, pacing ceaselessly, guarding the fortress of their resurrected queen. Beyond the blighted walls, the world was bleak and ruined; within them, it knelt to her.

Yet inside Morgaine’s private chambers, the ruin ended. Magic had rewritten the stone from within, reshaping the Queen of Witchcraft’s sanctuary into something sumptuous and decadent, fit for an empress of sin. Velvet draperies pooled like spilled night. Gold braziers breathed warm firelight. Silks rustled with every breath of the room. The air smelled faintly of orchids and dark wine. Here, reality softened under her hand; here, only beauty and power existed.

Within the dimly lit bedchamber, the only sounds to be heard were the rustle of sheets and soft moaning noises. The lovers made love ... again and again. The dark-haired beauty of pale skin and voluptuous form writhed beneath the strong man of sinew and power. The woman was beauty personified, her body toned and slender, her breasts large and firm. Her waist was impossibly slim, and her legs were smooth and athletic. Long hair, black as midnight, sprawled beneath her like a cape, and the black lipstick coating her lips was just as dark, but not as dark as her eyes. He took her mouth fiercely, and she breathlessly returned the kiss, moaning into his lips as he moved in her. She bit lightly at his lower lip, egging him on. His manhood caressed her folds as he plunged himself deeply inside her womanhood.

She could feel him in her womb, an irony in it of itself. Her strong, long legs wrapped tightly around his waist, urging him on. She cried and gasped in tandem with his thrusts, and he grunted, sometimes claiming her lips, and sometimes biting her neck. Her hands circled the knots of muscle of his powerful back. He leaned down to her chest, heaving as he kissed one of her hard, pink nipples while squeezing her plump breast with one hand. His other hand snaked up to her mouth, and she sucked on his thumb, mewling as his touch set her body on fire with sensation.

Then he leaned back, his dark eyes boring into her soul. One hand glided from her breasts to her toned stomach, the other snaking up her smooth leg and around to squeeze her shapely rump. Her magnificent chest rose and fell with her labored breathing as she slowly licked her lips, holding his broad shoulders in a vicelike grip. Sweat glistened off their ivory skin as the lovers paused their lovemaking to appraise the other.

A primal fury suddenly took hold of the man as he growled and thrusted with all his strength. Her gasps grew louder, her large breast undulating with his movements. Her stomach muscles clenched and unclenched as her eyelids went shut, the depth of feeling overwhelming her for a moment. She came apart beneath him, and he launched his seed deep within her. Then he collapsed against her, panting raggedly. For a moment, they just held each other, their arms intertwined, her chest smashed firmly against his.

Then the man leaned back enough for the woman to gaze on his elegant face. She combed her hands into his long raven hair, leaning up to take his lips in a provocative and violent kiss, her tongue tasting his own. In this chamber, titles like Lord and Lady, Witch and Warlock, Son and Mother ... those titles meant less than nothing. Here, in the dark sheets of their immaculate bed, they were only lovers. And they were alive.

A few minutes later, Morgaine stood before a full-length obsidian mirror, slowly fastening herself into a dress of black fabric so fine it seemed spun from shadow. It hugged her form like a lover’s embrace—form-fitting from shoulder to hip, the skirt slit high at the thigh to bare a length of pale, flawless leg. Down the center, the gown parted dangerously, revealing the sculpted smoothness of her stomach and a seductive sweep of cleavage. For a woman born centuries ago, and dragged recently from the grave by forbidden rites, Morgaine le Fey looked nothing like death. She looked like its promise.

Her skin was porcelain pale, smooth as moonlit marble. Her hair fell long and dark in silken waves down her back, though not as dark as her eyes—eyes rich with malice, brilliance, and ambition beyond mortal scale. Black lipstick marked her mouth, a wicked curve forming as she admired her reflection in an immaculate mirror set on a golden pedestal.

A voice—young, deep, and intimately familiar—slipped into her thoughts. “Somehow, you are even more beautiful after death than in your previous life, Mother.”

