CHAPTER 465: DIVIDED LOYALTY-II

The guards standing outside the castle of the sorcerer were in an unusually somber mood that night. The silence between them stretched thick and uneasy, broken only by the faint hiss of torches swaying in the wind.

One of them leaned against the stone wall, his fingers tightening around the wooden handle of the torch, as if its light could somehow drive away the dread gnawing at his chest. The rest sat or stood nearby, dazed, eyes fixed on the flickering flames rather than the heavy shadows cast by the looming castle behind them.

The night itself was quiet — too quiet. The moon hung high, pale and unfeeling, and the air seemed heavy with something unspeakable. But it wasn’t the darkness of the sky that kept them from sleep. No, it was the thought of what might be lurking inside the castle walls that haunted them most.

Finally, one of the guards, braver or perhaps simply more restless than the others, broke the silence.

"Are they yet to return to their houses?"

The question hung in the air, met with hesitant glances before another man exhaled, his sigh weary and deep. "Ever since the Lordship asked for young men," he muttered.

"That would make it the fourth week," another added grimly.

"Aye. A month," came the low reply. "A full month since they entered those gates. And not a single one has stepped back out. Not even a whisper from them." His face twisted — disgust and fear warring across his expression. He quickly looked away, lowering his gaze as though ashamed of his own thoughts. Speaking ill of Morpheus was dangerous, after all. Everyone knew that. But some things were harder to swallow than silence.

Someone else — older, broader, his armor tarnished by years of service — grunted, the torchlight revealing the deep lines carved into his face. "I’ve lived here all my life. Served Lord Morpheus since I was barely grown. But I swear on my soul, something’s changed in this castle. Those young men... they’re not missing. They’re gone."

The youngest among them, a cloaked figure sitting slightly apart, spoke then. His voice was hesitant, soft, the voice of someone unused to the company of soldiers. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, right," the older guard said after a pause, squinting at the youth through the darkness. "Aren’t you the widow’s son? Heard you’ve been ill. You’ve not left your home in weeks." His tone softened slightly. "Fortunate for you, truly. If you’d stepped out a day earlier, you’d have been taken too — drafted to serve as one of Lord Morpheus’s chosen men."

"The same men who haven’t come back in a month," another interrupted sharply. "The castle may be vast — gods know it has enough halls and chambers for us all — but not even that fortress can swallow so many people whole."

The boy hesitated, voice trembling. "What if they were used... for a magical sacrifice?"

The words seemed to freeze the air. Then one of the guards snapped, almost shouting. "That can’t be! Lord Morpheus may be... strange, but he’s protected us for years. He’s the only reason this place still stands. He wouldn’t harm us — not his own people."

But the others didn’t echo him. Silence answered instead — heavy, suffocating silence.

Finally, one man spoke, his tone quiet but steady, as though he’d already made peace with the idea. "Even if he did," he said, "if those men were sacrificed... maybe it was necessary. Maybe it’s the price for our freedom. Perhaps it was for the good of us all — to lift the curse, to let us leave this wretched place. If that’s the truth, can we truly blame the Lord?"

The words stirred an immediate reaction. A grizzled guard stood, slamming the butt of his spear against the ground. "Many young men died!" he hissed. "You talk of sacrifice like it’s nothing — because it’s not your

son, not your brother among the dead! If our Lord truly meant it for the greater good, he should’ve told us. I would’ve gone willingly — instead of letting those children be taken like lambs to the slaughter!"

A silence followed that outburst, more fragile than before. The cloaked young man, who had until then pretended at fear and innocence, dropped his meek expression. His gaze sharpened as he observed them — these men who stood as symbols of the castle’s people. Some were tired, some blindly loyal, and some too afraid to even think freely anymore.

Cassius could see it — the cracks in their faith, the quiet doubt simmering beneath their fear. Not all of them were blind to what Morpheus truly was, but too many had chosen submission over truth. Too many had learned to turn their eyes away from the blood and the bodies, from the sorcerer’s endless thirst for power.

He said nothing, simply pulling the hood tighter around his face, concealing his expression.

He did not care for these men — not really. But he knew Arabella would.

When she returned, she would see what Morpheus had done. She would see how fear had hollowed the people, how loyalty had become shackles. And Cassius knew, deep in his chest, that she would not allow this cruelty to stand.

Versailles, once divided and drowned in centuries of darkness, now had a new purpose — a fragile, desperate hope. A dream of living, finally, together.

Humans. Vampires. Sorcerers. No more blood debts. No more sacrifices.

And Cassius, watching the wavering torches, the haunted eyes of men too afraid to speak truth, silently vowed to see that dream through, no matter the cost.

"Where are you going?" someone asked him but Cassius pretended to be nervous as he stood up.

"I was told by sir Garaghan to visit the Eastern hallway to clean the vase that the Lady had dropped."

"Oh how lucky! I wish I get to see the lady as well. Thanks to her we’re soon going to touch the sunlight. I hope you can care for her well."

"Of course, I am as delighted to be able to serve her," Cassius answered, turning away toward the castle door before lifting his head, eyeing the room he knows where Arabella was.