CHAPTER 502: WORK OF HELL

Cassius released a carefully measured sigh, letting his shoulders sag just enough to appear overwhelmed. His trembling posture sold the illusion of a maid collapsing under pressure, and Esme seemed almost giddy as she watched him struggle.

She stared at him with open satisfaction, the kind of smile worn by someone who believed she had finally cornered her prey after days of doubting and observing him.

Cassius pretended not to notice her delight as he began speaking, his voice soft and wavering. "My father’s name..."

Esme smirked, "Can’t tell us?"

"It’s Markus Polls. I am Cassandra Polls, daughter of Markus and Barbara Polls. My mother passed from illness, and my father died a few years ago from coughing." The lie flowed smoothly, but he added enough hesitation to make it believable.

Esme’s smile faltered for the first time. The names triggered a faint memory, she knew the Polls family.

Morpheus turned toward her expectantly, raising a brow with thinly veiled impatience, waiting for her words to confirm whether Cassius had lied or not.

He had never cared enough to memorize the lives of the people in his castle, but Esme had made it her business to know everything.

Not out of kindness, but out of a desperate need to be useful.

She wanted Morpheus to depend on her, to value her presence more than any other servant. And so she had memorized names, faces, families.

She remembered Cassandra Polls, a reclusive girl who shut herself in her room at fourteen and rarely appeared again. But comparing that face to the "maid" before her now, she hesitated. Age could change someone, but this difference felt sharper, almost like comparing two different people.

Morpheus tapped his fingers on the table, the rapid clicks snapping Esme from her thoughts. She flushed slightly, lowering her head in silent apology before he shifted his gaze back to Cassius.

His voice was deceptively mild when he asked, "Who chose you to serve the Lady?"

The question sounded simple, but Cassius recognized the danger beneath it. Morpheus was too perceptive, too prone to tearing apart even harmless-seeming answers if they didn’t ring true.

Cassius bowed his head and replied with quiet humility, "The lady saw me as I was mending a cloth. I am skilled with embroidery, milord."

Morpheus studied him for a moment that stretched far too long, then lifted his bandaged hand toward Esme. "Embroidery, hm? Then we should see this talent for ourselves. If it drew Arabella’s attention, I assume it must be impressive."

Cassius kept his expression meek, though internally he felt the familiar irritation of being cornered by someone who doubted everything.

Esme brightened immediately, the shame she had felt earlier completely replaced by renewed excitement. She snapped toward a nearby maid and barked, "Fetch the sewing kit!" Her eagerness was almost excessive, as though she had been waiting for this moment since the first day Cassius entered the castle.

"I can show you my older work, if you prefer," Cassius suggested, hoping to redirect the test into something less risky. Morpheus, however, shook his head with casual finality.

"No. That would take too long. A simple demonstration will do. Show me something basic, right here and now, and we’ll move forward."

His tone left no room for negotiation. Cassius bowed again, concealing the irritation tightening his jaw. Morpheus and Esme weren’t merely suspicious, they were searching for cracks, any mistake he might make under pressureBut Cassius wanted to argue. Truly. Fetching one of Cassandra’s old embroideries from her house would take far less time than sitting here with a needle and thread like some dutiful maiden. A single sprint to the Polls’ estate and back—done.

Yet the moment that thought formed, another came right after it, cold and inconvenient: Cassandra’s body was still under her own bed.

He exhaled slowly.

Yes... the real Cassandra had died long ago. And since no one had noticed her disappearance, no one ever cared enough to look closely, Cassius had simply stepped into her life. All those portraits of her, stiff and smiling on the Polls’ walls, had offered him enough guidance to mimic her well enough. A tilt of the chin. A certain prim stiffness in the shoulders. A demure blink.

But embroidery?

Absolutely not.

He could stitch a wound shut on a battlefield while blood soaked the dirt beneath him, but that was where his talent ended. Give him a sword and he could sever a head before the poor bastard even registered the flash of steel. Give him a needle, though, and the thread would tangle like it had a personal vendetta.

No, Cassius Polls, demure young lady of good breeding, was expected to embroider lilies on linen. Cassius the war-forged King, however, excelled only in stitching flesh and parting necks from shoulders.

And unfortunately, today required the former.

