A princess, Morgana thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. She had been a princess, but her father had never treated her as one. She had been a pawn, to advance his cause, but she had never known his cause. Her father had wanted to conquer – to take what others had so that he could have it. He had never cared about the people who had to suffer in his name. He had never even cared about her. He had used her.

And yet, he had been right. He had been right about Excalibur. Morgana had never been able to wield it, not really. She’d been able to use it, to protect herself, but she could never wield the power that seemed to surround the sword. She had always been a sorceress, a wielder of magic, but somehow the sword was more than that. It was solemn and deep and powerful. The knights had never mentioned it, but Morgana had always felt a sense of magic surrounding the sword. The sword was the embodiment of Arthur's dreams, and of his hopes. Excalibur was the key to Camelot's destiny, and Morgana had never been able to really use it.

She had tried, though. She had fought with all her might, with all her magic, with all her schemes, but she had never been able to truly defeat them. They had always been stronger than her. But now her strength had grown. Morgana had been toiling with her magic for the past year of her exile. She had been growing stronger. If she could not use Excalibur, then she would use her magic. She would use it to destroy Camelot. Morgana would use her magic to bring down the Round Table and to destroy Arthur.

Her father was a ghost to her. She hadn’t remembered him in a long time. She had thought of him, of course, but she had never allowed herself to feel it. She had never allowed herself to remember. The pain was too much.

The sound of hooves on the stone walkway brought Morgana out of her reverie. She had slowed her steps, thinking of all the things she had to do before dawn.

She remembered when she had left Camelot, favored half sister to the king no longer. Her banishment had sent her out into the East, to her family's ancestral home at Tauroc in shame and disgrace. Now, with the kingdom in danger and no one left to turn to, she was glad that she had gone into exile rather than face execution as a traitor.

There was much that she had to tell Arthur, and she needed to learn what the knights and the king knew. Morgana knew she needed to stay above their suspicions, at least for the time being. She could not allow them to see her truly. Morgana would have to be ready, be prepared for the worst. She would have to act as she had always acted. She would have to be a sorceress. She had to be cold and distant, to stand aloof from the pain in her heart. Above all else, Morgana had to be calculating and careful.

The sound of hooves on the stone walkway grew louder and Morgana turned to see a lone rider approaching. He was an older man, with dark hair and a dark beard. His eyes were set deep in his face, but they seemed almost as if they should be filled with anger. As he came closer, she could see a rather fearsome scar running down the right side of his face, almost as if it was mirror of the sword that hung at his hip.

The sky shook with thunder and the skies opened up above her. Heavy rain pelted her from above, drenching her in moments. Morgana was now standing in the middle of a downpour, and the lone rider was now upon her. She could feel the magic around her, that of the storm. The power was almost palpable, and Morgana blinked against the rain.

The rider watched her carefully. A hand, appearing as if from nowhere, reached out of the darkness. Only faintly did he see the silhouette of the rider’s cloak. “My lady, please take my hand.”

Morgana looked at the rider and then at his hand. She was soaked to the bone, her long, black hair plastered against her face. Cold drizzle ran down her back and between her breasts, and Morgana shivered. She reached out and felt power course through her as she grasped his hand.

“Morgana,” he said.

The voice penetrated through the cold that seemed to cover her like a blanket, and she looked up into the rider’s eyes. They were hard and cold, and as dark as she had always remembered them to be.

“Lord Dryford,” she whispered.

The storm above them grew darker, much to Morgana's surprise. She could still feel the magic of the storm, but it was almost as if the storm itself did not want her to get away. It was almost as if it wanted her to stay.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” Morgana said quietly.

“No.” Lord Dryford turned and looked at her. “No, Morgana. I am not here to kill you. I am here to help you.”

“You have done well,” Lord Dryford turned his horse slowly back toward Tauroc, the Castle of Gore. Le Fay's home. “How long since have you been in Camelot?”

“Long enough, I think,” Morgana said, her eyes on the sky. “I can feel the magic in the sky. Can you?”

Lord Dryford looked up at the sky. “Aye.” The old lord apparently felt the magic surrounding her, for he smiled once more and then spurred his horse into a gallop.