Entering the castle of the sorcerer was, to Cassius's mild irritation, far easier than one might expect. For a fortress shrouded in fear and mystery, said to be governed by Morpheus's iron control and bound by his magic, it yielded with unsettling ease. The marble halls, veined with strange silver light, offered no resistance to his silent trespass. It was almost as if the castle itself wanted him there.
Of course, that thought didn't bring him comfort— it only made him more wary.
Yes, the entire place pulsed with the sorcerer's power, and even the faintest disturbance could have summoned his notice. Yet with Atlas's foresight and Circe's deft weaving of concealment charms, slipping inside had been a trivial thing— a cakewalk, as Circe had smugly put it.
The real problem, however, wasn't getting in.
It was getting out.
