Chapter Twelve – Ashes and Glass
The sky over London was the color of cold steel, rain whispering down in thin silver threads as Morgana stood alone at the edge of the cemetery. The earth under her boots was soft, the grass slick with mud. Around her, a small group of people—faces she recognized from Noor's quiet, off-the-grid world—clustered together, their umbrellas forming dark islands against the weather. No speeches. No eulogies. Just the dull scrape of ropes as the coffin descended into the ground.
Morgana stayed apart, gloved hands clenched, rain soaking through the black wool of her coat. Noor's death had come with a sound—a gunshot echoing in a forgotten brewery—and the silence that followed had been unbearable. Now, even here among the living, that silence seemed to cling to her skin.
She thought of Noor as she had been in life: a woman with sharp eyes, fingers that danced across keyboards as if the world were just another pattern waiting to be unraveled. Noor had saved her life more times than Morgana could count, remotely, from the shadows. And yet when it had mattered most, Morgana hadn't been able to return the favor.
The agency didn't send flowers. Noor didn't have a next of kin who would ask questions. The kind of people they were didn't leave legacies, only gaps.
Morgana barely noticed the sleek black car that pulled up to the cemetery gates until the door opened and Adrian Locke stepped out. He cut an imposing figure even here, the drizzle slicking his dark hair back, his coat immaculate. As he walked toward her, she saw the other mourners glance up and then away. Everyone knew who he was.
He stopped beside her at the graveside. For a long while, he said nothing. Only when the coffin disappeared completely from view did he speak.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Morgana's eyes stayed on the grave. "Are you?"
There was a pause, a faint tightening of his jaw. "More than you know."
Her voice was flat, cold. "You'll forgive me if I don't take comfort in that."
The silence stretched until the rain began to fall harder, drumming on the umbrellas, soft against their shoulders.
The Drive to HQ
Neither of them spoke on the ride back to headquarters. She stared out at the blurred city, streets slick with rain, neon lights bleeding into one another. The closer they came to the agency building, the tighter her chest felt, as if the walls themselves were closing in.
By the time the heavy doors of the war room sealed behind them, she was wound so tight that the first words came out like a blade.
"You knew," she said.
Adrian looked up from the table. "Morgana—"
"You knew she was there. You knew they would come for us. And you let her die."
His voice was calm, measured, but there was something behind it, an old weariness. "If I'd known they were closing in, I would have moved heaven and earth to stop it."
"And Emil?" she demanded, stepping closer. "You knew he was alive. You knew this would happen."
"I thought he was dead."
"You thought," she repeated, the words acid. "You, of all people, don't get to think. You're supposed to know."
Her voice echoed off the steel and glass, a low growl underneath.
Director Adrian Locke: The Truth
He hesitated, then his voice dropped. "Do you know what Emil was before Marrakesh? He was my protégé. I built him, Morgana. Trained him to be unstoppable. He was the best I ever had. And then I sent him into the fire—with you—and one of his own died. He blames me. He blames you. And he's right." His jaw tightened. "It was my failure as much as yours. I see that boy's face every time I close my eyes."
Her breathing slowed. "So all this? His war? Noor's death? It's about that?"
Adrian's gaze didn't waver. "You're not the only ghost Marrakesh made."
Emil: The Mirror
The words cut deeper than she expected. Emil wasn't just an enemy. He was a reflection of what she could become. Born in Bucharest, recruited at nineteen. Brilliant, relentless, shaped by Adrian Locke's hand until there was nothing left but purpose. Marrakesh had broken him. Where she had been pulled from the wreckage, Emil had been abandoned.
And now, seven years later, he was coming back to burn the house down.
The Accusation
Morgana's hands tightened into fists. "You made him," she said, her voice low. "And now he's making me."
Adrian's voice softened. "I never wanted that for you."
Her eyes flashed. "Then you shouldn't have dragged me out of the ashes in the first place. You think I owe you my life? I don't. I owe you my scars. Noor's dead because of you. Emil's war is because of you. And if you weren't too blind to see it, you'd know that someone inside your perfect house has been feeding him everything!"
The last words echoed in the room. Her hand slammed flat against the table.
"Look me in the eye," she said, leaning in, "and tell me it isn't you."
He did. For a long, unblinking moment, their eyes locked. And for a heartbeat, she almost believed him. Almost.
The Break
"You're suspended," he said finally, his tone ice. "Effective immediately. Until I know where your loyalties lie."
She laughed once, sharp and bitter. "My loyalties? You just buried them with Noor."
And without another word, she walked out. The sound of the door slamming behind her reverberated like a gunshot.
The Plan
In the corridor, Callen was waiting, leaning against the wall. He read her expression immediately.
"Well?" he asked.
"They want me benched," she said.
"And you?"
She pulled on her gloves, her face set like stone. "I'm done waiting for orders. We find Emil. Before he burns the rest of this house down."