Chapter 234: Morgana is leaving.

Damon found Morgana as soon as he stepped through the side gate of the garden, still smelling of the forest and with the energy of training pulsing beneath his skin.

The sun was already high, casting light on the rose bushes lining the stone path, and she sat on the white iron bench near the central fountain, perfectly upright, as if she had been placed there on purpose to wait for him.

Morgana didn’t seem surprised to see him; in fact, it seemed she already knew the exact moment he would step back onto the property. Her eyes followed him as he approached, assessing him with that sharp calm she always possessed.

“We need to talk,” she said bluntly, her voice firm but not cold.

Damon nodded almost immediately, no joking this time. There was something in the way she kept her hands clasped in her lap, as if controlling an unease that didn’t match her elegant posture. He sat down beside her on the bench, keeping a respectful distance between them, and for a few seconds simply observed the garden ahead. The sound of water running in the fountain filled the silence, and a light breeze stirred the leaves of the distant trees.

“Are you leaving already?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the greenery ahead.

Morgana didn’t feign surprise at the question. She simply took a deep breath before answering.

“Yes. I need to go back to Arven.”

The name hung in the air as something heavier than it should have been. Arven wasn’t just a city; it was a political center disguised as an aristocratic residence, a web of interests and alliances that were rarely declared aloud.

Going back there wasn’t simply returning home—it was plunging back into an environment where every word needed to be measured.

“I’ll be acting as a spy within my own home,” she continued, now looking ahead as well. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? But necessary.”

Damon tilted his head slightly, analyzing the naturalness with which she said it. There was no dramatization. It was pure strategy.

“Will your father notice?” he asked.

She let out a small sigh that bordered on disdain.

“Probably not. He hardly notices anything that isn’t directly related to his own interests. I could replace half the mansion staff and he’d still think it was the administrator’s doing.”

There was something bitter there, but not resentful. Just factual.

“But the stepmother…” Morgana continued, and for the first time there was a slight tension in her jaw. “She’s different. Observant. Ambitious. And she doesn’t trust me.”

Damon finally looked away from the garden to face her sideways.

“That complicates things.”

“Very much so,” she confirmed. “She’s not stupid. If she notices any change in my behavior, any suspicious approach, she’ll investigate. And she has the resources to do so.”

He remained silent for a few seconds, absorbing the implication. Her decision wasn’t impulsive. It was calculated, risky, and above all, lonely. Acting as an informant in a hostile environment required composure and an absurd capacity for feigning.

“It’s good to know you’ll be on our side,” he said finally.

Morgana turned to him, holding his gaze for a moment longer than usual.

“I already was,” she replied calmly. “I’m just formalizing it.”

There was a lightness in her response that didn’t diminish the gravity of what she was about to do. Damon realized that, despite her controlled demeanor, this also cost her something. Going back meant returning to the old dynamics, the imposed expectations, the social mask she knew how to wear so well.

“Want me to take you?” he asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

She raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Take me?”

“Speed ​​is no longer a problem for me,” he explained with a half-smile. “I can cross the distance to Arven before you finish complaining about the weather.”

Morgana observed him for a few seconds, assessing not only the offer, but what it represented. There was care there, not arrogance.

“It’s fine,” she said, nodding gently. “I’ll go alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. I want a peaceful trip.”

Damon chuckled softly.

“That sounded like I was creating trouble.”

She slowly turned to face him with a perfectly neutral expression.

He raised his hands in immediate surrender.

“Okay, okay.”

The corner of her mouth curved almost imperceptibly.

“You tend to attract… intense situations.”

“I don’t seek them out,” he defended himself. “They find me.”

“Sure.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was reflective. The wind continued to rustle through the trees, and in the distance, the footsteps of employees could be heard crossing the side of the property. Damon rested his elbows on his knees, leaning slightly forward.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“At dusk.”

He nodded slowly.

“Will you keep in touch?”

“Whenever it’s safe.”

She paused before adding:

“If anything changes in Arven, you’ll know first.”

There was a firmness in that promise that dispensed with formal oaths. Damon believed her. Not because it was convenient, but because she had already demonstrated, repeatedly, that she didn’t act on emotional impulse.

“Be careful with your stepmother,” he said.

Morgana tilted her head slightly.

“I always am.”

He studied her for another moment. Unlike Elizabeth, who radiated emotions like a bright star, Morgana was restrained, structured, almost strategic even in her silences. Still, there was loyalty there—not blind, but chosen.

“If you need help,” he began.

“I will ask.”

The answer came before he even finished the sentence. Damon let out a light sigh, accepting.

“So I suppose this is the part where I say something inspiring.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Please, no.”

He laughed.

“Right. No speeches.”

She rose from the bench with her usual controlled elegance. Damon also stood, following her with his gaze.

“Damon.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t die while I’m gone.”

He tilted his head.

“I’ll try to keep that on the priority list.”

She watched him for another second, as if she wanted to say something more, but decided against it. Instead, she simply turned toward the inner wing of the mansion.

Damon stood in the garden for a few moments after she walked away. The sound of the fountain seemed louder now, filling the space her presence occupied.

