CHAPTER 439: TIME CLOCKING OUT-II

[The book will be finished either by this month or next month- Thank you for always supporting!]

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When Arabella reached her study room, she pushed the door open so abruptly it startled Lastor, who had been asleep. His eyelids cracked open, his green eyes still glazed with exhaustion as he tried to make sense of the sudden intrusion— until he noticed Arabella and Ariel rushing straight to the black pot in the corner.

"What is—" he stumbled out of bed, the blanket tangling at his legs until he shoved it away. Panic flickered through him as he caught the determined expression fixed on Arabella’s face, the chalk clutched tightly in her hand, while Ariel’s pallid features trembled in fear, her eyes darting with confusion as though she herself wasn’t sure if she was awake or trapped in a nightmare.

His questions pressed against his tongue, but he swallowed them down. One glance at their urgency, the way they moved with the desperation of people who believed time itself was slipping away, told him demanding answers now would waste precious moments.

"What can I do, mistress?" Lastor asked quickly, trailing Arabella’s steps, his voice low but urgent. She turned to him for a heartbeat, hesitation flashing in her eyes as if torn whether to involve him— but then she forced the thought aside with a sharp shake of her head.

"Blood," she demanded, her tone fierce though her throat worked as she swallowed. "I need your blood, Lastor. I need to see what he truly is."

"What he truly is?" Lastor echoed, baffled, but he didn’t hesitate. Without another word he snatched a dagger, slicing a line across his palm. Blood welled at once, and he let it drip into a flask. He watched as Ariel crouched on the floor beside Arabella, trembling hands gripping another piece of chalk, her motions clumsy yet determined as they began sketching the insignia across the floor.

Recognition struck Lastor like a stone. The shape of the circle, the curling sigils— he knew this spell. It was the ritual used to reveal a being’s innate nature, a witch’s way of discerning whether one possessed the strength to rise as a witch or remain bound as a mere sorcerer.

"Why are we-"

"Lastor," Arabella muttered while shaping the spell with her hands, her voice threading through the witchery incantation he recognized all too well. Her words cut through the charged silence, her green eyes fixed on the circle. "Do you think a demon could remain as a human?"

"Of course they couldn’t!" Lastor shot back at once, his voice sharp, as if even the suggestion was an insult to logic.

"But a witch’s power comes from demons," she pressed, her tone steadier, colder, "and the stronger the power one takes from a demon, the greater their witchery magic becomes."

Lastor’s jaw tightened. He hated how true it was. "They are connected," he admitted through his teeth, "more than I’d like. But what does this—"

"Are you sure Morpheus could never step out of the castle, Lastor?" Arabella cut across, her voice so quiet it unsettled him more than if she had screamed.

"Morpheus?" The name dropped like a stone in his chest. He blinked at her. "Of course. He hasn’t stepped out in years, has he?"

Her eyes narrowed, her expression taut, almost pained. "What if he could?"

"Impossible!" Lastor barked, but even as he said it the words rang hollow. "He’s cursed too, like the rest of us. We saw the curse on him, we—" His voice faltered. Because her face told him everything— Arabella had reached a conclusion darker than anything he dared imagine.

At that instant, Ariel placed the handkerchief, still stained with Morpheus’s blood, into the center of the chalk circle. The effect was immediate.

A violent green flame erupted, swallowing the handkerchief whole in a heartbeat. The fabric disintegrated into nothing but ashes, but the flames did not fade. They bloomed outward instead, twisting and writhing like the petals of some monstrous flower, the green light searing across every surface of the study.

Lastor stumbled back, shielding his eyes, but realized the flames weren’t burning, weren’t consuming. They had no heat, no smoke, no destruction— only power, the raw measurement of it, radiating outward like the thrum of a heart too large for the body that contained it.

Arabella stood rigid, her lips dry, her eyes reflecting the blaze. Her voice came as a whisper, yet it struck heavier than thunder:

"He’s a man. He couldn’t be a witch. The fact that he is here means that he is a human, still a part of him is human. A sorcerer who wields witch’s power. No..." Her throat tightened, but the words forced themselves out, cruel and undeniable. "A demon and a human at the same time."

"What?"

Lastor and Ariel stood stunned, rooted at the ground as they stare at the wild green fire that swirled like a storm, showcasing the amount of power that Morpheus had.

"Then why—why has he locked himself in that castle all this time?!" Arabella demanded, her voice cracking with frustration and disbelief.

"The Morpheus I saw a few days ago," Ariel added, her green eyes wide and wary, "That wasn’t a figment... it was Morpheus’s own physical body?"

"I think so, sister," Bella confirmed, her hands trembling slightly as she turned to Lastor. "But I do think Morpheus wasn’t entirely affected by the curse. He still couldn’t step out of the castle at will. If the truth is that Circe had been cursed to death, and seeing her ailment, Morpheus tried to shift that curse... only for it to instead curse all the sorcerers in her bloodline... then I can imagine that unknowingly, his demonic bloodline interfered, worsening the magic and causing it to fail."

"You mean his demonic bloodline was why the curse-shifting magic backfired, punishing the sorcerers instead?" Lastor’s voice was sharp, disbelief lacing every word.

Arabella nodded, her lips pressed in a thin line. "I think so. Perhaps Morpheus himself wasn’t aware of his demonic heritage... not until that fateful night."

"Correct."

The voice rang out suddenly, cold and smooth, startling all three of them. The air seemed to vibrate with its presence, and instinctively, their hands went to their weapons, ready to strike. But the source of the voice was nowhere to be seen. Morpheus had vanished, invisible to their eyes, leaving Arabella to grit her teeth in mounting frustration.

"I knew you’ve always been on the smarter side, Bella—smarter than Ariel, and certainly smarter than your vampire King," the voice echoed again, calm yet mocking. "I discovered my bloodline only on that fateful night, when I attempted to lift Circe’s curse by using those foolish sorcerers in exchange. It should have worked... but it didn’t. Of course, because they rejected my blood—the blood of a demon."