CHAPTER 151: TRAUMATIZED

The night was silent.

Too silent.

Morgana had been lying in bed for... how long? Half an hour? An hour? Maybe three. The room was dark, only the faint moonlight filtering through the window—the same window Damon had entered through.

The mere thought made her stomach churn.

She rolled to one side.

Then to the other.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin.

She let go.

She covered her face.

She uncovered it.

"Ugh..." she murmured, annoyed with herself.

She couldn’t sleep.

Not because of fear.

Not because of the threat that loomed over her house.

Not because of the damned engagement her father had forced upon her.

But because of him.

Because of that cheeky, inconvenient, spontaneous intruder... who made her feel things she wasn’t prepared to feel.

"Beautiful curves." The memory hit her like a soft, warm punch right in the middle of her chest.

Morgana covered her face with the pillow and screamed softly.

"Idiot...!"

She didn’t know what was worse:

1. The fact that Damon had seen her naked.

2. The fact that he had complimented her.

3. Or the fact that she had... liked it.

She turned to her side, pulling the pillow into a hug, her fingers gripping the fabric tightly.

"He shouldn’t have said that..." she muttered to herself, indignant. "It shouldn’t have been so... so..."

She searched for the word.

She couldn’t find it.

Because there wasn’t a single word.

It had been everything at once:

His tone of voice... firm, yet gentle.

The way he recoiled when she asked—but not without leaving a comment that completely disarmed her. His hand gripped her waist, too warm for such a quick touch.

That smile... that damned smile that appeared when he knew he had won.

She gripped the pillow even tighter.

"Why me...?" she whispered, frustrated. "Why does he affect me so much?!"

It didn’t make sense.

She was Morgana Arven.

Trained since childhood.

Focused.

Unwavering.

With a clear goal: to become a Master Swordsman and never depend on anyone again.

And now...

Now she was there, lying down, tossing and turning like a lovesick teenager because a delinquent with intense eyes had seen her naked and said she had beautiful curves.

"I quite liked what I saw."

Morgana bit her lip, feeling her face heat up again just remembering his voice saying that—low, husky, confident.

She sat up suddenly in bed.

"No! I can’t keep thinking about this!"

But her body didn’t seem to agree.

Her shoulders were tense.

Her chest tight.

Her breathing restless.

And every time she closed her eyes...

She saw Damon.

The Damon at the window.

The Damon who held her as if it were natural.

The Damon who teases with a half-smile and looks at her as if he’s always five steps ahead.

She fell back onto the bed with a muffled groan of frustration.

"I’m going crazy..."

She turned to her left.

It didn’t work.

She turned to her right.

Even worse.

She looked at the window.

Big mistake.

For a moment, she swore she could still smell him there—light iron, leather, and something warm, undefined.

As if his shadow had stayed behind.

She covered her face again.

"Damon... why are you...? She bit the pillow."

She didn’t know if she wanted to hit him.

Or kiss him.

The two thoughts came at once, and it only made things worse.

"I hate this," she said, naked in her feelings even dressed in silk. "I hate that you affect me like this..."

Silence again.

She let out a long sigh, defeated.

She turned onto her stomach, hugged the pillow tightly, and murmured against the fabric, defeated:

"And I hate even more admitting that... I liked it."

The wind blew through the window, almost like a provocation.

Almost like his laughter.

Morgana buried her whole head in the pillow, kicked the blanket, and let out the phrase that no one would ever hear from her conscious mouth:

"Aaaaah, Damon... you bastard... why did I let you into my life?!"

No answer came.

Only her heart, stubborn and beating too fast to let her sleep for very, very long.

Dawn had barely touched the windows when Morgana opened her eyes—though, to be honest, she hadn’t really slept at all. The whole night had been a torment. She tossed and turned, pulled at the sheet, pushed it away, rolled onto her stomach, stared at the ceiling. Nothing worked. The worst part wasn’t the insomnia itself, but the reason for it.

Damon.

The idiot... that bastard... that arrogant and irritating intruder... that man who accidentally saw her naked and yet managed to make it seem less humiliating than any of the jokes and taunts she endured daily from the court.

She still felt the heat in her cheeks as she remembered the scene. The cold wind coming in through the window, the fright, the stifled scream, his hand covering her mouth before she could reveal his presence. His proximity. His low, urgent voice:

"Calm down. If they find out I’m here, I’m screwed. So please... just stay quiet."

And then, the way he immediately turned his back, the mask hiding almost everything... except his eyes. Eyes that, for a moment, seemed even more uncomfortable than hers.

Morgana pressed the pillow against her face, stifling a groan of frustration.

"Why... why is this wretch taking up space in my head?" she murmured softly, not understanding.

She tried, in every way, not to think about him. She tried to concentrate on anything else—on training, on the distant sound of servants pulling carts down the hallway, on the muffled song of a bird outside. But every time she closed her eyes, the image returned: Damon in the shadows, his posture relaxed but ready to pounce, his dry humor, his audacity. And, above all, that feeling that with him... she didn’t need to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.

That’s what kept her awake.

And that irritated her deeply.

When she finally gave up and sat up in bed, she felt the weight of the sleepless night fall on her back. The room seemed colder than usual, as if it had absorbed all her anxiety.

