CHAPTER 301: MORPHEUS’S LIES-II

Ariel leaned in, her breath quiet, eyes fixed on Morpheus as he spoke. Though her heart remained tethered to the goal of protecting Arabella, the palace had opened her eyes to something else, an entire world built upon secrets, power, and magic that pulsed like a heartbeat beneath Versailles. And at the very heart of it all stood her, the first witch. The one they all seemed to speak of in reverent, hushed tones.

Morpheus caught the intensity in her gaze and offered a smile. But it was a hollow thing, a curve of lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"The first witch of Versailles," he began, his voice dipping into something softer, almost nostalgic, "was feared for her ability to bend the world to her will. They say she made a pact with a demon, one so powerful it bowed to her every whim. She could command the seasons to change with a flick of her fingers. Summer into winter. Spring into fall. Nothing dared disobey her."

Ariel’s eyes widened slightly, wonder flaring in them. "Was she... kind?"

Morpheus chuckled, but it carried no warmth.

"No. She was strict, infamously so. Cold and quite merciless without ever giving mercy to those who had made fault towards her. Humans found her impossible to approach. She had no patience for flattery, no use for rewards. What could anyone offer a woman who could summon gold from her palms?" He lifted the teacup and sipped slowly, almost like tasting a memory. "Even the human kings tiptoed around her. It wasn’t out of reverence or admiration. It was fear."

Ariel stayed quiet, letting the weight of his words settle around them. This woman, the root of their history, was not a hero. Not a villain either. Something far more dangerous.

She was untouchable, almost to the point that she stood so high up on the ranks that she appeared like a Goddess.

And yet, something about her called to Ariel, as if the stories carried more than just caution... perhaps a warning meant for those who would try to follow her path.

Now that she understood magic, truly understood it, Ariel no longer saw it as the easy miracle she once imagined in childhood tales. Magic was wonder, yes, but it was also wild, unpredictable, and deeply bound by cost. And hearing of the first witch, of her ability to command seasons and summon gold, Ariel grasped, at last, the terrifying depth of what true power looked like.

Morpheus’s voice broke through her thoughts.

"The other witches... they’re different," he said, swirling the tea in his cup absently. "One lives beneath the sea, ruling the tides as if they were strings on her harp. Sailors whisper her name, though they no longer know it belongs to a witch. To them, she is the Ocean’s God. They leave her offerings, treasures, trinkets, pieces of their soul wrapped in gold, because they know those who please her return home rich and alive. And those who don’t..."

He left the rest unsaid, but Ariel could hear the end in his pause.

She tilted her head slightly. "Are all witches like her?"

"Yes," Morpheus said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "They all form a contract with a demon, and once bound, nothing can chain them again. No crown. No kingdom. They live as they please, and they hate when others try to steer their course. Responsibility is a collar they won’t wear."

Ariel lowered her gaze to the patterned rug beneath her feet, tracing its shape in her mind. "And Arabella... is she stronger than the others you told me about?"

Morpheus fell silent. He stared at his cup for a long time, as if something old and heavy stirred in its steam. Then slowly, he nodded. "Yes. Stronger than them. Stronger than any witch before her."

He placed the cup down, but Ariel barely noticed.

A cold shiver crept down her spine.

One might think such news would bring joy, pride even, but all Ariel felt was dread curling in her stomach like a serpent. Power that immense did not come without consequence. With that much strength, who wouldn’t try to use her sister? What king wouldn’t hunger to possess her? What enemy wouldn’t see her as the perfect weapon?

If they knew what Arabella could do... who wouldn’t turn green with greed?

Ariel sighed inwardly while Morpheus spoke up, "You don’t have to worry, Princess. It is indeed a concern of yours that Princess Arabella is far too powerful and that her power could instead be used by someone with an ill intent. However, once she is here with us, I can guarantee you that she would be safe and we would protect her."

"Right," Ariel whispered as she stared at the garden.

Ariel could see it, the sincerity in Morpheus’s voice, the quiet determination in his every gesture. He meant to bring Arabella back from the vampire castle. He meant to protect her.

And yet, Ariel couldn’t help but wonder.

Was it truly sincerity that guided him? Was his determination born from care... or calculation?

She wanted to believe in him. But beneath all his calm, all his soft-spoken assurances, Morpheus carried something he couldn’t quite conceal, a hunger in his eyes. A flicker of something fierce and driven. It wasn’t desire for Arabella herself, but for what she was. What she meant. Power. Purpose. A key.

Ariel had seen that look before, in the men of the gamble house, those loan sharks, and in those who smiled while hiding their intention beneath their confident grin. It was the look of a man chasing something greater than anyone else understood. And Arabella... Arabella might just be the final piece he needed.

But Ariel didn’t show that she knew of it. It was easier to pretend to be a fool and a meek girl like everyone had always thought of her back in the village. Only her beloved Arabella knew the truth- that although she cries, she wasn’t stupid, she was slow but that doesn’t make her blind to things that others would be blinded by.

She wasn’t interested in the wealth of this place. She was only here for her sister.

Ariel gritted her teeth and smiled as she continued to talk with Morpheus, digging more informations, learning for ways to help her sister control her power when they meet again.

And when they do, Ariel swore she would never be protected by Arabella again. This time, it was her turn to protect.

Three days had passed since the lesson.

In the quiet hush of night, Ariel’s eyes snapped open, emerald irises cutting through the darkness of her bedchamber. But she didn’t move, not yet. She had learned long ago how sensitive the palace had become to her presence. Her every stir, every shift in the mattress summoned footsteps. The servants responded not with normal attentiveness, but with a devotion that felt more like surveillance.

It didn’t felt like service. It was control. So she remained still, listening.

Beyond the heavy door, she strained to catch the faintest trace of sound, footsteps, shifting fabric, even the slight clink of armor, but there was nothing. Only silence. Holding her breath, Ariel waited longer, ensuring what she hoped to be true.

The cookies laced with sleeping potion had done their work.

With deliberate care, she pushed the duvet aside and slid her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor soundlessly. She had learned how to move in silence, how to disappear within her own walls.

She crossed the room like a shadow, slow and controlled, until her fingers wrapped around the handle of the door. A breath passed. Then she eased it open.

Just as she hoped: the two male servants posted at her door were slumped against the wall, heads tilted, asleep. The tray she had given them earlier still sat beside one of them, half a cookie remaining.

Ariel stepped past the threshold, her bare feet gracing the floor with ease.

Ariel hadn’t done all this just to wander the palace halls, nor was it to punish the ever-watchful servants whose paranoia had grown each time she dared move without their permission.

No, this night’s quiet rebellion had a purpose.

Two mornings ago, while passing near the throne room, Ariel had overheard something she wasn’t meant to hear. Morpheus, speaking in a voice more tense than usual, had made a promise to see someone. A visitor. One he clearly didn’t wish to receive.

The exchange had been brief, curt, his words coated in displeasure, but the weight behind them was unmistakable that despite his aversion, he would see this person.

That alone had unsettled her.

Morpheus never invited anyone into the castle. His contempt for outsiders was practically doctrine, he grimaced at the mere mention of them, sneered at any thought of the world beyond these walls. All except for one name: Arabella.

So who was this person who compelled Morpheus to break his own rules?

And why did the servants speak of it only in whispers, burying the details under silence as if guarding a relic too dangerous to name?

It wasn’t just curiosity driving her now, it was instinct. The same instinct that told her this meeting wasn’t just rare.

It was important. Possibly dangerous. And undeniably tied to the secret Morpheus had never shared with her.