CHAPTER 456: A HAND PULL

The smell behind her was of blood.

Not the fresh kind that singed the nose with metallic sharpness, but the darker scent of something older, heavier, like blood that had long since dried beneath a blade. It was thick in the air, clinging to the man’s clothes, seeping from him like the echo of a past violence that refused to fade.

Arabella’s stomach turned, though not in revulsion. It was strange, disturbingly so, that she did not recoil. Instead, her heart beat faster, her pulse syncing to that quiet, measured breathing against her ear. Whoever held her was not merely a man; he was something tempered, sharpened, forged by danger.

Tall, broader than anyone she had ever stood this close to. His chest rose and fell against her back, his breath brushing the strands of her hair. His hands, rough, calloused, and steady, covered her mouth, his palm smelling faintly of iron and smoke. It was a hold not meant to harm, yet it was unyielding.

She couldn’t turn to see his face; she could only feel him, his warmth pressing into her spine, his presence anchoring her even as dread coiled through her veins. She wanted to know who he was, why his touch felt both alien and hauntingly familiar.

But her curiosity was cut short.

Through the sliver of open space ahead, she saw Morpheus. His posture was a portrait of irritation, jaw clenched, lips taut, the flickering lantern light throwing sharp shadows across his elegant features.

"Have you checked her room?" he demanded, his tone smooth but laced with venom. "Find whether she is still there. We cannot allow her to leave the castle. Block all entryways!"

The men behind him scrambled, nodding, boots echoing against the stone.

Morpheus then raised his hand, muttering a string of words so cold and precise that the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The pulse of magic shivered through the floor.

Arabella’s heart lurched. She knew that spell.

It was a revelation charm, one that stripped illusions bare, forced invisibility into the open. With their distance, her presence was about to be noticed!

Panic surged through her chest. Did the man behind her know what he was doing? Did he understand what spell was about to unravel them both? Seeing how he didn’t panic, it seems that he really wasn’t aware of it, no wonder, he didn’t smell like a sorcerer or a witch, after all!

They’re doomed!

She slapped his thigh sharply, trying to warn him, but the motion barely made him flinch. His leg was solid, the muscle taut beneath his clothes, and she struck again, once, twice, and each slap growing more frantic as Morpheus’s incantation deepened in tone.

Still, the man didn’t move. He didn’t seem bothered or perhaps her touch felt as light as a feather to him, so much so that he couldn’t feel it.

Frustration boiled through her. She struck harder, and that was when his quiet groan brushed the edge of her ear. The groan came deep from his throat, almost sounded as if he was growling.

"I know," he muttered under his breath, his voice low, deep, and almost a growl. "Rub it a bit more and I think we are going to make a bigger mess than only having our position uncovered."

The words hit her like a slap.

Her eyes flew wide, a flush of scarlet sweeping up her cheeks. What—

Her gaze flicked downward, and realization struck like lightning. She hadn’t been striking his thigh. She had been pressing dangerously close to his inner leg, fingers brushing where no decent hand should wander.

Her breath caught. Heat climbed up her neck in mortified horror.

"You—!" she hissed, twisting around to glare up at him, only to find his shadowed grin flashing in the dimness. She still couldn’t see his face but his expression brimmed with confidence was hard for her to unsee. "We need to go— he’s using magic!"

"I know. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with it, birdie," the man murmured smoothly, utterly unfazed. His hand stayed firm across her mouth, though his tone dripped with amusement that she wanted dearly to slap away. "Let him use all the magic he wants. He won’t see us. Not this time."

Arabella frowned. "What do you mean?" she whispered against his palm, her voice barely escaping.

But before he could answer, Morpheus turned sharply.

His green eyes, bright as emerald flame, snapped toward their direction, straight at them. A kind of look that was knowing, that was straight to one’s soul and even deeper than that.

Arabella froze.

He was staring right at her. His gaze pierced through the air, through the veil of magic, locking with hers so precisely that her throat went dry.

For a heartbeat, she was sure he saw her. After all he was so close, his stare so sharp and certain.

Her muscles tensed, ready to run, to bolt, to do anything. But before she could even gasp, the man behind her pressed his hand more tightly over her mouth, pulling her back against him until her spine met the unyielding wall of his chest.

Morpheus stepped closer.