She let out a long sigh, rubbing her eyes.

"Great. Another perfect day."

But the day had even worse plans.

BAM BAM BAM

The banging almost ripped the door from its frame. Morgana froze for a moment before jumping to her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for the dagger under her pillow.

"Who is it?" she growled.

"We are Lord Edward’s guards!" an irritating voice replied from the other side. "Miss Morgana must accompany us immediately."

She almost gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, of course. He couldn’t wait until I was awake to invent some more humiliation."

But at the same time... there was something strange in the soldiers’ tone. A tense, uncomfortable urgency. It didn’t seem like an ordinary summons. It seemed like fear.

Morgana opened the door just a crack. Two guards were there—both armed, but disconcerted, as if they would rather be anywhere else. One of them had dark circles under his eyes as pronounced as hers.

"And what does this idiot want now?" Morgana asked, crossing her arms.

The men exchanged glances.

"It’s not quite him, ma’am. We... have a favor to ask."

Morgana snorted. "A favor? Since when do people make requests?"

The soldier swallowed hard. "It’s just... he’s... different."

"Different how?"

The man merely shook his head.

"You’d better see for yourself."

Morgana’s jaw clenched. She was fed up. With everything. With that court, that noble worm, the orders, the daily petty provocations that had accompanied her since she was placed in that damn castle. And now... now she had spent the entire night lost in thought about a masked assassin who had crept into her room.

Her patience had long since expired.

She stepped away from the door, picked up her reinforced leather suit, and began to dress slowly. She adjusted the straps, tightened her belt, sheathed her sword, and tied her hair back.

When she opened the door again, her gaze was cold enough to make the guards take a half-step back.

"Let’s go."

The walk through the corridors was silent, but Morgana felt the tension growing with each step. Soldiers whispered amongst themselves. Some looked in her direction with pity. Others, with fear. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she felt... something in the air. Something heavy. As if everyone was waiting for an already inevitable tragedy to finally happen.

Upon reaching the door to Eduard’s room, Morgana noticed that two extra guards were positioned there—rigid, pale, as if they had witnessed something they preferred to forget.

"Come in," one of them said, knocking lightly on the door before opening it.

The smell was the first thing to hit her. It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t alcohol. It was... fear. The air had that nauseating, almost metallic odor that only terrified people exuded. Morgana recognized the battlefield, the prisoners, the people she knew were going to die.

The room, however, was as neglected as ever. A crumpled carpet, an overturned chair, papers scattered on the floor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Until she saw Eduard.

He was huddled in a corner, sitting on the floor, almost hidden behind the bed. His hands trembled so much they barely gripped the sheets. His eyes—once arrogant, gleaming with superiority—were now sunken, red, completely glazed with panic.

When he heard Morgana enter, he tried to stand... but his legs wouldn’t obey. He fell back down, dragging himself backward as if she were a predator about to tear his throat out.

"No... don’t come near!" he screamed, his voice choked with pure terror. "Don’t come near me!"

Morgana stopped. Her guards stood motionless behind her.

She frowned. "What the hell happened to you?"

The soldier to her right took a deep breath.

"We... don’t know, madam. He’s been like this since last night. Locked in his room. He doesn’t speak to anyone. He just keeps repeating that someone is going to kill him."

Morgana turned to the nobleman.

Eduard was trembling so much he looked like he was about to disintegrate.

She took a step toward him.

He yelled:

"Get away. Get away! Get away NOW!"

The panic in his voice wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t manipulation.

It was pure. Instinctive. Deadly.

"If you come any closer I’ll die!" he screamed, pounding his hands on the floor, trying to drag himself against the wall. "He’ll know! He’ll come! He’ll KILL ME! GET AWAY! GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Morgana froze.

That reaction... that level of terror...

That wasn’t fear of her.

It was fear of someone whose shadow reminded her of.

And she knew exactly who.

Morgana’s heart beat faster. The image of Damon, silent at the window, the mask covering half his face, the slight, unhurried smile... flashed powerfully into her mind.

He had said he was going to "leave a warning."

Yes. He did.

And now Eduard seemed like a soulless specter.

Morgana lowered her voice.

"Eduard..." she began, trying for a neutral tone. "What happened yesterday?"

"I... I can’t say... I can’t... if I say he’ll come back... he’ll come back and kill me..." he repeated, sobbing like a frightened child.

"Who?"

He brought his hands to his head, tearing out strands of hair.

"HIM! Him! That man... that monster... that... that thing... I don’t know... I don’t know what he is... he appeared... he appeared here... he said that... that... that I... if I... if I—"

His breath hitched.

His whole body shook.

"—that I would be next."

Morgana felt a shiver run down her spine.

Next.

Next to whom? About what?

She didn’t know the answers—but she recognized the fear of a man who had seen his own death up close.

Something twisted inside her.

Not pity for Eduard—he didn’t deserve that.

But... about Damon.

Who the hell was this man?

What did he do when he wasn’t flashing irritating smiles and barging through windows?

And why, however dangerous he was...

...couldn’t the deepest, most instinctive part of her feel fear of him?

Only... fascination.