Joy is a rare visitor in my long life, a fragile flower that seldom dares to sprout in the stony soil of my soul. And in a cage of iron and blades like the Immortal Bastion, I had considered it an impossibility. But the day Azra'il had torn from our routine had left behind an echo of warmth. The amethyst necklace at my throat was a silent reminder that even in the heart of Noxus, small acts of beauty could bloom. It was a dangerous peace, for peace makes one complacent, and this empire feeds on the complacency of the gentle.
That fragile peace lasted exactly four days. My true work has never been in the halls of nobles or in arcane laboratories. It has always been in the shadows.
That night, under a starless sky veiled by the smoke of the forges, I made my usual visit to the capital's slums. The air here was thicker, heavy not just with soot, but with the weight of lives lived on the edge of hope. I was on my way to the workshop of a blacksmith named Borin, whose wife I had healed last month. Their gratitude was a small brazier in the cold of this place.
But the silence I found in his alleyway was not one of rest. It was the silence of fear. Doors bolted, windows shuttered. From the alleys, I heard the whispers. The gang. The 'Pit Rats'. An infection the city pretended not to see.
The scene I found at the workshop door was an open wound in the night. Borin was on his knees, his wife supporting him. In front of them, three burly figures were laughing. The leader, Roric, was holding the arm of their daughter, Lyra, a girl with wide, terrified eyes.
"The debt's due, smithy," Roric snarled. "Protection has a price. Since you have no coin, payment will be in flesh."
I remained in the shadows, unseen but feeling everything. The fury in me was not the consuming fire of my sister, Kayle. It was a deep cold, the frost that forms slowly before it freezes everything solid. This was the logic of Noxus, reduced to its purest essence: strength that justifies itself, power that creates its own laws upon the pain of the powerless.
They left, promising to return at dawn. They left behind a broken family, an echo of a thousand other families I had seen broken by empires and men. The fury in me wanted to hunt them down at once. But the wisdom of centuries held me back. A blunt blade strikes by chance and causes more pain than necessary. A sharp blade knows exactly where to cut to remove the tumour without killing the patient.
Borin's wife, Helena, was still sobbing, holding her husband, whose shoulders shook with helpless fury. Lyra, their daughter, was huddled in a corner of the dark forge, small and silent as a frightened mouse.
I waited a moment, allowing the first shockwave to pass. Then, I emerged from the alley's shadows. Not with a burst of power, but as the night itself deepening, a silent step that brought me into the dim light of their furnace.
The couple startled. "Shadow Lady..." Borin whispered, his voice hoarse with pain and fear.
"I saw," I said, and my voice was calm, a counterpoint to the storm in their souls. "I heard."
I approached, not them, but Lyra. I knelt to her eye level. She looked at me, tears glinting on her soot-stained face.
"They will not take you," I said. It was not an empty promise; it was a decree. There was a certainty in my voice that seemed to startle her out of her terror. She blinked, and a sob escaped her. I reached out and, with my thumb, wiped a tear from her cheek. The contact was brief, but it was an anchor. "No one will take you tonight."
I stood and turned to her parents. Hope, fragile and dangerous, was beginning to fight against the despair in their eyes. "Your anger and your fear will not help you," I told them. "But your strength will. And your knowledge."
They did not understand at first, their faces confused. "Tell me everything about them," I commanded, my voice now that of a general preparing for battle. "Names. Number of men. Where they sleep, where they drink. Who they fear, if they fear anything at all. Every detail, however small."
At that moment, a shop door across the way creaked open. It was old Tovin, the tanner whose daughter I had cured of leather-fever. Then Masha, the weaver who had lost her nephew to Roric's 'debts'. Slowly, like nocturnal creatures emerging from their dens, other neighbours, drawn by my presence, filled the forge. They had heard the call. They had come to the war council of shadows.
And they spoke. They poured out years of fear, resentment, and small observations. The story of the Pit Rats' tyranny was woven there, in the darkness of a blacksmith's workshop.
"Roric, the leader... he never stays with the others," Tovin said. "He has quarters underground. Beneath 'The Ripped Silk'. It's as if he needs to hide in the cellar of his own palace of filth."
"And his 'lieutenants', Grol and Yeva," Masha added, spitting the names. "They handle the 'merchandise'. The girls... they keep them on the second floor. They threaten the youngest ones to keep the older ones in line."
