Morrigan: Night's Seductive Enchantment by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Morrigan-Night-s-Seductive-Enchantment-1213753828

Morrigan: Night's Seductive Enchantment ANIMATION

The Crimson Prophecy of Aensland

The moon was a raw wound above the Scottish highlands—glistening and pale, the color of memory before it fades. Beneath it, the Aensland castle brooded upon its cliff, its towers curved like claws clutching mist. The great fortress breathed faintly, its stone pulsing with infernal life, for it was not merely built—it had grown, birthed from the veins of the Netherrealm itself.

Morrigan Aensland, Queen of the Night, floated across her private hall like a drifting wisp of emerald flame. The air shimmered about her as her wings whispered open—two vast, silken appendages that rippled like the curtains of some underworld stage. Her eyes, twin mirrors of verdant fire, glanced toward the obsidian mirror that hung over the hearth. It had been whispering again.

“Another prophecy,” she murmured. “As if the universe delights in repeating itself.”

The mirror replied in a tone like silver breaking, “This one bears your name, Lady of Aensland. And your ending.”

Her smile deepened—not from fear, but fascination. “My ending? How bold of fate to presume I would ever permit such a thing.”

“Yet prophecy is older than pride,” the mirror whispered. “And this one is written in the blood of shadows.”

She drew closer, the mirror fogging in the heat of her breath. Her reflection shimmered and twisted, showing flashes—her own silhouette writhing in chains of moonlight, her wings burned to ash. A figure stood above her: robed in darkness, face hidden, voice a low hum like the last song before the end of days.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Who dares write such poetry?”

“The name was lost,” the mirror said. “But they called it The Crimson Prophecy. It speaks of the Succubus Queen who will be unmade by what she desires most.”

Her laughter filled the hall, sonorous and soft as velvet rain. “Then I am already doomed. I have desired everything.”

But the laughter faded quickly. The mirror’s surface rippled, and in it she saw a mark glowing upon her own neck—a sigil she had not noticed before. She reached for it, tracing the faintly luminescent rune with her fingertips. It pulsed once, like a heartbeat that was not hers.

A voice—distant, male, mournful—echoed through her mind.
"Seek the Oracle of Crows. In the Ruins of Aethernal she waits. The prophecy is not what it seems."

The mirror darkened, swallowing its own light.

Morrigan turned, her green hair gleaming like poison ivy in moonlight. “Then let us see what tricks destiny has left to show me.”

The Ruins of Aethernal were a necropolis of forgotten gods. Once, they had stood at the edge of all realities, where the veil between dream and void was paper thin. Now, their temples were hollow bones filled with whispering wind.

Morrigan’s heels clicked upon the marble dust as she entered the largest of the sanctuaries—a vast dome where statues of weeping angels leaned, faces eroded into sorrowful smears. Her wings rustled as she walked, trailing iridescent shadow.

Something moved among the pillars. A shape, birdlike yet human, draped in feathers darker than coal.

The Oracle of Crows stepped forth. Her eyes were milky, her smile a wound. “Ah, the Queen who toys with hearts. The one who believes desire is strength.”

Morrigan tilted her head. “Belief is irrelevant when one is right.”

“You came because the mirror frightened you.”

“It intrigued me.”

The Oracle’s laugh was a sound of wings breaking. “Then you will enjoy the taste of truth. The prophecy cannot be undone, only understood. It says that the Queen of Aensland will perish at the hands of her reflection.”

“My reflection?” Morrigan’s eyes gleamed. “Am I to be undone by vanity? How tragic. How fitting.”

“Not vanity. Reflection,” the Oracle murmured. “A mirror image of spirit. One born from you, yet not you. The child you never bore.”

A cold pulse ran through Morrigan’s body. “A child?”

The Oracle reached into her cloak and withdrew a small, violet crystal. Inside, a shadow flickered—graceful, winged, feminine. “You know her name already. Lilith.”

Morrigan’s lips parted. “Lilith is—”

“Part of you. Yet separate. The mirror’s prophecy does not lie. What you desire most—your own completion—will destroy you. One must consume the other.”

For the first time in centuries, Morrigan felt something near dread.

She extended a han
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