She turned, her smile sharpening into something sultry and pleased. Mordred lounged on her bed, the dim firelight catching the lines of the man she had shaped with purpose. Tall, powerful, carved as though from stone—his shoulders broad, his arms knotted with well-earned strength. His tunic, a dark knight’s garb, did little to hide the musculature honed through a lifetime of war and discipline. His hair fell long and black, matching the depth of his mother’s, and his eyes were twin voids—utterly dark, utterly hers. His skin held the same ageless paleness as hers, unmarred—perfection wrought from magic, legacy, and blood.

Trained as both a knight and as a mage, Mordred was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps even more dangerous than herself, though she would have it no other way. He was her son. He was her creation. And—though the world might recoil—he was her chosen lover. Once he had grown into his full and terrible manhood, she had found him far too exquisite to deny. Their union amused her wicked heart. What better way to spit on the world’s sanctity? Witches were meant to court blasphemy. Besides, her unfettered love for him ensured his absolute loyalty. A wife might’ve turned him against her one day, and she could not bear the thought of her beloved son as an enemy.

She glided toward him, the slit of her dress whispering as she moved. When she reached him, she lifted a hand and stroked his cheek with deliberate tenderness before placing a deep, sensual kiss upon his lips. She pulled back just enough to admire his handsome features, relishing their depraved bond.

“The real beauty is in your eyes, my son,” she murmured, voice low and sultry. “The eyes of a conqueror who will one day cast his gaze upon the world ... and everything he beholds will belong to him.”

Mordred caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lips brushing the black paint that adorned her fingernails.

“Belong to us, Mother,” he said, a wicked smile curving to mirror hers. “This new life ... this second chance. We will not waste it.”

His expression hardened, shadows carving themselves deeper across his handsome features. “We do not have my father to contend with in this age,” he growled. “But Merlin remains. And his creature, Jason Blood, who carries Etrigan’s soul. They will die for what they did to you after Arthur slew me.”

Morgaine chuckled softly, the sound dark and velvet-smooth. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, savoring the anger simmering beneath his skin. “They will, my son,” she purred. “And we will seal their failure with our triumph.”

Her grin turned feral, her eyes glittering like obsidian catching fire. “With the blood of the immortal Ra’s al Ghul, death will never stalk us again. We shall drink to our health long after Merlin Emrys and Jason Blood have crumbled into dust.”

In the candlelit chamber, mother and son held each other’s gaze—two resurrections, two sins made flesh—plotting an age of ruin as easily as other families planned a feast. Their time was coming. And the world would kneel.

Mordred’s gaze, however, had drifted from her eyes, tracing the dangerous line of her gown. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory want. He rose from the bed, his movements fluid and powerful, and closed the distance between them in a single step.

“I have just dressed,” Morgaine chided, though her tone held no real reproach, only a teasing warmth. “We have matters to attend to.”

“Let them attend to themselves,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress.

He did not touch her with his hands. Instead, he raised one, and a whisper of crimson energy coalesced around his fingertips. The energy lanced out, not as a weapon, but as a thread of impossible heat. It touched the delicate fabric at her shoulder.

Morgaine gasped, not in pain, but in surprise. The dress did not burn; it unraveled. The black fabric, spun from shadow, dissolved into a thousand wisps of smoke and embers that drifted to the floor like dying moths. In seconds, the intricate gown was gone, leaving her standing as bare and perfect as the day she was reborn.

Her own lips curved into a wicked smile. “Two can play at that game, my love.”

She raised her own hand, and a torrent of violet magic, cold and sharp as ice, shot forth. It struck his dark tunic and breeches, and they did not tear. They shattered, breaking apart into a shower of black crystal fragments that clattered to the stone floor before melting into nothingness.

He was on her in an instant, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, and his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was all fire and possession. He carried her back to the bed, not laying her down gently but falling with her onto the silken sheets, their bodies crashing together in a tangle of limbs and raw need.

