Page 30 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

But did Bronwen think he looked familiar? Is that why she kept glancing at him, why she had been so hostile? Or had him growing a beard, donning peasant garb, and acting like an idiot half the time thrown her off his scent, if she had even been suspicious in the first place? Clearly one wouldn’t expect to find their Dark Lord traipsing around some remote forest accompanied by screaming goats. And from the way her initial animosity towards him seemed to have fizzled out, he suspected that was the case. If not, she was a stellar actress and deserved to be the one to carve his heart out. Maybe she’d even leave him one of her trademark kisses on his cheek afterwards. He felt faint at the thought.

“Since then I’ve been a failure,” Bronwen muttered. “I can’t do anything right. I trip over stupid things, like rocks and plants. You saw how my dagger slipped out of my hand out on the field. It does that all the time now. I can’t even scare Gueldefore away anymore. He thinks I fancy him. I can’t stand him!”

Morfran smiled at this. At least he wasn’t the only one who hated the knight.

“You saw it today, didn’t you? I lit that wick three times, and each time it died. I mean, what even was that? I’ve lost my touch. I’ve dedicated my life to being an assassin to help the rebellion, but now I can’t even walk in a straight line without tripping. So what am I good for now?”

Despite her being a pain to him for half his life, he couldn’t help but empathize with her. Being seen as incompetent or useless was one of his fears, too. And it explained why so many of these rebels from Elmswood ignored or disregarded her—she’d botched the job of all jobs after they’d made sacrifices to pay for her schooling. Of course they were bitter.

But something didn’t sound right with her story. He’d noticed what she’d mentioned: her rope-tying skills sucked, she was constantly messing things up, and she’d been relegated to the sidelines. It was like she’d been struck with a bout of extremely bad luck…

“Bronwen.” He frowned. “What did you say about those powders in Ravana’s room?”

“Just that it looked like she’d flung them in the air to help her escape. Why?”

“Was the powder white, with the slightest tinge of silver?”

“I— Yes, actually. Why?”

He paled. “You haven’t lost your touch. Ravana’s hexed you.”

“What?”

“Yes.” He laughed, and not just because the situation was funny. Ravana was just that horrible. “A pretty terrible one, too. Any reasonable task you try hard to achieve is one you’ll fail hopelessly at.”

She hesitated, obviously going through every moment leading up to that point. Then she let out a despondent noise. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve met Ravana. Petty hexes like that are what she thrives on.”

Bronwen slumped beside him. He had the strange urge to pat her back, as he’d been subject to many of Ravana’s spiteful torments, but he held back. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here only until he could escape.

“How do I break the hex?” she asked him. It was a good question. A great one. “Do I kill her?”

Morfran laughed again. He must’ve hit his head pretty hard if she was making him laugh. “After you already failed when you were at your most skilled?”

Her answering look was cutting.

“I don’t know. You might have to kill her, which is an ambitious project in itself.” And one he sure as hell wouldn’t be doing. “But you might need her alive to remove the hex, so killing her could be counterproductive…Perhaps the one who owned the power before her might know.”

“And who was that?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer. Brim was sauntering towards them with a roast beef sandwich in tow, which excited Morfran. But beside him was a tall older woman with a hooked nose, a tricorn hat, and hair a red-brown color liked baked lobster, minus the butter. Her breeches were tattered at her calves, and she wore boots that she used to stomp the grass down in an orderly fashion.

The instant they met eyes he leapt to his feet like a cat who knew he’d been spotted by a chase-happy dog.

“Bernard,” Brim announced, pointing the soggy roast beef sandwich at the woman in the way of a gesturing arm. “This is Captain Elena of the Lake Dumast Navy. Elena, meet our new battle strategist, and the one who helped save the day. Bernard of…Bernard? What is your surname, Bernard?”

Morfran’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t reply even if he had an answer. But Elena answered for him.

“The Necromancer,” she replied, scanning him from head to toe. Her eyes were cold like ice chunks. He felt as if one had lodged in his gut. An ice chunk, not one of her eyes. Oh yes, she recognized him. Even with his new beard and sans seductive black leather pants. She looked to Brim. “There’s rumor that he’s used dark arts to revive men on the battlefront. True or not, it would be a benefit if he had a menacing name and he played it up. I hear Morfran loathed necromancers.”

Morfran swallowed.

“Ha! Bernard the Necromancer!” Brim laughed, flinging his arms up wide. A slice of roast beef went flying behind his head. “I like it!”

“Captain Elena.” Gueldefore joined them, knocking Morfran aside as he did so. He knelt before the woman and held the magpie and marigold flag up to her as a gift. “I was among the team who captured the flag of Lord Morfran’s rule. I wished to gift it to you: the mightiest of all naval captains.”

The woman smiled. It was frigid. Like ice cream. No—that was too sweet. Like icicles. Yeah. Pointy icicles. “Thank you.” She took it, glancing about the camp. Her appearance had attracted much attention. She was practically the celebrity of the seas. Even Bronwen looked starry-eyed at the woman, previous moodiness forgotten. Elena thrust the flag in the air and stared Morfran down as she shouted, “Avast! We shall end Lord Morfran and Lady Ravana’s rule!”