Damon barely noticed her presence at first.
He was already somewhat lost in thought, walking down the side corridor that led to the mansion's outer courtyards, when he caught the soft sound of footsteps ahead—firm, calm, without any hurry. The kind of footstep that didn't need to announce authority because it simply possessed it.
When he looked up, there was Morgana.
She was coming from the opposite direction, passing through the stone arch that led to the front courtyard, dressed in clothes too simple for someone like her, but which, somehow, still seemed excessively elegant. Her dark hair was loose, falling down her back like a living shadow, and her expression was neutral, focused, as if she were resolving something trivial—which, coming from her, was always suspicious.
Damon slowed his pace, more by instinct than by conscious decision.
"Morgana," he said, in a careful tone.
She turned her face to him, surprised just enough to be polite.
"Damon."
