The cloaked woman stood eagerly before the throne, her pulse thrumming in rhythm with the soft hum of magic that filled the hall. Morpheus sat there, motionless, his head tilted slightly to one side, eyes sealed in unnatural slumber. His stillness was not death, though it looked eerily close to it, especially when his breath was far too still that it almost seemed as if he had stopped breathing for every few minutes. No, he was merely detached from his body, his spirit wandering, all according to plan.
Her plan.
And soon, he would wake.
The thought alone sent a thrill crawling down her spine. She smiled, so wide and bright as if she would soon be crowned the queen, as she imagined his fury when he saw Arabella with that stableboy. The picture filled her chest with warmth and satisfaction. Everything had been arranged perfectly; the vision he would awaken to was meant to rip him apart from within.
