CHAPTER 499: SEW A LOVE

Lastor awkwardly looked back and forth between Atlas and Circe who had gotten into a hug while he stood still, rubbing his head not knowing whether he should be glad that they were now peaceful or if he should be a little upset at how they had somehow dragged him into the little spat.

He eventually settled for the first one and broke into a smile both Circe and Atlas gently pulled away from each other.

"Once this is all over," Atlas spoke to Circe, "Let’s get a good long rest."

Circe looked back at him, wordless as if she didn’t know whether she should agree to his words when deep down she still wish for him to stay in the mortal world for longer.

Lastor then cleared his throat, finally gathering the attention of the couple who slowly turned toward him. As if realizing how they had involved the poor man into their little spat, they coughed, clearing their throat in return while patting their clothes as if they were also brushing away the awkwardness.

"Correct," Circe pointed towards Lastor, "Why were you here in the first place, Lastor?"

Circe still was used to acting as a witch, even her tone was sharp and almost cold as she spoke to the only servant who had served her for centuries now. But Lastor didn’t took it badly as he always know how Circe deep down struggle to open her heart.

She needed to be presented as a powerful witch without a heart. Her kindness could get in the way of protecting the people she needed so long before she was aware of it, she had adopted the act of being a cold witch even after the fact that she had died and that witch was no more necessary in the current time.

Lastor smiled softly when he saw how although a little, being stripped from her title as a witch still leaves a mark to Circe, but at least now she could be more honest with herself, allowing her inner self to finally show from the cracks.

"Lastor!" Circe snapped her hand toward him, frowning when she caught him staring into space. "Did you drink the wrong potion, or did someone cast a spell on you?"

"I merely dazed, milady," Lastor chuckled as he approached, holding out a grimy, dirt-covered book. "Do you remember this book?"

Circe raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. Her long nails brushed across the cover, dusting away layers of age. The title had long since faded, but something about the weight... the texture... felt familiar.

Then realization struck.

"This is the book I told you to burn."

"Told him to burn?" Atlas chimed in, leaning forward. "Oh, I’ve seen that book before." He reached a hand toward it— only for Circe to slap his fingers sharply, glaring.

"Stop touching things you know nothing about. What if it’s cursed?" she huffed.

"Then I get cursed," he said with a shrug.

"You truly wish to die, don’t you?!" Circe flicked her wrist, sending a nearby slipper flying. It hit Atlas squarely on the head, tangling in his blond hair.

Lastor sighed.

For a moment, he wondered if these two were... actually in love.

"Anyway, milady," Lastor cleared his throat, "before your death, you were researching the growth of death magic. But in the end, you stopped because you feared the book might fall into the wrong hands."

Circe nodded slowly. "I wrote those death magics here, but I never completed any of them. I told you to burn it— but it seems you did not."

"Let us just say," Lastor smiled, "I had a feeling this situation might... arise. Still, as long as the spells remain incomplete, no one in this world can activate them. Though..." His voice dropped. "After seeing Lady Arabella, I became quite convinced she could— which is beside the point. What I’m trying to say, milady, is this: after much consideration... what if we kill Morpheus for good?"

Circe’s eyes narrowed. "Kill him for good?"

"Yes. I saw notes in Lady Arabella’s room." Lastor hesitated, then pushed on. "She questioned whether we have been wrong from the beginning about Morpheus’s demonic power."

"Arabella did?" Circe crossed her arms, expression sharpening as she tilted her chin. "What exactly did she say?"

"She wondered..." Lastor inhaled. "Morpheus’s demonic power has never been felt before. Not once. For someone as opportunistic— and prideful— as him, it makes little sense that he would possess a power that strong and never exploit it. Her theory was that it’s not a matter of him choosing not to use it. It’s that he cannot use it."

Circe stilled.

Even Atlas straightened at that.

