The night air was sharp enough to slice skin.

Snow fell in thick, silent sheets, covering the forest floor in a pale shroud. It wasn’t just cold, It was ancient. The kind of cold that remembered every death ever spilled into its soil.

She ran anyway.

A woman in a tattered black cloak, heavy with child, stumbled between twisted trees. Her bare feet were blue with frostbite. Her breaths were short and ragged, but she dared not stop.

Behind her, voices cut through the wind—rough, angry, vengeful.

“She’s in the woods!”

“Don’t let the witch birth the curse!”

“BURN HER!”

Torchlight flickered between the trees like angry fireflies. Shadows of men and pitchforks. They weren’t here to capture her. They were here to erase her.

Her heartbeat roared louder than the storm, louder than the wind. Each step was a defiance of death. But the pain… oh, the pain.

It started hours ago, deep in her spine, low in her belly, growing stronger with each passing moment. Now, her contractions came like waves crashing through her. Each time she fell to her knees, she left red in the snow. There would be no midwife. No fire. No kindness.

Just her.

Just the storm.

Just the two unborn creatures within her, writhing as if they, too, knew what was coming.

She ducked under a fallen tree and gasped as another contraction bent her in half. Blood poured from between her legs, steaming against the cold.

She screamed.

The men heard.

“THIS WAY!”

Panic surged through her like fire in her veins. She could barely stand. But as thunder cracked above and lightning split the sky, she saw it

A mouth of stone.

A cave, narrow and jagged, hidden behind layers of ice and vines. The forest itself seemed to part for her, just long enough.

With the last surge of her strength, she dragged herself into the dark. Snow swallowed her footprints. The wind howled louder, as if trying to cover her tracks.

And the hunters passed.

One paused at the edge of the trees, torch raised. He stared into the shadows for a long time. Then he spat on the ground and turned away.

Inside the cave, the woman collapsed against the wall, shaking violently. Her fingers scraped rock. Her teeth chattered. But she was alive.

And she was no longer alone.

The cave was cold and wet, filled with dripping echoes and ancient silence. The woman’s cloak was soaked with blood and snowmelt. Her body was failing. But still, she fought.

She crawled deeper, trembling, until the storm was nothing but a distant scream.

Then the real pain began.

She screamed again, this time not in fear—but in the agony of giving life.

Her hands found sharp stones, and she clenched them until her palms bled. Her back arched as the first child came, inch by inch, limb by limb, into a world that did not want her.

Lightning flashed through the cracks of the cave ceiling.

The baby cried.

A girl—eyes wide open, black as void, already aware.

The mother wept, her hands shaking. “Morgana,” she whispered.

But there was no time to rest.

The second came fast—and silent.

This girl did not scream. Her eyes were pale, eerily calm, as if she’d been born knowing the world and hating it. Her tiny fingers curled into a tiny, perfect fist.

“Magause,” the mother breathed, sobbing harder now.

The thunder grew louder.

Snow blew in swirls at the cave entrance, but the wind refused to enter.

The woman gathered both twins in her arms and raised them up, toward the sky she could no longer see.

“Let the earth bear witness… Let the heavens remember… these daughters of mine.”

The storm stopped.

For one sacred moment, there was peace.

Then, her body gave out.

Blood flowed faster than her breaths. Her limbs went cold. Her eyes dimmed. She smiled through the agony, one last act of love etched on her face.

And then… she was gone.

The babies lay against her chest, one blinking slowly, the other now watching the shadows gather above them.

The cave, ancient and knowing, sealed its mouth with snow.

Somewhere deep in the forest, an owl screeched once—and fell dead from its branch.

The prophecy had begun.

And Ebon Hollow would never be safe again.

If perfection had a face, it would look like Morgana Whitlock.

Blonde hair like gold-spun silk cascaded down her back as she stood in front of the floor-length mirror, applying a cherry-red gloss to her already heart-shaped lips. Her skin glowed, her lashes curled to impossible lengths. Her green eyes, sharp and unreadable, seemed to smirk even when her mouth didn’t.

She was tall leggy, lean, and far too beautiful for her own age.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but her bedroom was already drenched in soft amber light filtered through linen drapes. Her room looked like it belonged in a fashion magazine: marble floors, cream walls, a chandelier hanging low enough to sparkle off her vanity.

“Morgana!” her mother’s voice rang from downstairs, clipped and polished. “Your driver’s here!”

“Coming!” Morgana called back, slipping into her black mini skirt and cropped blazer. She added a silver chain choker, sprayed a mist of expensive perfume, and gave herself a final once-over.

She looked rich. She looked dangerous.

She looked like she ruled the world.

Downstairs, the Whitlock mansion buzzed like a royal hive.

Her father, Theodore Whitlock, sat in the dining room skimming the stock market updates on his tablet, a glass of imported green juice untouched beside him. Her mother, Claudine, dressed in pearls and pastels, inspected the housekeeper’s work like a bored queen.

