Seeing how Arabella had left, the cloaked woman lingered in silence, her gaze drifting toward the corridor where the echo of her footsteps faded like a vanishing spell. The night around them seemed to shudder, trembling with the remains of the storm that had been Morpheus's fury. The smell of blood and cold stone hung thick in the air, the torches along the wall flickering weakly as though even the fire dared not move too loudly in his presence.
She turned her eyes toward him. Morpheus stood utterly still, his jaw tight, his breath cutting through the air in short bursts of heat. His hands, which had just moments ago dared to touch Arabella's skin, now hung frozen midair, trembling faintly as if the remnants of his own magic burned against his palms. The sharp light of his eyes glowed faintly silver under the moonbeam, but it was a glow hollowed by disbelief — and beneath it, humiliation.
