The cold had sunk deep into the city.
Even the stone seemed to breathe frost.
Morgan drew her cloak tighter as she walked the narrow streets, her boots crunching over thin sheets of ice that had formed overnight. The capital's winter was cruel to the poor—chimneys smoked less, markets thinned, and beggars huddled in alleys with their hands cupped around dying embers. But for her, the cold was a kind of veil. It made people move faster, look less. It helped her vanish when she needed to.
Behind her trailed ten children—thin, ragged, wary. They were the remnants of Big Rat's little network: runners, watchers, errand rats who had survived the fall of their master. At first, they feared her—most had seen what happened to people who worked for the wrong gang. But after a few nights of shared food and warmth, fear gave way to something like quiet obedience. Some of these children left the group, the older ones. Those who can think for themselves and thought they don't really need Morgan's help. Those who wanted to go back to the slums.
But for these ten, they followed her as she approached the outskirts of the capital. Smoke rose from faraway villas—homes of merchants and lesser nobles who could afford distance from the stink of the city. A week ago, this area had been far beyond her reach. But after what she took from Big Rat's hidden stash, it was suddenly within her grasp, pricy but worthy of her need.
They stopped at the edge of a small estate: a two-story manor built of pale stone, its roof sagging under frost but still solid. The wrought-iron gate creaked when she pushed it open. A faded sign hung from the side pillar, the name long scratched away by time.
Morgan looked at it for a long moment, her breath curling white in the air.
"Ivory," she murmured finally. "Ivory Manor. "
The name settled on her tongue like frost—clean, simple, something that could belong to a woman of means. Morgan Ivory. She repeated it quietly, almost testing it, and the sound didn't feel foreign.
She turned to the children. "From today, this is home."
The eldest of the bunch—Gerald looked doubtful. "Home? Here?"
"Here," Morgan said firmly. "We'll fix what's broken. The rest can wait."
There was a silence, then a shiver of hope. For children who had spent years living from scraps, the promise of shelter was near enough to a miracle.
By the third day, Ivory Manor began to stir with life again.
Morgan had spent almost all of Big Rat's money hiring help—old laborers from the slums who asked few questions, a carpenter missing two fingers, and a cook who had lost her job when her tavern shut down for debt. They worked quietly, patching walls, clearing debris, and mending furniture. Morgan managed the work herself, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands raw from hauling buckets of water and dusting soot from the hearths.
The manor wasn't grand, but it was respectable. Once the snow was swept from the courtyard and the windows cleaned, it even looked a little noble.
Her plan was simple. Nobles and merchants traveling to the capital often needed a place to stay—somewhere discreet, somewhere unconnected to the crown's eyes. A small manor, run under a proper name, could bring coin. More importantly, it could serve as cover for her network. The children wouldn't have to steal or beg anymore; they'd have real work. And in time, when the manor gained reputation, information would come to her naturally—from guests, servants, gossip, and whispers between merchants.
She sat by the fire one evening, ledger open on her lap, watching the flicker of orange light dance over her ink-stained fingers. Gerald and two younger girls were sweeping the main hall, while another boy was scrubbing the steps outside. Their laughter was faint but real.
"Don't forget the corners," Morgan called absently. "Dust loves corners."
"Yes, Miss Ivory!" Gerald shouted back, the title earning snickers from the others.
Morgan smiled faintly. Miss Ivory.
A week ago, she had been just a nobody vagrant in a collapsing gang. Now, she had a roof, a name, and subordinates—children, yes, but ones who looked to her as something more than a master.
She flipped the ledger shut and stood, crossing to the window. Outside, snow drifted slowly past the lamplight. The city beyond the walls shimmered faintly under the moon.
"Not bad," she whispered. "Not bad at all."
Her days followed a rhythm: morning repairs, afternoon lessons, and night practice.
She taught the children small, practical skills. One learned to polish boots, another to brush horses, another to tend stables or sweep hearths. They grumbled at first, but once they realized these jobs came with regular meals and warmth, their complaints softened. Morgan paid them from what little was left of Big Rat's stash—enough to make them feel that this new life was theirs, not just hers.
In between chores, she wandered the empty rooms, thinking.
Ivory Manor.
It would be her front—the face of a respectable woman. Beneath that face, however, she would weave her true network. The children would grow into eyes and ears, some in noble houses, others in the markets or taverns. She would need scribes, messengers, safehouses. It would take time, but time was something she finally had.
Still, in the quiet moments, her thoughts drifted further—to her gift.
She hadn't touched her magic since the night she stole from Big Rat's stash. Survival had come first. But now, with warmth and privacy, curiosity returned. So, when the moon hung high and the manor slept, she locked herself in one of the unused storage rooms and began to experiment.
She pressed her palms together, breathing slow.
The faint mist rose between her fingers—dark, fluid, shimmering faintly with the same shadowed hue that marked her earlier constructs. It coiled and pulsed, awaiting shape. The moths were easy now; they came to her like old friends, wings whispering in the dim light. A dozen fluttered across the ceiling, brushing against one another like living smoke.