“You’re late,” Claudine said as Morgana floated down the spiral staircase, heels clicking. Her tone was casual, but the tension in her brow said more.

Morgana shrugged. “Beauty takes time, Mother.”

Her older sister, Simone, rolled her eyes from across the room. She wore a skinny jeans and an halter neck flowery top coupled with expensive jweleries and an expression permanently set to disdain. "More like vanity takes time."

Morgana smiled sweetly. “Aww. Jealousy doesn’t look cute on you, babe.”

Their brother, Damian, entered with two mugs of coffee—one of which he handed to Morgana. “Don’t listen to them, Momo. You look iconic.” He winked. “As usual.”

Morgana’s face lit up. Damian was the only one who really saw her. Even when she didn't see herself.

“Thanks, D,” she said, sipping.

He ruffled her hair as she passed, smirking. “Don’t cause too much trouble at school.”

“No promises,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Outside, a black luxury car waited in the circular driveway. The chauffeur opened the door for her with a nod.

Morgana slid in and crossed her legs, phone already in hand, scrolling through her messages. A group of guys from her class had flooded her DMs again. Some were sweet. Others were disgusting.

She replied to none of them.

As the car rolled past the gates, Morgana glanced out at the trees flanking the road. They were thick and dark, swaying strangely with the wind.

For a split second, something shifted. Her reflection in the window didn’t move with her—just stared back with a strange smile. Like a glitch. Like a whisper behind the glass.

Morgana blinked.

It was gone.

She frowned faintly, looked at her hands. They were shaking.

Why?

The world outside sparkled with wealth and safety. Her life was perfect.

So why did she sometimes feel like it wasn’t hers?

Like she was living in someone else's skin?

psh! be real Morgana!, thats illusion, she told herself

The city was slowly waking up.

As Morgana’s sleek black car sliced through traffic, she leaned back against the plush leather seat, one leg crossed over the other, the glow of her phone lighting up her face. Her lock screen was a selfie flawless, confident, captivating. She hated it. But she left it anyway.

The driver, Bernard, didn’t speak unless spoken to. Just the way she liked it.

Skyscrapers passed like silent giants. The streetlamps blinked out one by one as the daylight crept in, but the shadows between buildings seemed to linger, unnaturally long, unnaturally still.

She scrolled through her playlist and picked a moody track. A bass-heavy beat filled the car. Something dark. Something sultry.

Something… wrong?

She shook her head and looked up.

There it was again.

Her reflection in the window.

It was staring at her—dead-on—while her real face had just turned away. The girl in the glass smiled… slowly. Deliberately.

Morgana’s heart skipped.

She blinked. The reflection moved in time with her again.

She sat up straighter, gripping the phone. “I’m tripping,” she whispered.

But this wasn’t new.

She’d always had weird moments. Glitches in reality. Deja vu so sharp it felt like a knife. Dreams that bled into real life. Once, when she was eight, she’d stared into the bathroom mirror for hours, convinced the girl inside wasn’t her.

Her parents said it was just anxiety. Her sister said it was attention-seeking.

But Damian… he never judged. He just told her: “Don’t fight it. You feel more because maybe there’s more to you.”

The car pulled through the arched gates of Blackwell Academy for the Gifted and Elite. The school looked like a castle dropped in the middle of the city: stone towers, vine-covered walls, iron gates that clicked behind them like prison bars.

Bernard parked and came around to open her door.

Morgana stepped out like a movie star. Heads turned. Phones rose. People stared. Girls studied her outfits. Boys whispered. She wore confidence like a shield  and underneath it, a storm.

Her boots crunched on the path as she strutted toward the building. Her mini skirt swayed just enough to draw attention, and her lips curled in a smirk that said I know I’m untouchable.

But just before she reached the steps, she paused.

Across the courtyard, near the old fountain, a girl was staring at her. Not a student. Not anyone Morgana recognized.

She was dressed in black. Pale. Hair like pitch. Her eyes were hollow, almost bruised-looking, and too wide. And she didn’t blink.

Morgana’s smirk faltered.

The girl tilted her head… and mouthed her name.

Not “Morgana.”

Not “Hey.”

Just… “Sister.”

Morgana's blood went cold.

A blink later, the girl was gone. Vanished. Like she was never there.

Morgana stood frozen, the wind whispering around her like laughter caught in the trees.

She clutched her bag tighter, straightened her back, and marched up the stairs ignoring the icy chill creeping down her spine.

Today was going to be normal.

Perfect.

Just another day in her perfect life.

But something inside her had already cracked.

And something was watching.

The village of Greythorn didn’t exist on most maps.

A patch of land swallowed by endless woods, crooked houses, and skies that always looked a little too grey even when the sun was out. People said it was cursed. They were right. But Morgause didn’t care.

She was the only spark in this dead place.

