In the faint lemon light which promises to steal back the night and keep it somewhere, safe, for another day. In that light creeping over the hills, a young woman stumbles over the lush green of Camelot's grasses.
She is almost at the city; this is the last part of her journey, but she needs to hurry, needs to get to where she is going before the day has quite started.
Her black hair lays rank and unwashed over her shoulders, thick and when she runs her fingers through it twigs and leaves dart out and drop to the ground. Her once proud dress is torn and stained, and over her shoulders she's laid a rough green blanket the colour of lichen, to keep out the worst of the chill.
As the woman's bare feet hit the cobbled pathway with a barely audible sound, a tiny white butterfly has the audacity to land on her shoulder. With disdain, the girl lifts her hand and crushes the soft wings between her fingers, ignoring the faint rush of sorrow that such a death provokes in her. She's learnt to be hard; it pays, to be able to kill without remorse.
Despite her desperate appearance, the woman stands up tall as she passes through the open gates of the city. This is her home, after all.
"Halt!" The voice of one of Camelot's guards breaks into her vengeful memories. She turns slowly, sees his eyes widen in fear as realises who she is: the most hunted woman in the kingdom. The evil witch, Morgana Pendragon. He takes a step towards her, but before he can touch Morgana, she lifts a knife and slips it silently in between his unprotected ribs.
Camelot really needs to design some more effective armour, she thinks as she steps away, watches him crumple to the ground as the light dims in his eyes.
She turns, wrapping her makeshift shawl closer around her, walks across the square and finds her way to the winding stair case leading to physician's chambers.
Morgana Pendragon is here to kill the king, but she's counting on someone to help her do it. She can only hope that he believes her.