Morgan smiled, their faint senses brushing her mind like ripples on water. She could feel their presence—awareness, like a gentle vibration whenever they neared the walls or each other. It was crude, imprecise, but real.
She closed her eyes and extended her range. The connection stretched thin, threads of awareness pulling farther until the sensation began to blur. It was like trying to grasp smoke with her fingertips—fleeting, fragile, alive. The edge of her perception trembled at roughly a hundred meters. Beyond that, the link frayed, and one by one, the moths she controlled began to unravel into pale dust.
Morgan frowned. That wasn't enough.
She inhaled slowly, feeling the faint pulse of her magic flicker behind her ribs. With careful intent, she pushed more power through the connection—tiny sparks of her essence threading into each moth. The fragile creatures twitched in response, their wings shimmering faintly with an unnatural luster.
"Come on," she whispered under her breath.
The air thickened with unseen tension as the bond deepened. She began shaping her thoughts into impulses: Fly higher.Circle the trees.Return. At first, the moths scattered chaotically, their motions uncoordinated. But with each attempt, her will grew sharper, more defined. The next wave moved in unison, responding not just to power—but to intention.
Morgan opened her eyes, watching faint glimmers of light drift across the treetops like wandering stars. A small smile tugged at her lips.
So it's not just power… it's how I guide it.
Still, she could feel the strain at the edges of her mind. Every extra meter stretched her focus thinner, every command tugged at her reserves. The moths beyond her natural range started to falter again, their wings breaking into dust mid-flight.
But even then, Morgan didn't stop. She adjusted the flow, learned the rhythm of it—power and will intertwined like breath and heartbeat. And for a moment, the swarm obeyed perfectly, shimmering like fragments of moonlight under her command.
She exhaled. "Better than before."
The next night, she tried something different. A centipede—thin, segmented, its many legs crawling from her palm in a dance of shadow. It was crude at first, its body flickering like an ink drawing. But when she poured focus into it, it solidified, gleaming faintly under the candlelight.
The sight made her uneasy. It was too real, too fast.
Her power was growing.
But when she tried to conjure something more complex—a small cat, a sparrow—the mist shuddered and collapsed into malformed shapes. Fur twisted into scales, wings refused to form. The failures left her sweating and dizzy, but she kept at it, night after night, until one evening, something different happened.
The mist shivered and, instead of collapsing, condensed into a fragile silhouette of a bird. It wasn't perfect—its wings were uneven, its head oddly smooth—but when it fluttered once, twice, before dissolving, Morgan felt a thrill that lingered long after it was gone.
Progress.
Slow, but undeniable.
A week passed. Ivory Manor stood complete enough to function. The fires stayed lit, the pantry was full, and the children had color in their faces again. Even the locals began to notice the new house on the outskirts—some passing travelers had already stopped to inquire about rooms.
Morgan handled them with quiet grace, playing the part of Miss Ivory, the soft-spoken widow of some distant merchant. Her manner, her posture, her words—all carefully measured. She had been a worker once, a man in another life who read about nobles and kings but never lived among them. Now, she mimicked them perfectly.
But she never let her guard down.
In the evenings, when she sat by the fire listening to the crackle of logs, her mind returned to her past life—the one she left behind before awakening here. She remembered late nights in front of glowing screens, the hum of city lights, the taste of cheap coffee. A world without witches, where magic belonged only to stories. That world had been safe, dull, predictable. This one was cruel, but it was alive.
Sometimes, she wondered if she missed it. The answer always came the same: not really. What she missed wasn't the world itself, but the illusion of control it gave her. Here, she had to earn control.
And for the first time, she was.
By the end of the week, she gathered the children in the main hall. They stood in a crooked line, dressed in hand-me-down uniforms Morgan had bartered from a tailor's shop.
"You've done well," she said, pacing slowly before them. "This manor will stand because of you. Remember that."
The children straightened. Even the youngest, barely seven, lifted her chin proudly.
"From today," Morgan continued, "no more stealing. No running in alleys. You'll work—stable boys, housemaids, errand runners. This manor will have enough jobs that keep you fed and safe. You'll learn, and someday you'll teach others. Understand?"
A chorus of "Yes, Miss Ivory!" filled the hall.
"Good," she said softly. "Then our real work begins."
Morgan and the children went to various taverns advertising their manor. A room can be rented which can house a whole family of 5, for a dozen of gold coins a night. The whole manor can also be rented for a hundred and fifty gold coins for the whole week. All of these advertising tires Morgan and the children but it all went good when a merchant from Silver city who were trapped in the capital due to the heavy snow rented a room for his family.
When night fell again, she went to the terrace of her personal room. The air bit into her skin, sharp and cold, but she didn't mind. From here, the capital shimmered faintly below—a sea of lights and distant bells muffled by snow.
Her thoughts turned toward the future. She had a name now. A place. A network waiting to grow. And beyond that—Border Town, Roland, the slow storm building across the kingdom. So many pieces moving, unaware of one another.
Morgan headed to the room and close the balcony door and whispered to herself, "Ivory Manor of Morgan Ivory… yes. That'll do."
Above her, one small bird flickered into being and vanished into the winter sky.