This time was different. It was not the slow, reverent worship of before. It was a storm. He entered her in one powerful thrust, and she met him with an upward surge of her hips, taking all of him with a guttural cry that was equal parts pleasure and challenge. He drove into her with a ferocity that would have broken a mortal woman, but Morgaine was no mortal. She was a vessel of ancient magic, and she met his every punishing stroke with a demand for more.

Her nails raked down his back, leaving red welts that healed almost instantly. He bit her shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, and she only laughed, a low, wicked sound that fueled his frenzy. Magic sparked between them where their skin met—flashes of crimson and violet, the scent of ozone and burnt silk filling the air. They were not just making love; they were waging a beautiful, violent war against each other’s bodies, a battle of wills and desire where there could be no winner, only the glorious, exhausting surrender of both.

He flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up. She arched her back, presenting herself to him, a goddess of sin offering herself to her chosen devil. He took her from behind, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force, his thrusts so deep they shook the very bedframe. The sounds were primal, obscene—the wet slap of flesh, her ragged moans, his guttural grunts, the creaking of wood straining under their assault.

When they finally found their release, it was cataclysmic. A wave of raw, untamed magic erupted from them, snuffing out the candles and plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the faint, angry glow of their intertwined auras. They collapsed together, a heap of sweat-slicked skin and heaving breaths, their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm against the cage of their ribs.

They lay like that for a long time, the only sound their slowing breaths and the faint crackle of magic dissipating in the air. Then, with a soft sigh, Mordred raised a hand. The candles flickered back to life. He looked down at his mother, at the tangled mess of her hair and the feral, satisfied gleam in her eyes, and he smiled.

“Now,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “I believe we have matters to attend to.”

Morgaine laughed, a low, throaty sound. She rose from the bed, and with a languid wave of her hand, her gown re-formed around her body, the shadow-fabric coalescing from the air to settle once more against her skin. A second gesture, and Mordred’s tunic and breeches reappeared, as dark and whole as before.

They dressed not with haste, but with a shared, intimate leisure. He came up behind her as she stood before the mirror, fastening the delicate clasps at the back of her gown for her. His fingers brushed her skin, and she leaned back into him, tilting her head to receive a slow, deep kiss. She turned in his arms, her hands smoothing the front of his tunic, and stole another kiss, softer this time, a promise of later. They were composed, regal, and utterly insatiable for one another.

The chamber still hummed with the decadent energy of Morgaine and Mordred’s closeness when the shadows behind them thickened. No sound preceded it—no footfall, no breath, no rustle. Darkness simply parted, and from it stepped something immense.

Belial emerged as though peeled from the void. He stood nearly a head taller than even Etrigan, his yellow skin stretched taut over monstrous, corded muscle. His chest was bare, gleaming faintly in the candlelight—powerful, ridged, and unsettlingly alluring in its brutal perfection. His eyes burned a deep, furious red, pupils like slits of molten iron. Jagged horns swept back and up from his brow, longer and sharper than Etrigan’s, casting curling shadows across the silver-furred cape that draped his back. Armored greaves and blackened metal plates girded his lower body, but his torso remained defiantly exposed—as if daring any blade or spell to test its resilience. His presence reeked of old hate, old fire, and the sulfur of a dozen forgotten hells.

“Morgaine,” Belial rumbled, his voice so deep the floorstones trembled. “We must speak.”

She whirled on him instantly, her rage manifesting in the trembling of the chamber itself. Curtains snapped as though caught in a sudden gale. The mirror rattled upon its pedestal.

“How dare you intrude upon our solitude?” she hissed, her dark eyes blazing. “I told you never to enter these chambers without announcing yourself!”

Belial tilted his head—a gesture of mild amusement more than apology. “Are you ashamed of your nightly activities with your son?” he drawled, baring a row of fanged teeth. “Such a curiosity. Embarrassed ... in front of a demon who has practiced blasphemy millennia before either of you were born to commit your charming incest.”

He didn’t finish the last word. Because in the heartbeat between one blink and the next, flame erupted in Mordred’s palm. A sword of burning runes tore itself out of the fire, and Mordred vanished in a blink of teleportation—reappearing at Belial’s side with the blade pressed to the demon’s throat.