The information came in a torrent. Where the watch posts were, the shift-change times. The secret routes across the rooftops used by the street children. And they told me the most important thing: Roric had a superstitious fear of ghost stories. A weakness. A crack in his armour of brutality.
I listened to it all, building the battle map in my mind. I saw the web of fear Roric had spun over them. And I saw how to unmake it, thread by thread. The mission was no longer just about punishing one man and his gang. It had become about liberating an entire district.
When they had finished, a hopeful silence filled the room. "Go back to your homes," I said. "Lock your doors. Bar your windows. No matter what you hear tonight… do not come out. And trust that the dawn will be different."
They nodded, and one by one, they slipped back into the night, leaving me alone with the family. I turned to them.
"The night will be long," I told Borin. "But your daughter will be safe. This is my promise."
With the map of their pain etched in my mind, I turned and melted back into the shadows, no longer just a healer, but the personification of their long-delayed justice. The hunt had begun.
The night in Noxus is never truly silent. It is an animal that never sleeps, only feigns it. But in the slums, the quiet that settled after the inhabitants had locked themselves away was different. It was an expectant silence, a collective held breath, waiting.
I had no need to hide. The darkness was my natural cloak, my oldest ally. I moved through the alleys, not with the haste of a hunter, but with the patience of a reaper. My first target: their trust. The bond that held the rats together in a pack.
I found the first group, four of them, guarding a corner that was a main 'protection' collection point. They were playing dice on an overturned crate, their coarse laughter echoing off the narrow walls.
"Think the smithy'll pay tomorrow?" one of them asked, his voice greasy.
"Don't know if I want him to pay," another laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. "His daughter, Lyra… she's getting to be a looker. Roric said the new ones bring the best profit at 'The Ripped Silk'." He nudged his friend. "And that he always 'tests the merchandise' first."
The others laughed with him. And in that sound, in that vile, casual laughter over the destruction of a child, my centuries of patience dissolved into dust. The frost in my heart, which usually formed slowly, crystallised in an instant into sharp shards of ice. The sharp blade of calculated justice was discarded. Tonight, I would use the chains.
I was on a roof above them. Without a word, without a warning, I descended. Not as a shadow, but as a weight, landing behind them with a heavy thud that made the cobblestones shudder.
The shadows in the alley no longer writhed in frightening shapes. They solidified, becoming tentacles of pure darkness that seized them, silencing their cries, dragging them into the depths of a terror that was not illusory, but tangible. The shadows didn't just frighten them. They struck.
The man who had laughed about the 'merchandise' was first. The shadow beneath his feet rose, solid as stone, and locked him in a fist of darkness. The grip did not crush his bones; instead, I felt his life force being drained, the heat of his body siphoned away by the cold of my magic, leaving him weak and trembling, ageing a year with every second. He did not scream. He could not.
The second drew a knife, a desperate move. I did not even need to turn. The cobblestones liquefied beneath his feet, becoming a swamp of dark tar that swallowed him to his knees, immobilising him. His struggles only sank him deeper into the prison of his own making.
The third, a gutter-mage, babbled an incantation, faint green sparks forming in his hands. I faced him. "You dare to strike a match in the middle of my night?" I asked. I held out a single finger and his paltry spell disintegrated with a pathetic sizzle, like a drop of water in a forge. My will was an ocean, and his magic, a cup of dirty water. Chains erupted from his own shadow and silenced him.
They were not opponents. They were rats. I left them there, bound, drained, and terrified, a living warning for the rest of the gang. My true target was the den, the heart of the rot.
The door to 'The Ripped Silk' opened at my gaze, the iron lock twisting and crumbling into metallic dust. I entered, and the scene that greeted me was a fresco of hell painted with the palette of human depravity.
The hall, a den of coarse music and cheap ale, did not fall silent at once. They were too absorbed in their own filth. But I saw it all, in an instant of terrible clarity. It was not just women whose eyes were empty. It was girls. Children, some not much older than Azra'il, with crude make-up smudged by tears, being forced to serve drinks to burly men whose laughter was like the grinding of millstones.
