CHAPTER 300: MORPHEUS’S LIES-I

Ariel had always been more mature than her peers. Her heart was soft, so soft it made her fragile in a world that demanded hardness, but when it came to protecting her sister, Ariel would fight through tears if she had to. Every hardship, every cruel twist of fate only reinforced one truth: love alone wasn’t enough. She needed power. Authority. The kind that could shield Arabella from the storm- and that realization... made her miserable.

When Morpheus first approached her, he warned of a great danger stirring inside Arabella, one even Arabella herself did not understand. He spoke of the vampires in the castle, how easily they could turn cruel, how little it would take for them to spill innocent blood.

It was why Ariel had come.

Not just to study spells or gather power to protect her sister... but to understand the truth. About Morpheus. About the sorcerers and the secrets they kept locked away with such quiet desperation.

But in her first week there, Ariel came across something unexpected, a painting.

It wasn’t the woman’s face that made her stop, it wasn’t even the features, which bore only the faintest resemblance to Arabella. It was something far more subtle. A feeling. The expression the woman wore, the quiet storm in her eyes, the poised sadness in the tilt of her mouth.

Ariel had felt it immediately, in her chest like a jolt. That was Arabella. Not in appearance, but in essence.

The portrait was hidden in the throne room, tucked into the far wall like a relic meant to be forgotten. And she saw him there once, Morpheus, standing in front of it in complete silence.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t show grief or fury. Instead, he stared at the painted woman as though trying to reach through the canvas. As if he had once known her. As if there were still things left unsaid between them, as though they have such unfinished business needed to be taken care of.

That was the moment Ariel knew: whatever path she was walking, it was more tangled with the past than she had ever realized.

And it greatly unsettled her that the person he seemed to have a gripe with is none other than a woman who resembles her sister. She was also sure that it wasn’t only her who had felt that the woman resemble her dearest Arabella, that deep down somewhere Morpheus feels that Arabella also resemble her.

That also made her worried, wondering if Morpheus was going to vent out the gripes he had to that portrait toward her sister.

Though so far, Ariel noticed how respectful everyone was to her, treating her like the "Princess" they called her. She could feel their kindness and sincerity but at times she could also tell the watchful gazes coming from all the sorcerers in the palace, as though gouging her, leveling her.

Morpheus himself said he would be teaching her but not as often as she thought he would as he only offered one day of a week and in most of those days they will be sitting in front of a tea table while Morpheus would be in a daze while staring at that portrait again.

Today was supposed to be one of her lessons with Morpheus. He had promised to meet her hours ago, but never came.

And now, here he was seated in the throne room, not teaching, not preparing just sitting there with the portrait cradled in his hands, his eyes locked on the woman’s painted face. But this time... it was different. His gaze wasn’t soft, nor longing. It was burning with something darker.

Rage.

"You’re here, Princess," Morpheus said, smoothing his expression into its usual unreadable calm. He set the portrait aside, too carefully, as though the fury hadn’t just flashed across his face. But Ariel had seen it. And she was already on guard.

"You were late," she said, her voice cool. "I had to come and fetch you myself."

At her side, a servant stiffened, but Morpheus raised a hand to dismiss him. Without another word, he stepped toward her, and she followed as he began walking toward the garden, their usual meeting place, away from listening walls.

"Have you not eaten at all today?" Ariel asked, glancing at him.

"It isn’t necessary," Morpheus replied evenly. "I have no need for food. But the servants insist. Old habits, I suppose. They believe not eating invites illness."

Ariel narrowed her eyes slightly. "Do you also humor old habits, Morpheus?"

He didn’t answer. Not right away. The silence between them stretched thin, a thread waiting to snap.

"No," Morpheus answered, "I have forgotten what I used to do in the long past."

"Perhaps you used to paint," Ariel said casually, her gaze steady. "A hobby from another time?"

She caught it then.. the flicker of surprise in Morpheus’s eyes, a shadow he didn’t hide fast enough.

He clenched his fist, the knuckles briefly whitening before he offered a calm smile. "How did you know that?"

