chapter 3

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"