CHAPTER 445: A NEW FRIEND-II

Even her voice beguiled his heart; it softened the sharp corners of it, made it flutter in a way that left him restless and uncertain— like a young, shy boy stumbling into the dizzy warmth of his first crush. The realization embarrassed him terribly, a wave of heat rushing to his ears. How foolish— how utterly stupid— of him to show up before her in such a state, wearing that ragged, dirt-stained outfit!

He had chosen the dirtiest, most tattered clothes in his wardrobe, a deliberate choice meant to provoke a reaction— to show her what poverty looked like in its truest, most unfiltered form.

He knew how noble ladies often wrinkled their perfect noses at anything they deemed filthy or beneath them. But now, standing before her, that idea felt idiotic— cruel even. There was nothing in her face that warranted mockery. She didn’t deserve his defiance; she deserved reverence.

And here he was, covered in dust like some farmhand, as though he’d crawled out of a field instead of a castle hall. If only he had worn something better— the fine tunic his father had once given him, the one woven from the East Kingdom’s silk, smooth and light as morning fog. It shimmered like liquid moonlight when it caught the sun. That would have been worthy of her. That would have made him look like someone respectable— someone she could look at without pity.

Isaac grew so mortified he began to rub faintly at his shirt, as though he could scrub away the shame itself. His fingers brushed over the rough cloth again and again, subtly, desperately, hoping she wouldn’t notice his fidgeting or the dirt clinging to his hands.

"What’s your name?" Arabella asked after a moment, her voice soft, patient, touched by warmth. A small smile curved on her lips as she studied him. She noticed his nervousness and wondered if her presence alone frightened him. "Are you alr—"

"I— Isaac Vins," he blurted before she could finish, his voice catching halfway through. The words tangled in his throat and came out clumsy and broken. His face flushed crimson— hot, mortifyingly red— until he wished he could vanish entirely. A shovel. That’s what he needed. Something to dig a hole and bury himself before he made a bigger fool of himself.

"Isaac, then?" Arabella repeated kindly, her smile deepening. "You don’t have to be nervous. Ca— Morpheus told me that I needed someone to guard me while I walk around the castle. I told him it wasn’t necessary. I prefer to walk alone. Freedom, you know? He was never... a person to do this."

Not a person to do this?

Isaac’s thoughts stilled, and then darkened. No, he wasn’t.

Morpheus was precisely the type to keep people hidden— tucked away and watched, like rare treasures he didn’t wish the world to touch.

Isaac remembered the last woman under Morpheus’s watch— Lady Ariel. Every step she took had been shadowed by guards, every breath measured and monitored. She lived without ever knowing how she was put to watch until she was suddenly "gone" and that scared him, as Isaac had friends who had loyally put everything on Morpheus, put their trust and soul only for what? For them to disappear in action, or better yet dead.

So why him? Why now? Why was he chosen to guard this new woman? Surely Morpheus knew Isaac had no loyalty to him— no trust, no belief in his authority. The man wasn’t blind; he had to know Isaac was one of the few within these walls who couldn’t be easily bent or bought.

Yet still, he chose him.

Isaac’s stomach twisted with unease. He didn’t like this— didn’t like being placed between power and innocence. He could feel the strings pulling already, the unseen hand arranging him like a piece on a board he never agreed to play on. He clenched his jaw, the sunlight that once comforted him now feeling cold.

He didn’t like being made a pawn in someone else’s game—

especially not Morpheus’s.

"Actually, milady, I—"

"Isaac is a good name," Arabella said softly, unaware that she had interrupted him. Her tone carried that tender warmth again, the kind that seemed to smooth out every sharp edge in the room. "I was worried, you see. Morpheus told me that after the fall, I might have... missing puzzles in my head. It puts me at ill ease. But for some reason, seeing you makes me feel a little at peace."

Isaac blinked once. Then twice. His brows drew together slightly.

"Seeing me

puts you at ease?"

"Mhm..." Arabella hummed quietly, turning her gaze toward the window where sunlight spilled across the curtains. For a brief moment, she hummed a soft tune, one that lingered in the air like a memory neither of them could name. When she finally spoke again, her words were distant, wistful.

"I don’t know. Everything about this castle is perfect, isn’t it, Isaac? I should be glad to be here—in such a beautiful, luxurious place where everything is so meticulously ordered, so calm, so... controlled." Her voice softened further, almost to a whisper. "But maybe because of that perfection, I don’t feel at home. It’s as if I’m living in a cage, gilded and silent, with no life inside it."

Then she turned to him again, her lips curving into a gentle smile that reached her eyes—green and lucid, yet carrying a quiet sorrow. "But your clothes," she said with a small laugh, "they’re imperfect. They don’t belong in this place. Maybe that’s why they comfort me. They remind me that perhaps there really is a bit of life here in this castle."

Isaac’s breath caught.

For a moment, the world stilled. He didn’t know what to say—only that something in his chest ached at her words. He was mesmerized— not merely by her beauty, but by her perception. By how easily she could peel through the illusions that everyone else accepted without question.

Her words, soft as falling snow, had pierced something deep in him. She saw what others pretended not to see— the cold, perfect lifelessness of the castle. The unnatural stillness that Morpheus maintained like a god sculpting his ideal world.

She felt it too. The suffocation. The quiet wrongness.

Someone who could understand this—who could sense the same haunting hollowness beneath all that beauty—

how could he not be moved by her?

Arabella then blinked her green eyes, "I felt that you had wanted to say something..."

"No. No," he’s staying. No matter how he hates the idea of having to sit here and be used by Morpheus as a pawn, he wasn’t about to allow himself being removed from her side. No.