At eighteen, she was already a legend in the village. Fist-fighter. Trouble-maker. Rule-breaker. The kind of girl who climbed water towers barefoot, stared down hunters twice her size, and once stole a chief’s bike just to prove she could.

But when she wasn't out in the wild or scaring off creeps from the market, she was home with the only person she’d ever call family.

Her grandmother, Granny Ivy

Morgause kicked the chicken coop door shut with one boot as she stormed across the yard, a slingshot in one hand and a dead snake in the other.

“Got the bastard,” she said, flinging it away like it was trash.

From the porch, Granny Ivy cackled, her teeth shining in the morning sun. “And you ruined another slingshot string, didn’t you?”

Morgause shrugged, brushing dirt off her camo pants. “Strings are easy. That thing nearly bit Tobby.”

The old woman nodded, then waved her inside. “Come eat. You didn’t even finish the pottage.”

Morgause paused.

No matter how tough she was, she never said no to her granny's food.

Inside the house, a mix of herbs, woodsmoke, and something sweet lingered in the air. Dried charms and bones hung from the ceiling, swaying gently like they were whispering to each other. Morgause never asked where they came from.

She slumped into the kitchen stool, scarred knuckles resting on the table. “Village council’s acting weird again. That preacher man came sniffing around. Said he had visions. Blood moons, twins, the usual crazy talk.”

Granny Ivy didn’t answer right away. Just stirred the pot, her back tense.

“They always come looking for something they don’t understand,” she finally said. “You just keep your head low.”

Morgause scoffed. “Low’s not really my thing, Granny.”

The old woman turned, looking at her with deep, stormy eyes. “That’s what scares me.”

There was a silence between them. Heavy. Ancient.

Later that night, Morgause sat on the roof of the house, watching the sky as stars blinked through the clouds. Her boots dangled over the edge, cigarette burning slow between her fingers.

The forest whispered in the dark. She always felt it something in the woods watching. Waiting. She should’ve been afraid.

But she wasn’t.

She was born into this village like a scream. She'd never known her parents. All she knew was the forest, her fists, her granny’s voice, and the constant ache in her chest like she was missing something.

A name she sometimes heard in dreams.

Morgana.

She took a drag and muttered into the night, “Who the hell are you?”

And far, far away, in a city she’d never seen…

A girl woke up with a gasp, clutching her chest.

The morning sun cut through the mist, slanting over the crooked rooftops of Greythorn village. Morgause sat on the edge of a wooden fence near the chicken pen, sharpening a jagged stone into something knife-like. She looked up briefly when a bird flew past then went back to carving, brow furrowed, movements precise.

Her dirty blonde hair fell in wild strands around her face sunlight caught in the lighter ends, while the roots remained darker, tousled and half-matted from running through the woods and wrestling goats last week. It fell in uneven waves, some parts braided in the back with little bits of twine or beads gifts from village kids who thought she was cool.

Her face was streaked with ash and sweat, a smudge of dirt across one cheek like war paint but underneath it all, she was gorgeous.

Sharp cheekbones. Full, dry lips. Lashes too long for someone who didn’t own a mirror. Eyes that burned somewhere between storm grey and forest green depending on her mood. Her nose was slightly crooked, from a fight she never told anyone about. She hated the way people stared at her sometimes, like she was a wild painting they couldn’t explain.

“Yo, Morg,” called one of the local boys, “You coming to the wrestling match?”

She glanced up. “If it’s just you and your crooked neck again, I’ll pass.”

Laughter erupted. Even when she was quiet, Morgause was sharp always ready with a savage clapback or an eye-roll that could slice a man in half. But underneath that edge was a mind sharper than any blade she carried.

She knew how to read the stars. How to tie fifty kinds of knots. How to track footprints in the woods. She’d hacked the village radio once just to play old punk songs. And if anyone came to her with a broken slingshot, busted cart wheel, or sprained ankle, she fixed it fast, no questions asked.

But school? She’d never been.

Not officially.

Still, she knew things. Too much.

Things she couldn’t explain. Things she shouldn’t have known. Ancient things. Cursed things.

Later that day, she sat in the shade beside Granny Ivy's herb garden, legs crossed, flipping through a tattered book she stole from the priest’s house last year. The writing wasn’t in English. Or their village language. It was older.

But Morgause could read it.

She didn’t know how.

The symbols glowed faintly under the sun, and something about them called to her.

“Dangerous little thing,” Granny Ivy muttered from the porch, watching her.

Morgause looked up with a smirk. “You raised me.”

“And I regret nothing,” the old woman replied but her eyes were laced with something heavier. Fear. Protection. Secrets.

The wind shifted. The trees whispered.

Morgause closed the book slowly. Her fingers trembled just once.

“Granny,” she said, “Do you ever feel like… we’re not supposed to be here? Like this village is holding us in?”

Granny Ivy didn’t answer immidiately.

Because she’d felt that too.

"I dont think so my dear, ive spent all my life here, born and brought up"

she said but she knew it wouldn’t hold Morgause much longer.