My gaze fixed on one of them, perhaps the bootblack's daughter Tovin had mentioned, a girl with the frightened eyes of a doe. I saw a Pit Rat's hand seize her arm with cruel strength, pulling her towards a staircase that led up, to the rooms, to the real horror. Her "no" was a whisper, inaudible under the din, a protest swallowed by the indifference of the place. She was not a person here; she was merchandise. And in her eyes, I saw the future Roric had promised for Lyra.
It was in that moment, seeing the face of an innocent child so defiled, that my centuries of patience, my entire philosophy of calculated justice, dissolved into dust. The sharp blade of reason was discarded. Tonight, I would use the sledgehammer of fury.
My entrance, previously silent, was now announced. The temperature in the hall dropped by ten degrees. The fire in the hearth dwindled to a trembling, dying ember, and the music stopped, the flute-player suddenly unable to breathe.
"Let her go," I said. My voice was not loud, but it cut through the noise, the stench, and the smoke, and it echoed with the authority of a judge delivering a final sentence.
The man holding the girl, a brute with an arm thicker than my waist, laughed. A wet, unpleasant sound that gurgled in his throat. "Well, look what the night dragged in," he said to the room. "Ain't this the so-called Night Lady? Shadow Lady? Whatever! You look lost. Didn't we charge you a protection fee, sweet thing? Come to offer a different sort of payment?"
Another, sitting at a table, slammed his tankard down. "Enough talk, Grol! Bring the witch over here! We'll show her what the Pit Rats do to those who enter uninvited!"
The girl tried to pull free, and the man named Grol tightened his grip on her arm, making her whimper in pain. "Wait your turn, bitch," he snarled at her, before turning to me with a foul smile that revealed rotten teeth. "What's the matter, my lady? Jealous? We've got plenty to share. Or maybe you just want to take the little brat for yourself? Bad luck. This one's already been paid for by the magistrate's son."
That was the last arrogant word he ever spoke.
The filthy wooden floor beneath his feet erupted. Not in fire or ice, but in pure darkness. Chains of shadow, solid as iron, materialised from nothing and coiled around his ankle, yanking him with an implacable force. He was torn from the floor, the girl stumbling aside, and hauled upside-down, hung from the ceiling like a pig in a slaughterhouse, his cry of surprise dying in his throat as the shadows gagged him.
The hall exploded into chaos. Shouts, overturning chairs, the glint of drawn steel. I moved.
The first man drew a knife, but before he could take a step, the dust and grime on the floor rose like serpents, solidifying into shackles of hardened earth around his ankles, pinning him fast.
The second, a leaner man with ritual tattoos on his arms and a fanatic's gaze, backed away. He did not conjure fire or lightning. Instead, he pulled a small ritual dagger from his belt and, with a cruel smile, swiftly drew it across his own palm.
"Blood calls to blood, witch," he hissed.
The drops of blood that hit the floor did not splatter. They bubbled and coalesced, forming small, crystalline red spears that floated in the air, aimed at me. It was hemomancy, a visceral, profane magic bound to pain and life-force.
I watched him, not with revulsion, but with a cold sadness. Blood magic was the art of the desperate, of those willing to wound themselves to wound others. A philosophy as broken as the soul who wielded it.
The blood-spears shot towards me.
I did not raise a shield. I did not dodge. I simply held out an open hand, palm up, in a gesture of reception. And as the spears drew close, they stopped abruptly in the air, a hand's breadth from my face, vibrating with contained energy, like arrows that had met an invisible wall of glass.
He stared at me, his confident smirk dissolving into confusion.
"You offer me your blood?" I asked, my voice calm. "Your pain? Your life-force?" My gaze met his, and I let him see a glimpse of the vastness of my own pain, the weight of the millennia I carried. "Boy, you try to drown me by offering a single cup of water, while I live at the bottom of the ocean itself."
With a sharp flick of my wrist, I seized control of his spell. The blood that was his was now mine to command. The crystallised spears that had pointed at me did not turn against him. They moved with an unnatural speed.
Two of them shot downwards and impaled his feet to the wooden floor, pinning him in place. He screamed, a sharp sound of pain and shock.
The others did not aim for his torso. They went for his hands.
The hand with which he held the ritual dagger. The hand with which he conjured his profane magic.
The blood-spears, sharp as ice-needles, did not pierce the palm. They wove *through* his fingers, shattering the bones, severing the tendons with a surgical and cruel precision. The sound of his bones breaking was dry and loud in the suddenly silent hall. The dagger fell from his mutilated hand with a metallic clink.
