The moon rose high over Camelot. In the darkness and secrecy of the forest, the cloaked witch set fire to the wood. Her face lit up in its
glow. A twig snapped and she whipped around fearfully. "I apologize my lady." A figure approached the flames. "Did you bring them?" Morgana
asked earnestly. The man held out his hand. "Beware." he warned. Morgana seized the stones from his palm. "How long will it take?" the man raised his
head. "Nearly a thousand years." Morgana gripped the stones tighter. "And you are certain it will work?" The man smiled and sunk back into the shadows, leaving her question in the air. Morgana thought of her dreams: glimpses of her dead body, flashes of the sorcerer who terrified her to her very soul: Emrys. Her
heart burned with revenge. She wished Arthur dead, she wished Guinevere dead. But most of all, she wished the destruction and fall
of Camelot. This, she thought looking back to the stones, this was her chance.