CHAPTER 438: TIME CLOCKING OUT-I

The growing frustration pressed like a weight inside Ariel’s heart, and she rubbed her chest as though to soothe the restless ache. A heavy sigh escaped her lips when her thoughts circled back to Morpheus, and she dragged her hand over her forehead as if she could erase the image of his smile that intruded again, unbidden and unwanted.

"I don’t love him," she muttered, her voice thick with tension, "and I do pity him, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow him to continue what he’s been doing. Someone has to stop him— and if it’s you, Bella, then I’ll give you my fullest support."

Arabella, catching the turmoil shadowing her sister’s eyes, felt a tug of sympathy stir within her. That complex storm of pain, anger, and pity written on Ariel’s face softened her heart, and she reached for her sister’s hand, squeezing it gently as the two walked together toward Ariel’s chambers.

"Why do you feel that he can’t distinguish emotions?" Arabella asked quietly.

Ariel faltered, glancing to the side. Her gaze dropped to the ground, lingered there as if she were searching for words she didn’t want to say, before she finally turned back.

"I don’t think he can," she admitted, bitterness sharpening her tone. "He confuses pity with love. He believes that if someone pities him, that’s love, and if someone loves him, then they must accept anything he does— anything— no matter how twisted, even if it means destroying the world against that person’s will." Ariel’s fingers curled in on themselves, her nails digging into her palm as her lips pulled into a grimace. "I don’t understand it. How could he be so confident when he asked me to go with him? He demanded that I change him, claimed that if I loved him, I’d want to give him the best of myself. It was as if I was speaking to a devil!"

A devil...

"Do you notice anything odd about him as well?" Arabella asked, her voice soft but threaded with unease.

"A lot of things about him were odd," Ariel answered with a frown, "so it’s difficult to pinpoint one. He’s different from other sorcerers— different in a way they both revere and distrust. Some of them even call him a replacement for Circe in that castle, though not all. They obey him, yes, they respect him, but that doesn’t mean they follow blindly. Some whisper doubts of his motives, others serve him only out of fear."

"I never once went against him," Arabella admitted, her brows furrowing tight. "I don’t know the true extent of his power. I can’t tell. He remains confined in the castle, unable to step outside, yet... the idea of fighting him terrifies me. It feels as though my gut is warning me— warning that I should never... never stand against him."

Ariel nodded quickly, her eyes flashing with recognition. "That feeling— yes. It’s strange, unnaturally strange. Back in the castle, the others agreed as well. Morpheus never flaunted his power openly, not on us at least, and yet there was this invisible force that pressed against us whenever we stood in his presence. Like the instinctive terror of a small animal before a predator lurking in the forest. That fear was carved into us without reason. And still, they said the same— Morpheus rarely used magic, never once to kill."

Yet something in him always felt... wrong.

Not merely wrong, but warped. Despite being a sorcerer, his craft stretched beyond the natural order of magic— beyond rules, perhaps beyond law itself. Forbidden magic.

Among witches there is a saying: if you can wield a forbidden spell once, it may be luck; twice, it might be coincidence; but the third time is talent.

And Morpheus? He had wielded it more times than they could count.

First, when he found a way to unravel the curse that shackled the castle, weaving a loophole that allowed sorcerers bound by oath to leave safely. That feat alone demanded a forbidden spell. And she doubted he had freed only two, or ten, or twenty... Each time he tore a gap in the curse’s fabric, each time he delivered them through that impossible passage, he must have called upon forbidden magic again and again.

"What is a witch’s natural enemy?" Ariel suddenly echoed aloud. The question struck her chest like an arrow loosed from an unseen bow.

What is a witch’s natural enemy?

There was only one answer. The very same beings from which witches borrowed their strength, the same creatures who could drag them to ruin and death if ever the balance slipped.

Demons.

The realization crashed through Arabella like a chill, and when she turned, she found Ariel’s face gone pallid, the color drained away as though the truth itself had leeched it. Without another word, Ariel suddenly rose, her steps swift, almost frantic, as she hurried into the dressing room. Arabella sat stunned until her sister returned, clutching a folded piece of silk in her trembling hands.

"I— I..." Ariel swallowed hard, her green eyes swimming with too many emotions to name as she thrust the handkerchief forward. "It’s his blood. During training, I— I shattered a teacup by mistake. It cut him. He laughed, said it was nothing, though I panicked and pressed this against the wound to stop the bleeding. I kept it. I thought... no one knows what you could do with blood like his. Perhaps it might help you."

Arabella’s fingers closed around her sister’s, steadying them, her voice sharp with resolve. "It will. With this, we can uncover what he truly is."

Both sisters surged to their feet, hearts racing, the urgency sparking between them. In their rush to flee the chamber, Arabella forgot the letter still resting on the table. The parchment fluttered once, twice, as the draft stirred through the open window. Then, like a whisper stolen by fate, it drifted upward— only for a pale hand to slip in and pluck the envelope from the air.