The glow of his spell bathed the corridor in pale green, light crawling over the stone walls like living smoke. He passed within inches of them. His lashes brushed the faint shimmer of magic where the man’s hand hovered, so close that one breath, one twitch, would give them away.

Arabella’s lungs burned.

Morpheus’s expression did not change. No surprise. No recognition. His gaze slid right through them, as if they were mere air.

And that terrified her more than if he had seen them.

Because whatever the man beside her had done, it wasn’t ordinary invisibility. It was something darker, something far more unique, smell of something inhuman but held no danger towards her.

Something Morpheus himself couldn’t break.

"I felt something," muttered Morpheus, his voice cutting through the silence like the snap of a blade. His brows furrowed as he turned, slow and deliberate, to one of the cloaked figures lingering behind him. The woman stood perfectly still, her form almost blending with the gloom, as if the darkness itself bowed to her presence.

"Do you also not feel it?" he asked.

The woman raised her hand, pale fingers catching the faint shimmer of green magic in the air. She hummed softly—a strange, haunting sound that seemed to echo from the walls themselves rather than her throat. Then, shaking her head, she lowered her arm, her cloak sliding against her slender frame like liquid shadow.

Arabella’s eyes narrowed. The sight of the woman unsettled her. The cut of that cloak, the stillness of her movement, it wasn’t unfamiliar. Her instincts prickled, whispering danger. Beneath the mask of silence, she caught the faintest trace of a scent.

A witch’s scent.

Her pulse quickened. Impossible.

There was only one witch in this castle—her.

The woman opened her mouth, speaking something inaudible. Her lips moved with graceful precision, but no sound emerged. And yet, the air vibrated faintly with each syllable, humming with magic.

Arabella focused, sharpening her senses to catch the threads of spellwork that wove through the woman’s silence. It wasn’t merely quiet—it was enchanted silence, a spell that cloaked the woman’s true voice, burying it beneath layers of soundless air.

Why would she hide her voice? Why conceal her identity?

Morpheus tilted his head, "But seeing that the creature isn’t here either, it must have been Arabella’s magic that obscured my sight." His tone grew colder, more analytical. "You agree, don’t you?"

The cloaked woman gave a small nod.

"She must still be in the castle," Morpheus said, satisfaction curving his lips. "Find her—and make sure her memories haven’t recovered."

Arabella’s breath caught.

Memories? Recovered?

Her mind stuttered around the words like a knife slipping in wet hands. The walls felt closer, the air heavier.

"That bastard. He really did something to my memories." she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling in fury and dawning horror.

Behind her, the man who had held her faltered. His grip loosened slightly, his breathing shifting from control to hesitation. The air between them changed—as though her words had struck a chord buried deep within him.

Arabella glanced sideways, sensing movement—yet before she could turn, Morpheus’s sharp command echoed down the stairwell, snapping her attention back to him.

"Seal the western corridor!" he barked. "If she escapes beyond the wards, you’ll answer for it with your blood!"

His cloak swept around him as he strode toward the staircase, boots ringing against stone. The faint shimmer of his magic brushed past her hiding spot, ruffling the edge of her hair like a phantom touch before fading.

When she dared to turn—He was gone.

And so was the man.

The space behind her was empty, silent. Not even a trace of warmth lingered.

Arabella’s heart pounded. For a fleeting, dizzying moment, she wondered if she had imagined him entirely.

"No," she whispered to herself, scanning the shadows. "He was real... I felt him."

She didn’t linger. With Morpheus gone and the cloaked woman following his order, she slipped from her concealment, silent as mist. The secret door still stood open—the only mercy of the night—and she darted through it, pressing herself against the chill stone once more.

The library loomed around her, tall and endless. Shelves upon shelves of ancient books towered like sentinels, their spines carved with sigils that pulsed faintly as she passed. Her fingers brushed a few volumes, and she gathered the ones Morpheus had hidden.

Then she ran.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the stairwell, the lantern’s glow trembling in her grip. Panic was clawing its way up her throat now. She needed to find Isaac. He was supposed to follow after her—

But when she reached the end of the hall, she froze at the sound of a ruckus.

Arabella’s heart lurched into her mouth. She peered from behind a column and her breath stilled.

Isaac was on his knees. His arms were bound behind him, his head bowed but unbroken. Blood dripped from the corner of his lip, and around him stood Morpheus’s men—blades drawn, faces shadowed.