He looked at his hand, now a mangled, unusable mess, and a guttural scream of pure horror tore from his throat. He would never wield a blade again. He would never draw a blood circle again. I had not taken his life. I had taken his power. I had taken his very identity as a Noxian battle-mage.
"This," I said, approaching him as he writhed on the floor, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding from his ruined hands, "is the true price of spilling the blood of the innocent. Every scream you wrench from a child, every drop of pain you inflict, will be returned to you, multiplied. This is my promise."
I left him there, moaning in a pool of his own broken power. A lesson written not in humiliation, but in permanent pain. A mark he would carry for the rest of his pathetic life. The message to Roric and to anyone else watching from the shadows would be unmistakable. The Shadow Lady does not forgive. She maims.
The smell of blood and fear now dominated the hall. The mage, with his shattered hands, was a screaming testament to the nature of my justice. The rest of the gang, who moments before had been a sea of arrogant faces, were now a collection of wide eyes, terror having taken the place of bravado. The hunt had become a slaughter, even if no one was dead.
The man in the shadow-shackles stopped struggling, shaking uncontrollably. The one hanging from the ceiling had lost consciousness. Those who remained, a handful of brutes with more muscle than brain, fell back, forming a clumsy human wall in front of the stairs leading to the upper floors.
"S-Stay away from us, you demon!" one of them stammered, his axe trembling in his hands.
I walked slowly towards them, my steps the only sound in the room besides the whimpers of the mage. I did not hurry. Fear, I learned long ago, is a tool best sharpened with anticipation. With my every step, their 'wall' wavered.
"You're guarding the stairs," I observed, my voice calm. "Good. That means there's something up there you don't want me to see. Something you value. Or, more accurately, something whose suffering you value."
One of them, in an act of desperation or stupidity, threw his axe. The motion was slow, telegraphed. Instead of dodging, I simply raised a hand, and a wall of solid darkness materialised a metre in front of me, swallowing the weapon with a dull thud, not leaving so much as a spark. The axe vanished into my shadow.
That final demonstration broke what was left of their courage. They dropped their weapons and tried to run, trampling each other in their haste to get to the door I had shattered.
"No one leaves," I said, without raising my voice, and the shadows at the tavern entrance writhed, forming a thorny, impenetrable barrier.
With the ground-floor resistance annihilated, I walked past them and up the stairs, my heart heavy with what I knew I would find. The scent of sickly floral perfume and despair intensified. And what I found in the rooms upstairs shattered the last shred of my restraint.
They were cells. The first door I opened revealed the girl with brown eyes, chained to a bed. Room after room, the same story of cruelty and misery, of innocence crushed under the weight of Noxian ambition. The cold fury in me turned to a burning ache. Justice was no longer enough. This required a purge.
After freeing them and wrapping them in my protective magic, I left them together in one of the rooms, safe. There was one more to be found. The leader. The serpent's head.
Tovin's information had been accurate. A door hidden behind a mouldy tapestry led to a spiral staircase, down. To the cellar. The leader's lair. I descended, and the atmosphere grew darker, more claustrophobic, the air heavy with the smell of mildew, expensive spirits, and the metallic stench of greed.
Roric was there, in his underground office, alerted by the sudden silence from upstairs. He wasn't panicking. He was furious, a cornered animal in his den, his massive war-hammer in his hands. The room was filled with stolen treasures, the profit from the misery of hundreds.
"So the ghost that's been haunting my men finally shows her face," he said with an arrogant grin, the gold of his teeth glinting in the light of the single lantern. "Tired of playing in the shadows, witch?"
"Your time for games is over, Roric," I replied, the calm in my voice a stark contrast to the storm in my soul.
He laughed, a confident, brutal sound. "I'm the king of this pit. The guards pay me, the magistrates eat from my hand. You are nothing. Just more meat that I will break."
He lunged, raising the hammer. From here, justice would be personal. And there would be nothing restorative about it. It would be, simply, the end of his reign.
Roric's hammer descended with the force of an avalanche. He was strong, fast, a product of Noxus's culture of violence. A man who had built his little empire with brute strength. He expected me to dodge, to try and use shadow-tricks as I had with his lackeys. He expected me to be afraid.
I did not move.
