To His Hell and Back
Chapter 293: Bubbly Can Do Anything!-II

Chapter 293: Bubbly Can Do Anything!-II

The following day had descended into chaos across the castle, but neither Cassius nor Arabella allowed the turmoil to disrupt their focus. With sharpened resolve, both turned inward. toward the strange, blooming power within them. In a time when alliances were brittle and threats shadowed every hallway, their abilities were the only thing they could rely on. One thing was certain: Queen Morgana wasn’t finished. And she would not sit idle while her prey grew stronger beneath her roof.

Arabella spent most of her time in solitude, training under Lastor’s reluctant but careful eye. Every time Renald entered her room, she could read the storm behind his calm expression. Fury always flickered behind his sharp blue eyes, a fury he barely managed to rein in. His civility had grown threadbare, worn by the ever thinning patience of a man one whisper away from bloodshed.

But the moment his eyes landed on Arabella, he shifted. The tension in his shoulders lessened, and his tone softened with practiced ease. He never spoke of the trials waiting outside her door. He didn’t need to, Arabella could see it all in the crimson stains beneath his nails and the silent weight he carried into the room.

In return, she offered him small kindnesses. A cup of tea, steeped with honey and mint, carefully brewed and set before him. It wasn’t enough to fill a vampire’s hunger. but it was enough to ease the tightness in his jaw.

He accepted it with a slight smile, nodding in appreciation.

"Karnala," she asked, settling opposite him. "How is she now?"

Renald’s expression lit up with rare warmth. "She’s back to nagging me like she owns my ribs," he said, a chuckle slipping from him. "I think she’s better than ever."

Arabella smiled, her heart easing. It was a small comfort in the tide of uncertainty.

Her eyes flicked to the door. Her lips parted as if to ask— but she caught herself. Just twenty seconds ago, she had asked about Cassius.

Renald noticed, his smile lingering. "Still underground," he said before she could speak. "Still breathing. Still stubborn."

That was enough for now. But as Arabella turned her gaze back to her tea, her fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain cup. Because she knew... for every second Cassius spent away from her, he was inching closer to whatever reckoning he planned to bring.

And Morgana wouldn’t wait forever.

"The funeral is today," said Renard then which attracted her attention.

She turned sharply, her frown deepening. "The newborn princess’s funeral?"

Renard gave a solemn nod.

Arabella’s eyes narrowed in quiet disbelief. The Queen had arranged a funeral for her own daughter— one she had used as a pawn to frame Cassius. A funeral draped in mourning, perhaps, but behind it surely hid a smirk. How poetic Morgana must have found it, to grieve a child she’d slain with her own hands, while the blame suffocated the Crown Prince.

And the King...

Her fingers curled around the edge of her chair. "Has the King been ill?"

Renard blinked at the abrupt question. "Ill?"

"I mean," she hesitated, trying to articulate the thought that had clung to her like fog, "is it normal for him to remain so... quiet? His son is chained in the dungeons, his wife and heir are locked in a war for the throne, and yet he acts as though none of it matters. Even during the hunt, he seemed— distant. Absent."

Renard exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stared down into his tea. "The King... he’s always been that way. Distant. Detached. Since I was a child, I’ve seen him lean back in his throne and watch others suffer as if it were all part of a game. A twisted sort of amusement."

Arabella said nothing for a moment, her thoughts caught on the last time she had seen the King. Detached was one thing. But what she had seen... wasn’t detachment.

It was emptiness. A strange vacancy behind his eyes, like a man whose soul had been pulled from his body and left a husk behind. A doll dressed in royal garb, playing out its role.

After Renard left the room and the door clicked softly behind him, Arabella returned to her lesson with Lastor. Her hands resumed their task, grinding herbs and dried leaves in a mortar, but her mind drifted, haunted by that hollow look in the King’s eyes.

Then she stopped.

Without thinking, she turned to the corner where Lastor lay reclined, just waking from his nap, his golden eyes blinking open slowly.

"Lastor," she said, her voice low but firm, "the King... does he truly still have his soul?"

Lastor stilled.

He didn’t yawn. He didn’t stretch. He just stared at her, suddenly more awake than he had any right to be.

"What do you mean, princess?" Lastor questioned seriously which alerted her at once.

"I was wondering if there is a spell? Magic? Potion? That could cause someone to remain alive but not at the same time?" Arabella was unsure how to explain the King’s odd behavior but then again how could she be so sure about this? She didn’t know the King well enough to know if this was normal but her guts said that it wasn’t.

"There is something called a love potion," said Lastor, "Well a potion that allows the one who drinks it to follow the caster their entire life. Like a puppet."

Arabella’s breath hitched. A puppet...

She stared at Lastor, her lips slightly parted, trying to find words that would make this all make sense, because it did make sense. A chilling, eerie sense. The King’s lack of reaction. His lifeless eyes. His silence in the face of chaos.

She had assumed it was indifference.

But what if it was control?

Arabella’s skin prickled.

"So... they can smile. They can speak. But everything they do is what they’re told to do?"

"Precisely," Lastor said, his tone grave. "Their essence, the part that questions, feels, fights, is suppressed or erased. And their body becomes a living marionette. It’s rare because the cost is high."

"What cost?"

"A life. Or a soul. Sometimes the caster must give up something of equal value to bind the will of another permanently." He paused. "It’s not always easy to trace. Especially when the body functions well. But the signs are there, slow reactions, emotionless eyes, poor memory, no instinct to protect or fight."

Arabella swallowed hard, the pieces falling into place far too cleanly.

The King.

He had once been fierce, even if cruel. But now... he was a shell.

And who stood closest to him? Who had reason, means, and deep knowledge of magic passed down from witches burned and demons bound?

"Morgana," Arabella whispered. But how? "I think Lastor... there is a witch behind Morgana."