CHAPTER 448: TORN FABRICS-I

Now sprawled across the bed lay Isaac. His stomach was wrapped in thick, blood-soaked bandages, and his fingers, cut and mangled from a desperate struggle with the person who had hurt him. Now left on the best, he rested limply against the sheets. His chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath a fragile thread tethering him to life.

If she hadn’t found him early on, just for another second, Isaac would have been gone for good.

Beside him, Lily knelt, her face streaked with tears as she clutched her brother’s hand with trembling fingers. Her voice was hoarse from prayer, breaking with every whispered plea that left her lips.

"Please... please, not him..." she murmured, the words half-choked by sobs.

The sight rooted Arabella where she stood. Her brows furrowed tightly, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. The smell of iron filled the air, sharp and raw, curling through her senses until her stomach turned.

Blood.

That scent, she would never mistake it.

She hated it. Not merely for the gore it represented, but for the flood of memory it brought, the shadow of another life she couldn’t quite recall yet still felt. Blood always came with loss. Always.

Her gaze snapped toward the guards posted by the door.

"Where were you all?" Her tone was soft but heavy with restrained fury, like the moment before a storm breaks.

The soldiers stiffened, exchanging panicked glances before falling to their knees. None dared meet her eyes. Her green eyes, those bright, witch green flames, were too much to bear.

"W- We were guarding, milady," one of them stammered. "But Sir Isaac told us to switch our posts. H- he said he would manage the watch until the new shift arrived."

Arabella’s stare did not waver. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that made every heartbeat sound like thunder.

"You left him alone," she said quietly and that word alone made them all tremble.

The words were simple, but the weight behind them pressed down on the air like a curse. Lily’s sobs filled the void left in her pause.

Before anyone could speak again, the door slammed open.

"It seems it was the work of an outsider," Morpheus announced as he strode in, his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow. His tone was calm, as though this wasn’t surprising to him. But things tend to not be too startling for Morpheus which made her to purse her lips in response.

His eyes, gleamed with restrained irritation as they swept across the room, landing briefly on the unconscious Isaac before settling on Arabella.

He folded his arms, standing tall and composed at the edge of the bed. "We found a torn piece of fabric caught on one of the window frames, on your side of the castle, Arabella. It seems someone snuck inside with the intent to harm you. But Isaac..." his voice softened, just slightly, "managed to stop them before the attempt reached you."

Arabella’s eyes flicked to the soldiers, then to Morpheus, and finally to the small square of dark cloth in his hand.

"May I?" she asked, stepping closer.

He obliged, passing the fragment into her palm.

The fabric was coarse and smooth all at once, woven tightly, the scent faintly metallic—like ash and smoke. Her thumb brushed over it once, twice, before a strange familiarity struck her.

Her heart skipped a beat.

This wasn’t just any fabric.

She knew this texture.

Her brows furrowed as she examined it more closely. "This isn’t common weave," she murmured, almost to herself. "It’s dyed with bartnot root, a technique used only in the Kingdom of Rastafar, Eastern Kingdom."

Morpheus’s gaze sharpened. "You recognize it?"

Arabella nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the cloth. "Yes... but I don’t know how."

A faint tremor touched her fingers. The name Rastafar

rang in her mind like a half-forgotten memory— one that stirred something deep, something that made her chest ache. She didn’t know anymore whether the ache came from the anxiety upon seeing Isaac’s life hanging by a thread or that it had came from the fabric instead

She frowned, more to herself than to anyone else. "I don’t wear black," she whispered, "and yet this feels..."

Familiar.

Her fingers tightened around the cloth until her knuckles turned pale. For a moment, the air in the room shifted, the candlelight flickered, and the faint hum of magic trembled through her veins like a pulse awakening after long slumber.

Morpheus stepped closer, his hand brushing her shoulder in a gesture of concern, "Do not trouble yourself, my dear," he said softly, his fingers touching hers that made her chill. His hands weren’t usually this warm is it? "It was likely a remnant of one of their spies. We’ll find whoever dared to enter my castle."

"Their spies?" It seems he knew, more than what she does and looking back at her, Morpheus let out a troubled smile as though he had made a mistake by saying something he didn’t want to say at the start.

"Well us sorcerers aren’t always accepted, the only one in question who would try to hurt you is none other than the King of the vampires, the King of Versailles."

King of Versailles... he did this?

Her gaze drifted back to Isaac. His expression was peaceful now, but his fingers still twitched faintly in Lily’s grasp. There was blood caked beneath his nails, the sign of a man who had fought until his strength was gone.

Arabella’s heart tightened painfully.

He had nearly died for her.

And yet... something about the scene, about the attack, about the familiar fabric—it didn’t fit. The edges of the story didn’t match, like a puzzle forced together by the wrong hands.

She turned to Morpheus, her voice barely above a whisper. "You said they were after me. But if they were... why would the attacker come from inside my wing?"

The question hung in the air, quiet but sharp.

Morpheus smiled. A slow, knowing smile that never reached his eyes.

"Perhaps to scare you," answered Morpheus with a hum, "He is a man of terror. Someone we should be greatly be careful for. I’m afraid that this is only the start, after all his target has always been to kill you and everyone in this castle, all these poor and innocent soul."

"What is his name?"

Morpheus’s eyebrows twitched then he grinned, "Is it really necessary to know an enemy’s name, Bella? If you don’t trust me, we should wait until the time when Isaac open his eyes. Then I’m sure we could hear from him the image of the person who had stabbed him."