Rebirth

Warmth.

That was the first thing she felt. Heavy, smothering warmth that clung to her skin like thick oil. It pressed against every inch of her body, wrapping her in a strange, liquid embrace. Her breaths came slow and muffled, each inhalation echoing inside her head as if she were underwater.

Her eyelids fluttered open, but the world beyond was a smear of violet and shadow. The air — if it could be called that — shimmered faintly with a dim, pulsing glow filtering through the strange membrane around her. She blinked several times, but the blurriness remained.

Where… am I?

Her hand drifted upward, meeting resistance far sooner than she expected. The surface above her was smooth yet pliable, a taut veil that pushed back against her touch. She pressed harder. It flexed but held. The sensation sent a jolt of unease through her spine.

A faint sound reached her ears — distant, muffled, and distorted — like wind moving through hollow stone. Her fingers trailed along the inside of her prison, mapping its curve. It was round, enclosing her completely, and… tall. Her knees were tucked up, wings folded tightly against her back in a position that felt both alien and natural. Her claws grazed her thighs with every small movement.

She stilled. Claws?

Her mind sharpened, the haze lifting just enough for her to remember. The book. The rostrum of branches. The pages and the quill. Her choices. Her new name — not Amelia Green anymore. No, she had chosen something more fitting. Something with weight and shadow.

Morgana Lilaris.

The thought made her lips curl into a small, almost instinctive smile.

Another sound reached her — closer this time. A faint creak. The sensation of air moving, different from the heavy liquid around her. Something primal stirred in her chest, an urge that whispered leave, break, breathe.

Her claws flexed, scraping against the slick inner wall. The faint violet glow wavered, growing brighter in rhythm with her heartbeat. She pressed her palm forward, harder, until the membrane strained and dimpled beneath her.

Enough of this.

She raked her claws downward. The veil tore with a wet, sinewy rip, light flooding in through the wound. Cool air rushed against her skin, making her shiver. Again she tore, again and again, until the opening was wide enough for her horns to push through. Black, curved, and smooth, they sliced through like the tips of a spear.

Her wings unfurled instinctively, their leathery span pushing against the confines of the egg until the structure gave way entirely. With one final shove, Morgana burst free, collapsing onto the damp stone floor beneath her. The remnants of the membrane clung to her like strands of silk before melting away into nothingness.

She lay there for a moment, chest heaving, her senses assaulted by the sharp scent of moss and the faint tang of decay. Her skin tingled, the new weight of her wings and the slight curve of her horns a constant reminder that she was no longer the girl who had stumbled upon a strange book in the library.

She pushed herself upright slowly, scanning her surroundings. The walls around her were crumbling stone, their edges softened by time and overgrown with vines. Above, a gap in the roof let in pale light, but beyond it swayed a dense canopy of trees. This place — wherever it was — was far from any world she had known.

Her gaze fell back to the shattered remains of the egg, still pulsing faintly with violet light before fading into the shadows.

I’ve been… reborn here. The thought was both surreal and terrifying.

Her arms tightened around herself — and then she froze.

The air on her skin was... unhindered. No cloth, no familiar weight of fabric, nothing but the strange new texture of her own flesh beneath her fingertips. She glanced down and felt her lips twist in irritation.

“Of course,” she muttered to the empty ruin. “Born again, and not even a blanket to my name. Perfect.”

It wasn’t just the lack of clothing that gnawed at her — it was the fact that her body wasn’t quite hers anymore. Her skin was smoother, warmer to the touch, and faintly tinged with a subtle shimmer when the light struck it just right. Her legs felt stronger, the lines of muscle more defined without being bulky. Her nails had become longer, black-tipped claws. And then there were the wings — folded neatly behind her but twitching with a mind of their own — and the horns that felt like an extension of her skull.

She ran her hands down the length of her thighs, curiosity overtaking modesty for the moment. Every movement felt sharper, more precise, as if her body had been tuned for efficiency. Even her breathing felt different — deeper, smoother, filling her lungs with a strange, invigorating energy.

Her gaze drifted toward the shadows in the corners of the ruin. Odd — they seemed… thicker, as if reacting to her presence. When she shifted her eyes, the darkness pulsed faintly. She blinked, and the sensation faded, but it left her with a cold realization: she could feel magic humming in the air like a second heartbeat.

At least, that is what she thought she felt.

Her lips parted slightly. “So it’s real.”

The passive abilities she had chosen — Instant Regeneration, Mana Regeneration, Soul Devour — they weren’t just words on a page anymore. She felt them, like instinct etched into her bones. The first two thrummed quietly in the background, subtle and constant. The third was… quieter. But not absent. A patient, empty hunger waiting to be fed.

She shifted her wings experimentally, their leathery surface catching faint light. They were heavier than she expected, but moving them was strangely natural — like stretching after a long rest. A few powerful beats stirred dust from the stone floor and made her hair whip around her face. She stopped quickly, still unfamiliar with their range, but a small grin tugged at her lips.

Her claws flexed against the ground. They weren’t just for show — she could feel how sharp they were, the way they seemed to almost hum with potential violence. She imagined raking them through flesh and had to shake the thought from her mind with a huff.

Still naked, still alone.

Her eyes scanned the ruin again, searching for anything she could use — cloth, rope, even leaves if it came to that. That’s when she spotted it: propped against the far wall, its black haft gleaming faintly in the dim light, was a weapon. A scythe.

She didn’t remember seeing it before. It hadn’t been there when she emerged from the egg — she was sure of it. Yet there it stood, its curved blade long and wicked, the metal reflecting a violet sheen like the light inside her egg.

Morgana stepped toward it, each footfall slow, reverent despite herself. She reached out, fingers brushing the haft — and a shiver ran through her entire body. The weapon pulsed once, faint but undeniable, like a heartbeat syncing with her own.

A smile — a true, satisfied smile — spread across her face.

“Oh… hello, beautiful.”