Instead, the floor beneath me darkened, and dozens of chains of pure shadow erupted, not to attack him, but to meet his weapon. They coiled around the hammer's haft in mid-air, a hand's breadth from my head, stopping the blow with a shocking sound of contained energy. The impact made the air vibrate.
Roric's face contorted in shock and disbelief. He tried to wrench his weapon back, but the chains held it with the strength of a mountain. His muscles strained, the veins bulging in his neck. He, the king of The Sump, was in a tug-of-war with a shadow, and he was losing.
"Powerful," I commented, my voice calm, as more chains rose from the floor, snaking slowly up his arm like hungry vines. "But iron has no will of its own. It obeys the stronger hand. And yours, Roric, is regrettably weak."
With a tug of my will, the chains tore the hammer from his grasp and sent it flying across the room, where it crashed against the wall with the force of a battering ram, shattering stone.
Roric was disarmed, his eyes wide with panic. The facade of the brutal king had crumbled, revealing the terrified tyrant beneath. He stumbled backwards, trying to get away.
"You can't kill me!" he stammered. "I… I have connections! If I disappear, they'll come for you!"
"I am not interested in your pathetic life," I said, as my chains reached him, binding his arms and legs, lifting him from the floor until his eyes were level with mine. He struggled, a fly caught in a web. "Death would be a mercy. And mercy… must be earned."
I leaned forward, the hood that covered my face falling back, revealing my eyes which glowed with a cold, violet light. "You trade in the fear of children," I said, my voice a whisper. "You delight in their despair. So, before the end, you will have your lesson."
I touched his forehead. And I poured into him the agony he had sown. Lyra's terror, the pain of the girls upstairs, the silent agony of broken families. I forced him to live it, to feel it, to drown in an ocean of the pain he had created.
He screamed, a broken, inhuman sound, the sound of a soul shattering under the weight of its own evil.
I searched. In that moment of forced agony, as his mind was flooded with the suffering he had caused, I searched for a single spark. A flicker of remorse. A shred of regret. Had I found it, perhaps I would have left him broken but alive. A monument to his own villainy.
But there was nothing.
Through the terror, through the pain, what I felt in his soul was only fury at having been caught. A vile desire for revenge. His soul was hollow, a black hole of greed that only consumed and could never feel. He was irredeemable. A plague.
And plagues… must be purged.
He stopped screaming and looked at me, his bloodshot eyes full of pure hatred. He managed a smile, a bloody leer. "When I get out of here… I'm going to find you… you—"
He never finished the sentence.
"Redemption was offered," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. "And it was refused. Final verdict."
I closed my hand. The shadow chains holding him did not release him. They tightened. Not with the speed of a blade, but with the slow, inexorable pressure of the earth itself closing a fissure, crushing what was inside. There was a dull, wet crack, and then… silence.
The chains dissipated, and what fell to the floor was no longer a man. It was just a broken shape, the source of the rot finally extinguished. I felt no triumph. Only the cold weight of a necessary job, completed.
I went back up the stairs, leaving the dead serpent's head in its defiled lair. The weight on my soul a little lighter, the satisfied fury now giving way to a gentler purpose. The main hall was still decorated with the bound and moaning bodies of his henchmen. They looked at me with renewed terror as I walked past them without a glance, my mind already elsewhere. Their punishment was the cowardice of not having died defending their filthy master. Let them live with that.
I returned to the upstairs rooms. The girls, whom I had left wrapped in a protective barrier of shadow, shrank back as the door opened. The fear was still etched on their faces.
"It's over," I said, and my voice was no longer that of the judge, but of the healer. "He won't hurt you anymore. None of them will."
I dissipated the barrier with a gesture. For a moment, they just stared at me, unsure whether to trust. Then, one of the girls, who looked to be around twelve, took a trembling step forward.
"Is… is it true?" she whispered.
"It is," I replied. I held out my hand, not to grab, but palm open. "I promised. Now, let's get you home."
That broke the spell of fear. One by one, they stood. Some were crying silently, a river of relief and trauma. Others had hard eyes, already forged in the steel of Noxus, but all of them followed me. I gathered them in my dark cloak, an unlikely avenging angel with a brood of rescued birds under my wings.
The journey back through the slum streets was different. The doors, once locked in fear, now opened a crack. Curious, then hopeful, eyes watched us. The whisper of the purge I had wrought had spread faster than any fire.
