The Silent Coronation

The ruins swallowed their footsteps as the demons followed Morgana through the shattered gates. Moonlight filtered through broken stone arches, casting silver beams across crumbling walls. The air smelled of dust and long-dead fires, the kind of suffocating stillness that clung to places forgotten by time.

Their boots scuffed against cracked stone as they spread out, eyes sharp, wings twitching in the gloom. Varzak, the scarred demon, sniffed the air like a hound. Seris walked with her gaze lowered, almost reverent, whispering soft words Morgana couldn’t catch. 

Elarion, the seer, moved with that eerie calm of his, hands clasped behind his back as though he were strolling through a temple instead of a ruin.

“Keep your eyes open,” Morgana muttered. “Last thing I need is one of you tripping into a hole and breaking your neck. That’s paperwork I don’t wanna fill out.”

Her tone was flippant, but her stomach knotted tighter with every step. The deeper they went, the more familiar the corridors became. The cracked flagstones, the collapsed stairwells, the faint markings on the wall… all of it pulled at something inside her chest.

Varzak brushed dust off a cracked pillar and frowned. “You feel it too, don’t you? This place breathes power. Like the stones themselves remember.”

Seris bowed her head. “We were told the sanctum was sacred. That those who stepped foot here would be closer to the Demon God.”

Morgana rolled her eyes, more to cover her nerves than anything. “Looks more like the set of a shitty horror movie to me. You lot worship cracked walls and drafty hallways?”

They both looked confused with Morgana's Earth references but that didn't stop them from replying back. Varzak shot her a warning look, but Seris only whispered, “Sacred, even in ruin.”

Elarion paused at a collapsed archway, fingertips brushing the stone. His blindfolded face tilted toward her. “Mock if you wish, but places like these are never truly dead. The past echoes, even if you don’t want to hear it.”

Morgana huffed. Oh, I hear it, alright. Loud and fucking clear. Just wish it would shut up.

And then she saw it.

The hallway narrowed into a chamber she knew all too well. She froze at the threshold, breath catching. The room was just as she’d left it. High vaulted ceiling, walls caved in at the corners, and at the center, the shattered remains of an egg.

Her egg.

The bottom half was still fused into the stone floor, as though the castle itself had cradled it. Jagged shards of shell littered the ground, pale as bone, untouched by time. 

Fuck. It feels like yesterday.

Her throat tightened. She stepped inside, each footfall echoing too loud.

Behind her, Varzak stopped dead. His scarred face slackened in awe. Seris gasped, her hands covering her mouth. Even Elarion, calm and unreadable until now, drew in a sharp breath.

“What?” Morgana snapped, whipping around to face them. Their expressions; reverence, fear, awe, made her skin crawl. “What the hell are you three gawking at?”

Varzak swallowed hard. His voice, usually loud and teasing, came out low, almost respectful. “This… this is the Demon Lord’s chamber.”

Morgana blinked. “The what now?”

Seris dropped to her knees, bowing her head. “The last one. This was his sanctum. His resting place. No one enters here without paying respect.”

Morgana’s stomach dropped. She looked back at the egg, her mind slowly connecting the dots.

Oh no. Oh fuck no. Don’t you dare say it—

Elarion moved closer, stopping several paces from the egg remains. He lowered himself to one knee, expression tight with awe. His hand raised up, wanting to touch the egg but stopped shortly after. His voice trembled, yet carried authority.

“The shell…” he whispered. “It is fresh. This is no ancient ruin. A hatching has taken place here.”

Morgana’s breath caught.

Elarion’s lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. “The new Lord has come. Born of this egg. Walking already among us. It is a shame that we weren't here to welcome him.”

Varzak and Seris stiffened, their reverence sharpening into excitement. Varzak pressed a fist to his chest, eyes wide. “So the prophecy was true…”

Seris’ voice shook. “The Demon God has blessed us once more…”

They bowed low, reverence pouring into the floor.

Morgana, meanwhile, staggered back until her spine hit the wall.

Oh no. Oh fuck no.

Her pulse raced, sweat slick on her palms.

They don’t know. They think it’s some nameless new Lord. But I know. I remember. Crawling out of that slime, dragging myself into this chamber.

She remembered the way her fingers had dug into those edges when she’d first crawled into the world, slime still clinging to her skin, lungs burning for air.

It’s me.

Morgana leaned back to the cold stone like she was trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the egg remains. Her chest heaved.

No. No, no, no. This can’t—

It wasn’t some metaphor. It wasn’t some mystical “sign.” They were staring at the remains of her birth. And the seer had just announced, like he was reading the morning paper, that the new Demon Lord was already walking the world.

And he was right.

Shit. Shit on a stick.

Her thoughts spiraled fast, jagged edges cutting in every direction.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t sign up to be some holy savior. I just wanted a roof. A warm bath. Maybe a halfway decent meal that wasn’t roasted mystery meat on a stick. And now I’m— what? The answer to their prayers? Their holy fucking prophecy hatchling?

Her hands curled into fists, nails digging crescents into her palms until blood came.

If they ever figure it out… oh gods. They’ll chain me in ceremony after ceremony. Worship me, parade me around like a prize goat, shove a crown on my head, demand I lead armies. And if I say no? They’ll kill me. Or worse— worship harder.

The thought alone made bile sting her throat. She wanted to throw up.

Worst part, she could already picture it: endless lines of kneeling demons, chanting her name, drowning her in incense smoke, hanging shiny trinkets off her horns.

Goddammit. I didn’t crawl out of that egg to be their fucking mascot.

Elarion was still talking, voice low and reverent, proclaiming that the Lord was among them, that fate had answered their sacrifices. Varzak and Seris stayed kneeling, eyes wide with devotion.

Morgana barely heard a word. Her pulse roared too loudly.

And her mind kept spinning further.

What if the humans find out? The guild? Borik, Avric, Tomas… They’ll try to kill me before I “awaken fully” or some other prophecy bullshit. And if they don’t, they’ll cage me up, poke me with holy sticks until I explode. Either way, I’m screwed.

Her breath quickened, shallow and sharp.

I can’t tell them. I won’t tell them. If I play dumb, if I keep the mask on, maybe I can ride this out. Pretend I’m just… me. Not their goddamn savior. Not their lord. Just Morgana. The cheeky bitch with a sharp tongue and a good cloak.

A bitter laugh clawed up but stuck in her throat.

Great. Fantastic. I’m living the punchline to the worst cosmic joke ever written. Demon God must be pissing himself laughing right now.

Her knees wobbled, and she pressed herself harder against the cold wall. The idea that she, of all people, was supposed to stand above Kaelith, Malakar, the whole goddamn army… it made her want to scream.

I’m not a queen. I’m not a god. I’m just Morgana. I make bad jokes when I’m scared, and apparently, I’m good at laundry. That’s it. That’s the résumé. And now I’m the fucking Demon Lord?

The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the seer’s reverent whispers and the sound of the others kneeling.

Morgana’s vision blurred. She bit her lip so hard she tasted iron.

The Demon Lord wasn’t coming back.

The Demon Lord was already here.

And it was her.

“…Fuck,” she breathed, hoarse and raw. Not loud, but final. A word too small for the tidal wave crashing inside her.