(from the observations of Morgan le Fay)
They forget. Every age forgets.
I have watched this world tear itself open and sew itself closed again, over and over, with trembling mortal hands. Each time they call it progress. Each time they believe they've learned. And each time, the same cracks form beneath new paint.
Arthur still believes in mending.
He wraps the dream in glass and gold now—names it charity, innovation, legacy.
He stands before his city and sees hope in every flickering light.
When I look upon it, I see ghosts.
Not of the dead, but of choices repeated.
The same hunger that drove kings to war,
now dressed in suits and screens.
He thinks I turned away from faith.
He never understood that faith is what made me stay.
I have walked beside gods, watched them fade into myth.
I have seen prayers turn into laws, and laws into cages.
The world is a mirror—it reflects, but it does not learn.
Arthur still shines because he must.
He cannot see the rot beneath the gold; he was never meant to.
That is my burden: to see what endures after beauty dies.
When the lights go out and the noise falls silent,
I will still be here—listening to the heartbeat beneath the ruin.
Not to rule it. Not to save it.
Only to remember it.
That is what I am now.
Not savior. Not witch.
Only witness.