CHAPTER 466: DISAPPEARING MEMORIES-I

Entering the castle of the sorcerer was, to Cassius’s mild irritation, far easier than one might expect. For a fortress shrouded in fear and mystery, said to be governed by Morpheus’s iron control and bound by his magic, it yielded with unsettling ease. The marble halls, veined with strange silver light, offered no resistance to his silent trespass. It was almost as if the castle itself wanted him there.

Of course, that thought didn’t bring him comfort— it only made him more wary.

Yes, the entire place pulsed with the sorcerer’s power, and even the faintest disturbance could have summoned his notice. Yet with Atlas’s foresight and Circe’s deft weaving of concealment charms, slipping inside had been a trivial thing— a cakewalk, as Circe had smugly put it.

The real problem, however, wasn’t getting in.

It was getting out.

Leaving the damned castle would be twice as difficult— especially since he refused to leave without Arabella. The thought alone made his jaw tighten. He would sooner be trapped within these cursed walls forever than abandon her to Morpheus’s hands.

For now, he could do nothing but linger in the shadows and watch her from afar. It was both a torment and a fragile reprieve— to see her breathing, unbroken, her spirit not yet crushed beneath Morpheus’s twisted affection. Watching her move through those grand, sterile corridors, seeing the faint crease of thought between her brows, the gentle curl of her hands— it brought him sanity. A thin thread of it, perhaps, but enough to keep him from tearing through the castle in a fit of fury.

Even so, every passing hour scraped at his patience. Every second she remained in Morpheus’s grasp was a second too long.

Still, in these two days he had spent hidden within the castle, Cassius had come to certain realizations. The place itself— though steeped in shadow— wasn’t the pit of pure evil he’d imagined. The sorcerers here, contrary to rumor, were not all mad or malicious. Most were subdued, almost painfully meek. They avoided confrontation, kept their heads down, and busied themselves with their potions and studies as if the world beyond the castle walls did not exist.

They weren’t monsters. They were survivors.

It wasn’t hard to see why. The marks of the last great war still lingered in their eyes— ghosts of slaughter, betrayal, and endless fire. Their power was vast, but their will to fight had long withered. They craved peace more than glory. They wanted to live quietly, perhaps even coexist with vampires and humans once again.

Cassius found that almost... admirable.

Almost.

Of course, there were exceptions— those zealots among them who spoke Morpheus’s name like a sacred prayer, who bowed before his every word as if he were some god in mortal form. Cassius’s lips curled in contempt whenever he saw them. They were few, but enough to irritate him. Dealing with them, though, would be no trouble at all once the time came.

The true obstacle— the rot at the heart of this place— was Morpheus himself.

That filthy, deluded Morpheus.

Cassius’s hand clenched at the memory of their first day under the same roof. The castle had been in uproar— a young sorcerer, one of Arabella’s close aides, had been stabbed. The wound had been deep, close to fatal. If not for Arabella’s quick intervention, the boy would’ve bled out before the healers arrived.

And of course, Morpheus had found his scapegoat almost immediately.

He’d pinned the blame on him, on Cassius, spreading whispers that the "Vampire King’s man" had infiltrated his halls and attacked one of his own.

A convenient lie, Cassius thought bitterly, hiding in plain sight among the castle staff, his features concealed under the guise of a maid. He had witnessed the commotion firsthand, seen Arabella kneel beside the wounded Isaac, her expression pale with horror, her hands trembling as she tried to stem the bleeding.

Her reaction had been so achingly familiar— the same disgust she’d always had toward violence, the same trembling breath when she smelled blood.

He’d been glad to see her again, even under such cruel circumstances. But the joy had turned to rage when Morpheus dared to lay the blame upon him, using the tragedy to paint vampires as savages. It was almost laughable. If he had been the one to stab Isaac, the boy would not have lived long enough to cry out. Cassius didn’t stab— he ended

.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Still, he’d assumed Arabella would know better. That she would sense him nearby, recognize the truth instinctively, remember him.

But when he’d crept into her chambers later, still cloaked as one of the maids tasked with cleaning away the blood, he’d overheard her speaking softly, her voice carrying that familiar curiosity tinged with unease.

"What kind of man is the Vampire King?" she had asked.

The words had cut him deeper than any blade.

She didn’t remember him.

For a long moment, he had stood there, frozen— the torchlight glinting against the tears she didn’t shed, the faint echo of her voice twisting in his chest. The air had felt frustrating as if some cruel god had taken pleasure in watching him crumble. He didn’t know he had even stopped breathing, eyeing the lie and hint of act from Arabella’s lovely green eyes but no. He could see clearly her confusion, her memories of him being gone completely.

And it took him another half day to hear from all the servants that Arabella was Morpheus’s lover and that she had accepted the idea without doubting it.

He had crossed cruses to reach her. He had defied the nature of the world, risked everything— and she didn’t even know him.

Cassius exhaled sharply, his gloved fingers brushing the cold stone of the corridor as he turned away.

Morpheus had taken much from him already.

But taking her memory?

That, he would not forgive.

Still a part of him doubts. Arabella’s innate power was much heavier than what Morpheus could have handled. Perhaps, it was only all her ruse to trick him into submission. But the night when she had snuck into the forbidden room and him hiding her with his hands covered over her mouth and his voice to her ears, her confusion of who he was still remains.

and the words, "Who are you," had stabbed his heart deeper than any knife could ever do.