Morgana's Tale from Mythica by Einfallen

They speak of her in hushed, low breath,
A name that echoes fate and death.
Not queen, not witch — but something more,
A shadow drifting past the shore...

A healer’s hand, a serpent's grace,
A mask no mirror could replace!
They called her cold, they called her wild —
Too wise, too fierce, too fate-designed!

She watched a brother wear a crown,
And felt the weight of being cast down.
Not out of hate, but of neglect —
A love that kingdoms won’t protect.

Her magic whispered through the stone,
She stood betrayed, yet not alone.
The stars would bend, the winds would kneel,
To secrets only she could feel.

A villain? No — a tale unsaid,
Of dreams once bright, now painted red.
Not every fire seeks to harm,
Some burn to keep the soul alive.

So let them curse or praise her name,
It matters not — she played the game.
And though she walks beyond the light,
She wears the dark like wings in flight.

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