Lastor continued, glancing once at the window as if expecting someone to be listening. "That is when she questioned everything we thought we knew. She suggested that perhaps killing Morpheus is the only way— but only if we kill him truly. Kill his soul entirely, or else his demonic power could lash out in a protective state. If that happens— if his ’protective mode’ activates— Morpheus would finally become what everyone wrongly fears: a half-demon. Not dragged to hell... but infused. Empowered. Unstoppable."

Circe muttered under her breath, "Impossible..."

"Correct. Impossible," Lastor agreed with a heavy nod.

"No. Not that." Circe looked up, her eyes widening as the realization settled like cold water down her spine. She turned toward Atlas, who looked equally stunned. "Arabella found it." Her voice wavered between awe and fury. "Even before me. Even before you. She discovered a way to kill Morpheus— truly kill him— all this time."

Circe’s fists trembled.

"And that lucky bastard," she hissed, "managed to kidnap her before she could tell anyone what she uncovered."

Atlas slid his arms around her waist, smoothly without even Circe acknowledging it and hummed, "Then it seems we owe Arabella our best work. Make sure that lucky bastard as you say my sweetheart, an impactful death. How about a word?"

"Word?"

"Mhm, a theme for his perfect death," suggested Atlas as his grin quirked his lips upward.

"Something like..." he hummed while looking to the side, "Rotting."

Away from the capital of Versailles, the castle of sorcerers remained hidden behind the thick veil of fog that blanketed the forest surrounding it. No human could wander into the castle grounds without losing their way— none. And yet, occasionally, people still stumbled inside... though most were eventually guided back to civilization.

Isaac, born of a human father and a sorcerer mother, had always known he was different. It had never hurt

him— his mother never allowed that— but it had carved a quiet line between him and the others. A line he never wanted his little sister to feel.

So he watched over her. Always.

"Butterfly," Isaac called out the moment he spotted her in the distance with her friends, helping hang laundry beneath the hovering mist. He lifted his hand high and waved.

Ann brightened immediately, her face lighting up as she excused herself from her friends and rushed toward him. "Isaac! Why do you look so exhausted? Look, your face is pale— did you read too much again?"

"Hah." Isaac dropped his head for a second, then raised his eyebrows at her dramatically. "I am a man of knowledge now. Don’t you know I’ve been learning directly from the Lady herself?"

"I only hope she doesn’t get a headache teaching you."

"Do you want a flick on the forehead?"

"Okay, okay— sorry!" She raised her hands in surrender, laughing softly when he retaliated by pinching her cheeks. She batted his hand away. "But really, why are you here? You told me to keep a low profile. Is it because of Lady Arabella? I saw the spar..."

"Everyone saw the spar," Isaac replied, releasing her. He rubbed at his temples, frustration shadowing his face. His usual easy composure was nowhere to be found.

He kept rubbing until Ann finally jabbed him in the stomach.

"Ann!" Isaac yelped, bending over, but she only shook her head.

"What is it? You’re worrying me acting like this. You need something from me, don’t you?" She glanced over her shoulder, then grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward a quieter corner behind the drying sheets. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It has to be about Lady Arabella... so tell me. What happened?"

"I haven’t seen Uncle Jam for a while now," Isaac finally spoke up, "Do you know where he is?"

Hearing this, she frowned and tilted her head, "You haven’t seen Uncle Jammy?"

Though both she and her brother had always called Jammy Hertz as their uncle, truthfully they didn’t share any blood relation at all. Uncle Jammy was the man who had taken care of them, even replacing as their father figure after their human father left.

Like Isaac, Uncle Jammy never truly liked Lord Morpheus.

It wasn’t rare in the castle ground but not was it often seen either. Uncle Jammy was never outrightly malicious against Morpheus either but the tension was known to everyone in the sorcerer castle.

Considering the tension between Arabella and Morpheus which resulted after everyone saw their spar, a part of her heart became worried that her uncle’s dislike toward Morpheus had somehow reached him.

"Not even in his house?"

"Not even in his house."

"You’re not telling me everything, what is it, Isaac?"

Isaac finally let out his held breath, "I wasn’t there... and I didn’t see but from what I have gathered, the last person who had visited Uncle Jammy... it was Lord Morpheus."