CHAPTER 437: A SINCERE LETTER

Cassius did not believe himself stubborn. Not in this. He knew he wasn’t always right in solving problems; he had been wrong before, and he could admit that. But how could he possibly summon the cruelty to tell Arabella the truth? That if she were to die again— if her fragile, irreplaceable life were snuffed out once more— she would be the catalyst that kill an entire kingdom?

He had already watched her unravel when she discovered she was a witch. He had seen how that knowledge alone fractured her heart, nearly crushed her spirit. To heap this weight upon her shoulders as well felt no better than plunging a blade into her chest.

Yet... what Atlas said had struck with the precision of an arrow.

If Arabella had kept such a truth from him— if she had chosen silence over trust, deciding that he was too fragile, too incapable of bearing the knowledge— he would not only be hurt, he would rage. He would feel betrayed. He would believe she did not trust him, even for a second.

His chest tightened at the thought. I trust her, he told himself. He trusted Arabella with his life, his soul, his every flaw and weakness. And yet, what kind of trust was it if he was the one stripping her of the right to choose?

"I trust her," Cassius murmured aloud, his hand dragging through his raven hair in frustration, ruffling the black strands until they fell over his crimson eyes. His voice was weary, stripped of its usual sharpness. "I just... don’t want her to be in pain."

Atlas’s expression softened, though his tone held firm. "Think of it this way." His blue eyes curved into crescents as he spoke with a calm certainty that contrasted Cassius’s inner storm. "If you keep lying to her, you don’t spare her pain— you give her more of it. You don’t protect her —you betray her. It’s better to tear the wound open now, let it bleed, let it scar... than wait until it festers into something she’ll never forgive."

Cassius’s jaw clenched. His lips pressed into a taut line, and for a moment silence stretched between them. Slowly, very slowly, the cloud over his gaze began to clear, his red eyes sharp again— not with pride, not with defensiveness, but with the clarity of realization.

Atlas, relieved at the shift, broke into a grin. "Well then. Do you want me to teach you how to apologize? We could start simple— flowers, wine, perhaps even a song if you feel ambitious—"

"Sincerity." Cassius’s voice cut through his jest. He straightened from the wall, his tall frame unfolding with quiet authority. A faint smile, not of arrogance but of decision, touched his lips. "That’s what you said earlier, isn’t it? To apologize sincerely."

For once, Cassius did not look like a king plotting war, nor a predator calculating his strike. He looked like a man— resolved, preparing to lay down his pride for the only person whose forgiveness mattered.

"And to promise you won’t ever repeat the same mistake," Atlas added lightly. "Though I reckon it’s wise not to rush. An apology delivered too soon can wound just as much as silence. Women often need a little time alone to untangle their emotions, so let her steam ease off before you step in."

Cassius’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. He turned toward Noah, who had been listening with a furrowed brow, confusion etched on his face. The boy was still untouched by the intricacies of a woman’s heart— too young, perhaps, to grasp the weight of their suffering.

"I should send her a letter first," Cassius murmured. The thought carried both hope and hesitation. If Arabella did not respond, that would mean she still needed space, and Atlas nodded in agreement with the plan. Straightening his back, Cassius returned to his chamber to pen the words that burdened his chest.

Once the Crown Prince’s footsteps faded, Atlas glanced at Noah, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Think you can channel what Circe might say in this situation?"

Noah blinked, uncertain. Though his memories of her time in his body were fragmented, he could recall shards of their exchanges. He remembered, vaguely, that Circe and Atlas had spoken the night before, though the details were lost to him.

"I don’t," Noah admitted at last, his voice trailing. When he noticed Atlas’s sidelong glance and knowing smile, he asked more quietly, "Is it really so difficult to appease an angry lady?"

Atlas chuckled, a note of mock pity in his voice. "Oh dear, may the heavens spare you from having a pair of scissors hurled your way." With that, he strolled off, humming to himself, and Noah hurried after him like a loyal pup. Atlas’s voice carried through the corridor in a lilting tune:

"What’s a man to do in the face of love? Be a fool— and perhaps that may charm her."

That very night, a letter arrived at Arabella’s door. She glimpsed the maid awkwardly set it down, only for her mute maid, Emma, to rush in a moment later with a teacup in hand. Ever since that dreadful night when she had drunk milk and awoken to a corpse beside her, Arabella had vowed never again to touch the drink before sleep.

