“How... how is this possible?” Morgan’s voice trembled.
The journal lay open in her hands, its pages inked in handwriting she could never mistake for anyone else’s. Her own.

But the weight of recognition came with a cold rush of dread.
Her home—the cramped, crooked hovel she had lived in for as long as she could remember—suddenly felt alien. The firelight cast shadows that seemed to leer at her, whispering that everything she thought she knew had been nothing but a painted mask over something rotten.

“Morgan?” Alaric’s voice was tentative, cautious, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
“This is mine,” she whispered. “I wrote it.”

He blinked, still baffled. “Well… yeah? It was with your stuff, wasn’t it?”

“No.” Her head shook slowly, violently. “I mean I wrote this—but I don’t remember writing it.”

Confusion flickered in his eyes. “But if you wrote it, and you can’t remember… why couldn’t you even open it earlier?”

She had no answer. Her mind was slipping, unraveling like an old thread.
Memories—half-formed and jagged—flashed unbidden: the first time she’d spoken a spell, not knowing how she knew the words; nights when the forest seemed to breathe in rhythm with her; the whispers in her dreams that always came from just behind her ear.

It wasn’t random.
None of it was.

“I… I need a moment.” She pushed away from the table, moving stiffly, like her own body no longer belonged to her. And then she was gone, vanishing into the cool black of the night without another word.

———

Hours later, the door creaked open.
Alaric, who had been pacing so long the floorboards now groaned in rhythm with his steps, froze.

Morgan stood in the doorway, head bowed, hair loose and damp from the fog outside. She looked smaller somehow—like someone who had returned from burying a piece of herself in the woods.

“Welcome back… Are you okay?” His voice was gentle, but he couldn’t hide the worry in it.

Her eyes lifted to meet his—and he saw it. The rawness. The fracture.
“No,” she whispered. “Everything I am is a lie.”

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

Alaric was beside her in an instant. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions—just stayed. A quiet anchor in the storm that threatened to sweep her away.

When her sobs faded into trembling breaths, she managed, “Thank you… for being here. You don’t know how much that means.”

“I think I might,” he said softly.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the journal on the table. “You deserve to know.” Her voice was barely audible. “When I turn eighteen… I won’t be me anymore. My body and mind will belong to the real Morrigan.”

The words hit him like a blow. “Wait—what?”

“I’m a vessel,” she said bitterly. “I am Morgan—but I was made to become her.”

Alaric’s brow furrowed. “So you’re saying… you were born just to be replaced?”

Her jaw clenched, but she nodded. “She wanted immortality. She didn’t care who she had to destroy to get it.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush them both.

Then Morgan’s voice hardened, pushing past the ache in her chest. “I think I’ve figured out where the sword is.” She spread the maps and notes across the table. “The lake on this scroll—it’s called Viviane. The inscription said, ‘The sword exists as long as the heir lives.’ I think the sword’s hidden on the island at its center.”

Alaric froze. “I know that lake. My family’s cabin is nearby. We went there every summer… before my mother—” He stopped himself. “It’s the same place. I’m sure.”

The air between them shifted. Another journey loomed, one that could be their last.

“Morgan…” His voice dropped low. “You said you only have a year left?”

She nodded once. “Less, if she decides she’s ready sooner.”

He leaned forward. “Then we’ll make it count. I promise you, this year will be the most exciting, ridiculous, meaningful year of your life.”

Something in his tone—steady, unflinching—made her believe him. For a moment.

———

That night, she lay near the fire while Alaric drifted to sleep. The flames crackled under her whispered command, Ignis, painting the room in gold and shadow.

But when sleep finally took her—it was merciless.

———

She stood barefoot in the center of a burning town. Blood pooled at her feet, steam rising where it met the heat of the cobblestones. Screams tore through the air.

And behind her—laughter.

She turned.
And saw herself.

The other Morgan’s eyes gleamed, her smile red with blood. “This is your past, your present, and your future,” she purred. “The boy can’t save you. Your body is mine.”

Blood surged from the doppelganger’s feet, racing toward Morgan, climbing her skin like living veins. She tried to scream, but only laughter spilled from her mouth—her laughter.

The other Morgan raised a blade, cutting down the townsfolk one by one. Morgan’s voice screamed for her to stop, but her body would not obey.

The laughter grew louder.
Louder.
Louder—

———

Morgan woke with a strangled scream, drenched in sweat, her breath ragged.

Alaric was instantly at her side. “Morgan! What happened?”

But her gaze was fixed on nothing, her body rocking, her lips moving in incoherent murmurs. The fire’s glow caught on her trembling hands.

The clock was ticking.
And the girl he knew was slipping away.