Arven.

Espionage. Ambitious stepmother.

He ran a hand through his hair, thoughtful.

The web was forming.

And each of them was assuming a role within it.

But at least he knew one thing with absolute certainty: Morgana wasn’t someone who entered a game without understanding the rules.

A few hours later, the dirt road leading to Arven was bathed in the orange hues of late afternoon. The carriage moved forward at a steady pace, the wheels creaking softly with each irregularity in the road. The swaying was almost hypnotic, but Morgana remained perfectly upright in the upholstered seat, her hands resting on her lap, her gaze fixed on the small side window through which fields and trees passed like elongated shadows.

In front of her, seated with impeccable posture, was her personal butler—Albrecht. He kept his hands resting on his cane, which was closed between his knees, his expression neutral, but his eyes too attentive for someone feigning tranquility.

“So,” he said finally, breaking the restrained silence inside the carriage, “did you manage to recover one of our knights?”

The question was asked softly, but there was a calculated weight behind it.

Morgana didn’t answer immediately.

She only sighed, long and controlled, like someone revisiting a recent disappointment.

“I tried,” she said, letting a slight weariness permeate her voice. “I did everything in my power to bring Damon back to Arven.”

Albrecht didn’t interrupt. He only inclined his head slightly, waiting.

“I offered a formal position,” she continued. “Recognition. An honorary title within the inner guard. Even autonomy to command his own unit, should he agree to return.”

None of that had even been mentioned at Wykes Manor.

But she knew exactly which arguments would sound plausible to Arven’s ears.

“And he refused?” asked the butler.

Morgana allowed a brief pause before nodding.

“He refused.”

She glanced out the window, as if still processing her frustration.

“He claimed he already has established loyalty. That he wouldn’t abandon his current position for any promise.”

Albrecht narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly.

“He was… hostile?”

“No,” she replied promptly. “On the contrary. He was respectful. But inflexible.”

That part was true.

The butler analyzed every detail of her expression. Morgana knew this. She knew he was looking for inconsistencies, hesitations, any trace that indicated relevant omission.

She kept her breathing steady.

“Did he mention anything about the circumstances of his departure?” Albrecht continued.

“Only that his decision was final,” Morgana replied. “And that he considers the Chapter closed.”

Silence again.

The sound of the wheels against the road seemed louder inside the closed carriage.

Albrecht leaned back slightly.

“This is… problematic.”

Morgana crossed one leg over the other with controlled elegance.

“It’s inconvenient,” she corrected. “Problematic would be if he had shown resentment or hostile intent.”

“And he didn’t?”

— No.

She looked directly at him again.

— Damon doesn’t hold a grudge against Arven.

Another carefully placed half-truth.

The butler continued to observe her for a few more seconds.

— Do you believe there’s anything we could offer to reverse the decision?

Morgana let out a small, humorless smile.

— No.

— Not even…

He hesitated.

— …if the lord offered significant resources?

She knew exactly what that phrase meant.

Significant resources, in Arven’s vocabulary, could mean absurd amounts of money, political influence, access to rare artifacts, or strategic privileges.

Morgana shook her head slowly.

— Even if my father handed over all of Arven’s treasure on a silver platter… — she said, her voice now firm and conclusive — Damon wouldn’t betray Elizabeth.

The name hung in the air.

Albrecht didn’t react visibly, but he registered it.

“Is that your final assessment?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She held his gaze without blinking.

“He’s not driven by wealth. Nor by status. Nor by convenience.”

Morgana paused subtly before adding:

“He’s driven by choice.”

And that choice had already been made.

Albrecht interlaced his fingers on his cane.

“So you consider it impossible to recover him?”

“Yes.”

She left no room for doubt.

The butler studied her for a few more seconds before finally inclining his head in acceptance.

“I understand.”

The tension inside the carriage lessened almost imperceptibly.

Morgana relaxed her shoulders slightly.

She knew that conversation would be reported. Every word would be analyzed later. That’s why she had carefully constructed the narrative: she tried, offered reasonable terms, received firm refusal, assessed character.

Nothing there sounded like betrayal.

It sounded like pragmatism.

“I regret not having brought more favorable results,” she added, as a final touch.

“Your attempt already demonstrates commitment to Arven,” Albrecht replied.

Commitment.

The word was useful.

The carriage made a gentle turn, and in the distance the city towers began to emerge against the orange-tinged horizon.

Morgana turned her gaze outside.

Arven was approaching.

She felt the familiar weight of the social mask slide back over her face, fitting perfectly. The obedient daughter. The strategic noblewoman. The controlled heiress.

But, beneath this surface, a new layer had been built.

She wasn’t returning as a passive piece.

She was returning as an observer.

As an informant.

Like someone who knew exactly where her loyalty lay.

Albrecht broke the silence one last time.

“Is everything alright, miss?”

Morgana didn’t need to ask what he meant.

“It is,” she replied, with absolute serenity.

Because, deep down, she knew the truth she would never say in there:

It didn’t matter what Arven offered.

It didn’t matter what her father demanded.

Damon wouldn’t betray Elizabeth.

And neither would she.

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