CHAPTER 464: DIVIDED LOYALTY-I

The cloaked woman’s eyes, faintly visible beneath the thin, translucent veil of her hood, trembled with a flash of terror. A shiver ran through her hands, hidden beneath the folds of her robe, as she tried to compose herself before the man who sat upon the throne. She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat, a thin thread of heart thumping out of admiration and fear.

She carefully lifted her gaze to Morpheus’s face, seeking mercy or reason there but finding neither. The glow of the nearby braziers painted his skin in hues of gold and shadow, and his eyes, those cold, depthless emeralds, looked as though they could see straight through her skull. She swallowed hard, searching for words that would not displease him further.

In her defense, she finally answered, "Milord, it was a ruse. She knows something is off about me, she must have planned to bring me away from you—"

"Even if that was the case, I don’t think it’s a problem," Morpheus interrupted, his tone casual yet cutting, as if her panic bored him.

He brushed aside her worry with the flick of a hand, the golden rings on his fingers glinting faintly as he gestured toward his attendants. The servants, silent as ghosts, carried forward a large basin carved of black stone. Steam rose from the water inside, the scent of iron and ash filling the air.

Without hesitation, Morpheus reached for the dagger resting beside his throne. The blade shimmered under the torchlight, ancient and slightly curved, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly like veins of light.

Then, with a steady hand, he drew the dagger across his palm.

The sound of the cut was followed by a thick, unnatural sound of liquid spilling. But it wasn’t red that flowed from his skin. No, what dripped into the basin was black as ink, dark and glimmering like oil under firelight.

Not one of his men flinched. Not even the cloaked woman gasped. They had all seen this before. They knew better than to react.

Morpheus’s expression did not falter as he watched the black blood coil and hiss in the water, spreading like living smoke. With the ease of someone who had done this countless times, he murmured, "Your presence being away from me won’t endanger me, and I doubt that Arabella could bring a sword and drive it to my chest in her current situation. She wants the flower—wants to test and try whether she could go far with that plan in her head. So let’s allow her. It won’t be long before she fails either way."

His tone was almost indulgent, as though speaking of a child’s foolish rebellion rather than a threat.

But the cloaked woman frowned, her hands twisting together beneath her robe. There was something off about his calm, about how easily he dismissed it. She could feel it—the shift in the air. Her instincts whispered that Arabella was not the same woman she had been before. That something inside her had changed.

"What if we strengthen the magic we put on her?" she asked hesitantly, her voice lowering. "It could bring her to a submission for good."

Morpheus’s gaze snapped to her, cold and absolute. "No," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "You know if we use that magic for the fourth time, it’s going to destroy her soul for good. We still need her soul for our plan."

She hesitated. Then, perhaps too boldly, she tilted her head and whispered, "Or is it because you fear that she will be nothing but a lifeless doll and you don’t fancy that, milord?"

The words hung in the air like poison.

Morpheus did not immediately reply. The silence that followed was heavy—so thick it pressed on her chest. Then his eyes darkened, a shadow passing over them. His lips parted slightly, and though he said nothing, the fury in his gaze was enough to make the nearest guard take a half-step back.

He looked at her as though he were deciding whether to speak—or to kill her. His hand twitched once at his side, as though fighting the urge to grab her by the throat. The woman trembled beneath her cloak but did not retreat.

"She is different from Lady Circe," she dared to continue, her words quivering now, "and she... to put this frankly, milord. She isn’t someone who would bring you to newer heights. I don’t think in her heart there is a space for y—"

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the chamber like a whip.

Her head snapped to the side, her hood slipping halfway down to reveal a pale cheek reddened from the blow. Morpheus’s hand trembled slightly in the air before he drew it back, his jaw set with rage. His breathing had deepened—not fast, but heavy, like a man restraining himself from something worse.

He stared down at her with disdain, his voice low and venomous. "It’s my order. I didn’t do it because I want to have a space in her heart. I did it so we could use her more for our plan. Don’t ever overstep again, remember that."

Blinking rapidly, the cloaked woman lowered her gaze. Her vision blurred—not from pain, but from humiliation. A single tear welled at the corner of her eye, clinging there stubbornly, as if even her sorrow was too proud to fall. It wasn’t the slap that hurt her. It was the shame. The reminder of her place beneath him.

Her jaw tightened. In her chest, anger and devotion tangled like thorns. She loved him—hated him—worshipped him all the same. And yet, she knew what had to be done.

She had to get rid of Arabella.

Her mind raced. When? How? Then it came to her—the one moment when the great Morpheus, the Lord of Night, was most vulnerable. When his eyes were closed, when his consciousness slipped beyond the reach of this world.

While Morpheus slept, that would be the time. That would be the hour when Arabella would have no one left to protect her.

Her gaze flickered back to him. Morpheus had already taken off his golden robe, the fabric falling in waves around the base of his throne. The wound on his palm had already begun to close, the black liquid drying like tar across his skin. He sat back with the slow grace of a predator at rest, the faintest sigh leaving his lips as he closed his eyes.

But she did not move. Not yet.

The cloaked woman lingered, watching him with a mix of longing and loathing. Her eyes traced the faint diagonal scar that crossed his chest, an old mark half-hidden beneath the faint shimmer of his skin.

Her fingers clenched at her sides.

As the light dimmed and the chamber grew still, she turned toward the great doors. Her robe swayed behind her, a shadow moving across the marble floor. When she finally looked back one last time, her eyes burned with determination and something darker—something that pulsed like a promise of vengeance.

Then she left, her steps silent but her resolve echoing louder than any sound in the hall.