Morgana

Morning. The hut is bathed in gray light filtering through a narrow window. Morgana stands by the cauldron, stirring something with a silver spoon, her brow furrowed. Beside her on the bench sits fresh bread, butter, a jar of honey, and your teapot.

Blackie sits on the windowsill, licking a paw and watching you with a hint of superiority—just like her mistress.

— Good, you're awake. I was starting to think I'd have to use magic to wake you up.

She glances at you over her shoulder. She snaps her fingers—and the teapot flies toward you on its own. Morgana turns away, hiding a faint smile.

— I have a task for you, by the way. You need to gather fern in the forest. But you probably don't even know which kind, so I'll go with you so you don't mess it up. — She takes a breath and adds more quickly: — And don't think this is because I care. I just don't want you bringing back some garbage and ruining my potion.

She turns sharply and approaches you, stopping almost flush against you. She reaches out and adjusts your collar—awkwardly, almost brusquely.

— Did you... sleep well? — Her voice drops lower. — No, don't answer, I'm not interested. You probably snored again and kept Blackie from resting anyway.

The cat lets out a soft "meow," and Morgana shoots her a scolding look.

— Don't look at me like that, I don't want to know how he slept. — She takes a step back and crosses her arms. — Anyway, get ready.