"Emma," she called softly. The girl blinked at her, attentive. "Has Ariel gone to bed?"

Emma shook her head, lifting her hands to gesture that she had seen Ariel return from the garden and slip into her chamber not long ago.

Arabella nodded, then turned her attention to the envelope. As she walked toward Ariel’s room, she carefully tore along its edge, revealing the folded letter within. The moment she saw the familiar strokes of Cassius’s handwriting, her steps slowed. It was not his usual sharp, unbending script but one marked with hesitation— ink blotched in places, the shapes of certain letters betraying the fact he had practiced them, discarded earlier drafts, and at last settled on these words.

A faint, unwilling smile tugged at her lips. Though anger and hurt had weighed heavily on her earlier, the image of him hunched over a desk, staring at the blank page, wrestling with sincerity, and daring to hope his words might reach her— this softened something in her chest.

One line caught her first: Atlas spoke to me. He opened my eyes. I have realized the intensity of my mistake— the dangerous action I believed was right, which instead destroyed your trust and left you in unease.

She turned the page, her gaze falling on further confessions written in his bold, uneven hand: I could not bear for the world to harm you any further. I thought to shield you by keeping the truth from you, telling myself that silence was not deceit. But I see now it was cowardice. That by hiding it, I lied to you all the more.

Arabella halted in her steps, the letter trembling faintly in her fingers. She stood in the hush of the castle hallway, beneath the glow of an orange oil lamp. Its light spilled warmly over her figure and over the painting beside her— a couple forever frozen mid- dance, their hands entwined. The stillness pressed against her, her breath caught between the ache of what had been written and the stirrings of forgiveness yet to be decided.

’I’m sorry, I sincerely will never repeat the mistake I have done and if I could, I would do anything to regain your trust.’

Arabella exhaled softly. With such sincerity in Cassius’s letter, how could she truly stay angry? She understood the place his words came from, the weight of his anxiety. Yes, his actions had upset her— cutting her trust and leaving her hurt— but not enough to ever wish to turn her face from him. Not enough to sever the bond that had already tied itself so firmly between them.

"Bella?"

Ariel’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. Arabella looked up, startled, to see her sister in a pale nightgown, her long hair falling loose around her shoulders. Ariel walked toward her slowly, almost dreamily, her bare feet whispering against the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Ariel asked curiously.

"I wanted to see you," Arabella answered, slipping the letter back into its envelope before offering her sister a small smile. "Cassius and I... had a fight. I thought perhaps a little chat with you would help ease me."

"Oh, so I’m only needed when you fight with him?" Ariel teased, though her tone was light. She reached forward and clasped Arabella’s fingers with her own. "How convenient of you, sister. As it happens, I was thinking of finding you too— for a sisterly talk."

Arabella hummed, allowing herself to be led into Ariel’s chamber. "Then perhaps fate has decided it for us. What is it you wanted to share?"

Ariel’s sigh escaped her in a whisper as she moved to the window, gazing out at the moon that glowed through the velvet dark. "You remember how I told you I saw Morpheus."

Arabella’s breath hitched faintly as she nodded. "Did he... once again ask you to return with him?"

"He believes I love him," Ariel said simply, and at those words, Arabella’s brows knitted into a sharp frown. Her elder sister chuckled lightly at her reaction. "Oh, Bella, you should see your face. As though I’ve confessed to some mortal sin."

"You... love him?" Arabella asked tensely, her heart tightening at the thought.

But Ariel only shook her head. "No, Bella. I don’t love him."

Still, Arabella wasn’t satisfied, her voice pressing more firmly. "Don’t lie to me. If you do, I—"

"I said I don’t love him," Ariel cut in gently, her tone firm, her eyes solemn. "What I felt was pity. I pitied him because he seemed so utterly lost, so hollow in his own darkness, that I could not help but offer care. But that doesn’t mean I could forget his sins. I frown upon them as bitterly as you do. I just..." She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together, restless. "I wondered why. Why is it that the moment I show care, it’s mistaken for love? Why must pity be translated into devotion, as if compassion were the same as passion?"

Her voice grew softer, tinged with frustration. "It’s as though he cannot comprehend the difference. That affection does not equal love. That mercy, sympathy, tenderness—they do not build the same foundation as love. He looks at me and sees love where there is none."