When a maid rushed in with a basket of fresh linen and neatly sorted threads, Esme’s eyebrow lifted in pointed expectation as she glanced at Cassius.

"Why? Have you suddenly forgotten how to do your own work?"

"P– pardon me, milady... I— I’m nervous," Cassius replied, voice trembling as though he might dissolve into pathetic tears at any moment. Anything to be excused from this disastrous charade. But Esme only shook her head.

"Nervousness is understandable. If the embroidery turns out a little crooked because your hands are shaking, we won’t condemn you for it. But if you can’t embroider at all..." Her eyes hardened. "Then we will have to question the truth of every word you’ve spoken so far."

Morpheus chimed in with a bright, merciless grin. "If you lied, what a shame. You could have chosen any other lie— one that didn’t require proof."

Yes, well, Cassius would have, if the only way to justify Cassandra’s sudden presence beside Arabella hadn’t been that ridiculous story about being chosen for her delicate needlework.Unfortunately, it had been the only reasonable explanation.

Arabella would never willingly stroll into the castle grounds and chat with random maids, not when every maid near her had been personally selected by Morpheus to ensure she uncovered nothing of the things buried beneath this place.

Cassius clenched his jaw. His fingers twitched.

Briefly— only briefly— he considered killing Esme.

Her death wouldn’t jeopardize their plan. Morpheus’s turning was the only true concern, and Esme’s existence or nonexistence would not change that.

His gaze flicked to Esme’s neck. A single clean strike— right at that bone— would send her head flying before she could even gasp. He could already envision the arc of it. The silence afterward.

Esme, standing casually against the wall, suddenly stiffened. A violent chill shot down her spine. Her hand flew to her neck instinctively, as though shielding it from something unseen.For one absurd moment she wondered if she had imagined it— but the sensation was unmistakable, as if a reaper’s blade had hovered just behind her, waiting for her next breath to decide whether to take it.

She swallowed hard, composing her expression, then narrowed her eyes at Cassius— irritated that she, a woman of her status, had let a mere maid unnerve her.

"Do it," Esme repeated firmly, unaware of the bloodlust rolling off Cassius in waves.

Cassius exhaled through his nose, resigned, and sat down. Under the pressure of the two eager, predatory gazes fixed on him, he lifted one of the needles from the basket, then the cloth, then—after a glance—picked up the stub of a pencil left on the side.If nothing else, he could draw. That skill he had honed for years, sketching maps, marking enemy territory, even idly carving images into shields during long nights at the warfront. Drawing was easy.

He sketched a small flower onto the cloth—swift, precise, almost elegant despite his growing irritation. Esme leaned in just enough to see it and, though she hated to admit it, the flower was genuinely beautiful. Disturbingly realistic. The kind of drawing that looked like it belonged in an illuminated manuscript rather than on a servant’s cloth.And that only annoyed her further. Was he trying to impress her? Stall for time? Fake confidence? She didn’t know, and that uncertainty infuriated her.

She also began to wonder—if he could draw like this, would he take hours to stitch it? Would she be stuck here all evening watching him poke at cloth? She didn’t care; she would stay as long as needed. She would pry the truth out of this girl, no matter how long it took.

"Aren’t you going to start stitching now?" Morpheus tapped the table, impatience curling in his tone. His eyes were sharp, almost gleeful, watching for the moment the maid’s composure cracked.

Cassius inhaled slowly, suppressing the urge to stab him with the needle instead. Then he positioned the cloth, selected a thread, and finally—reluctantly—began to embroider.

Esme watched, practically glowing with anticipation. She wanted to see him crumble. She expected it. The thrill of it warmed her like fine wine.

"You’re not moving too quickly," she remarked, voice sweet with poison.

"I need to make it as perfect as possible for your eyes, milady," Cassius replied evenly, though his jaw twitched.

"Or maybe," Esme countered smoothly, "you are hesitating because you don’t know how to embroider at all."

He gritted his teeth so hard he almost snapped them, but continued. Stitch after stitch, slow, painful, awkward. An hour crawled by. His shoulders ached, his patience wore thin, and he had stabbed himself twice—not that he felt the pain. But it annoyed him on principle.

Finally, Cassius paused. Lowered his hands. Exhaled.

Esme’s eyes lit up. "Oh? Did you give up already?"