She wanted to say it outright. That the portrait in his throne room, the one of the woman who bore her sister’s soul in expression if not in face, stood out. Unlike any other painting in the palace, its brushwork was more raw, more intimate. Too personal to have been painted by a commissioned hand.

But she only smiled and replied, "Just a guess."

"Then your guess is correct," Morpheus said, his voice quieting. His gaze drifted across the garden as if searching for something no longer there. "I haven’t painted in a very long time."

"Why not?" she asked.

"I haven’t found a subject worth painting," he said simply. "And besides, I came to believe it was a cursed pastime. The last time I painted someone, they died. Perhaps my art was an omen... or worse, a curse."

Ariel let out a light laugh, shaking her head. "You’re more of a coward than you look."

That made him blink. A rare, visible hesitation.

She folded her arms and shrugged. "It’s just paint and canvas, Morpheus. The power behind it is what you give it. If you truly believed it was a curse, you’d have weaponized it by now, drawn your enemies into death one stroke at a time. That’s the kind of man you are."

A muscle in his jaw tensed, but he didn’t refute it.

"I think," Ariel added, her voice softer now, "you stopped painting not because of fear... but because you lost something. Or someone. And painting brought her too close."

The silence between them lingered like a secret.

"No," Morpheus replied, his voice steady, but something about it clipped. "Are you trying to press me into admitting why I look at that portrait every day?"

"So you do look at it every day," Ariel murmured, lips curling slightly. "I thought so. Everyone seems to tiptoe around you when you’re near it... as if they fear even breathing in the same air. It made me wonder."

She paused, eyes fixed ahead, deliberately avoiding his face, offering him a sliver of privacy he didn’t ask for. "Do you dislike that woman?"

There was a breath of silence, then a shift in his tone, sharp and final.

"Let us not discuss that."

Ariel turned to look at him then, really look. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had gone taut beneath his skin. A crack, not enough to break him open, but just enough to show there was

something to break.

"How far have you come in your studies, Your Highness?" Morpheus asked, his tone light yet curious.

Ariel raised her hand slowly to her face, whispering something soft under her breath. In response, a bubble of water appeared with a gentle pop in the air. It hovered playfully in front of her, brushing against her cheek like a devoted little pet.

She giggled, eyes gleaming with delight.

Morpheus’s lips curved into a rare smile. "You are very talented."

"Do you really think so?" she asked, her voice quieter now, hopeful yet unsure.

"The most gifted witch in recorded history managed that exact spell in almost the same amount of time it took you," he replied as they reached the white marble table in the garden. He stopped beside it, folding his hands behind his back. "You’re already on her level."

Ariel tilted her head, studying him with a thoughtful look. "You keep speaking of her. But you still haven’t told me about the other witches in the world, Morpheus."

His eyes flickered, just for a second. And then he smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I suppose I haven’t," he muttered and she nodded.

"You also saw all the books didn’t you? They never record anything about the witches. I only have you to tell me the kind of witches in this world."

Morpheus began to fiddle with the golden ring on his thumb—an ornate piece that caught the sunlight every time his hand moved. Ariel’s eyes briefly lingered on it. She had spent every waking moment in this castle studying, peeling back layers of charm and shadow to understand the truth buried beneath Versailles’s polished surface.

She hadn’t come simply because Morpheus promised her power—she wasn’t that naïve. She came to see for herself if this kingdom, the one their mother had once turned her back on, was truly dangerous... or if it could become the unexpected ally her sister desperately needed.

But now, after days of careful watching, Ariel had begun to notice something unsettling.

Morpheus was not what he claimed to be.

His words didn’t match his actions. Promises made were subtly avoided, and conversations that brushed too close to certain truths always shifted elsewhere. What worried Ariel most wasn’t what he said—it was everything he left unsaid.

And today, he was going to meet someone again. Someone he never let her see. Someone important.

She didn’t want to resort to it—but maybe it was time to eavesdrop.

If it meant uncovering Morpheus’s true intentions, if it meant protecting Arabella...

Then so be it.

"Then I shall tell you," Morpheus hummed, "There was once seven most strong witches all around the world... the one who stood at the top of this ranking is none other than the witch of Versailles."