A moment passed. Blood poured silently onto the deck of the boat.
"And does Misha know?" Arthur leered.
It was a last minute, spiteful attempt to get a rise out of his son and it hit its mark.
Bran's calm expression cracked and a vein pulsed at his temple. "Don't you dare bring him up," he said. He grasped the sword in Arthur's chest and pulled it out, bringing most of the man's lungs with it, silencing him.
"Alright," said Morgan, putting a hand on Bran's shoulder.
Bran forced himself to take a deep breath and stepped aside, blood-slick hand still grasping the sword.
Morgan stood before the half-dead, half-alive body of Arthur Penn and closed his eyes.
His face and body shimmered, smoke-like, morphing between this and that form, until finally settling into one equally masculine and feminine. Their build was strong yet slender, their jawline sharp yet supple, and their hair flung out behind them like a cape, blacker than even the cloak they wore.