For each girl, I knew the way. The bootblack, the tanner, the weaver, the other families who had been victims… they had given me the map of their pain, and I used it to guide them back to the light.
The scene in front would be repeated at every door. The raw, incredulous joy of parents seeing their daughters alive, the way they would clutch them as if they were lost treasures. Tears, hugs, words of gratitude whispered to the Shadow Lady who remained in the gloom, never lingering, never accepting thanks. I did not want their gratitude. Their safety was the only payment that mattered.
The last to be delivered was Tovin's daughter. When he saw her, he fell to his knees, a guttural sound of relief tearing from his throat. He embraced her with the strength of a man who had glimpsed hell and returned.
Before I vanished back into the night, Borin's wife, Helena, ran to me and pressed something into my hand. It was a small iron horseshoe, still warm from the forge. "For luck," she said.
I accepted it.
I returned to our home in the Immortal Bastion just before dawn. The transition from the visceral darkness of the slums to the ordered, sterile silence of our gilded cage was always a shock. The air here was clean, but it had no life.
The light in the kitchen was on. And Azra'il was there, sitting at the table. She wasn't reading or working. Just waiting. A single, untouched cup of tea was in front of her, already cold. Her blue eyes fixed on me the moment I entered, and they held a mixture of relief, admonishment, and a worry she was trying, with little success, to hide under a layer of irritation.
"You're late," she said, and it was not a question. It was an accusation.
"There were… complications," I replied, finally allowing myself to sink into a chair, the weight of the night settling on me like a mountain.
"I noticed," she retorted. "The energy frequency of the entire slum district fluctuated violently around midnight. A high-level release of shadow magic, followed by multiple psychic terror-echoes. I thought it might be you, but since you said you were just delivering a tonic, I assumed the tonic had exploded." The sarcasm was her way of saying 'I was worried'.
I ignored the jibe, too tired for her game. "There was a gang. The Pit Rats. They were using the families for… their business. And taking the children."
She was silent, processing. Her eyes moved to my gloves, where a small, dark bloodstain from Roric had seeped into the leather. Her face grew serious, the facade of sarcasm dissolving. "They *were*," she said, correcting my tense, turning the sentence into a confirmation.
"Yes," I said. "The problem is… resolved."
She got up and went to the small rune-hearth. She asked no more questions about the details. She didn't need to. She took the kettle and began to prepare a new pot of tea, this time one I knew contained herbs to soothe a weary soul and quiet the echoes of violent magic.
"An assassination would have been quicker," she observed with her back to me, breaking the silence as the water heated.
"But less instructive," I retorted, the reply an echo of our own shared philosophy.
She brought the warm mug and placed it in my hands, her small fingers avoiding mine, but the intention of care as clear as day. "True," she agreed. "Terror is a very effective pedagogical tool." She returned to her seat and watched me for a moment, the analyst returning. "But… it's also a tool that wears down its wielder."
I took the mug, the heat spreading through my cold fingers. "I know."
Justice had been done. But she was right. A part of me felt more worn, greyer. Every time I touched the darkness to punish, a little of it clung to me. And the price, I realised with a clarity that frightened me, was one I was willing to pay. For them. For the forgotten. And, perhaps, for the child who sat opposite me, making sure there was hot tea waiting for me when I returned from the night.
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🕯️ Author's Note
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Okay, that was… a lot, huh? 😅
I really wanted this chapter to show who Morgana truly is, not the "forgiving saint" that some people assume, but the one who weighs every soul on the scale before passing judgment.
A lot of folks who don't know the sisters' lore deeply think Kayle = punishment and Morgana = forgiveness. But Morgana isn't the type to forgive everything. She gives a second chance only when someone shows real remorse. When they don't? She punishes. Hard.
And always according to the gravity of the crime, that's her justice. Measured, not merciful.
I wanted this chapter to carry that weight, the kind of justice that costs the one who delivers it too.
Now tell me what you thought:
Did Morgana's personality come through the way I hoped?
Did her sense of justice feel right for her, that cold but fair kind of morality?
And be honest... did you feel the weight of that scene at The Ripped Silk?
Drop your thoughts, theories, or just emotional damage reports below 😭🖤
I love hearing how you guys interpret Morgana's morality, it helps me shape the balance between her and Azra'il in future chapters.