Burn summoned every physician he could gather, showcasing his impressive array of medicinal ingredients. Each one was not just rare, but practically legendary—vanishing for over a hundred years between sightings. Some items might as well have come straight from the pages of myth.

The physicians gazed at this collection of rare treasures as if they were on a treasure hunt, reveling in its absurdity.

Burn proclaimed, “Any additional ingredient you desire will be graciously supplied by this kingdom. Just utter the name, and I’ll have it delivered.”

“Anyone capable of healing His Majesty will earn a noble title, complete with a territory to call their own. Oh, and I’ll throw in a personal reward from my own funds,” Burn concluded.

“Yes, Your Highness!”

Burn let them talk, hands flying in a flurry of panic and excitement while he ambled away.

He took command of the corridors like a fire drill was in full swing, although it was amusingly peculiar that only he seemed to grasp the actual urgency.

Yes, his words had power—power to stir a crowd or send a shiver down their spines. But even he wouldn’t dare to pull back the curtain on the profound threat lurking over the King’s life.

If the word got out that a mysterious, incurable illness had claimed the King, the delicate balance the old man had toiled to maintain his entire life would come crashing down. Splendid.

He’d seen the shadows lurking—the kind that hinted death could stumble upon the King uninvited

Just a few more years… that’s all he asked. Not that he was unprepared to shoulder the weight of the crown—no, he was very much ready at this juncture—but what’s a few years in the grand scheme of things? Dear death, it was hardly a crime to want just a smidgen more time!

To fix everything.

Burn clung to that tenuous thread—blood or burden, who could tell? But yes! Why couldn’t he hang on that single thread of a bloodkin connection he had longed for since the break of his consciousness? Burn knew that someone like him would never deserve it. Yet he sought, and sought, and sought.

All he had was himself and his mortality. The path of survival he trudged upon was an abyss of desolation, but just when this state had started to stabilize, that chance was taken away from him again.

Like how mortality took motherhood from Viviane, robbing him of the chance to extend her a hand of redemption.

For once, he wanted his father to understand him. For once, he wanted to give him a chance to be his father... his real father.

Walking toward the king’s chamber, he beheld his father’s form, now resembling a wilted old tree—fragile, sagging. When had his once-mighty father become so weak? Just a few days ago, he had presided over the palace balcony talking with him—

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Your Highness,” a voice called, snapping him from his reverie.

Burn turned, spotting the dark gray haired young man with a grin wide enough to charm the silver off a spoon: Young Duke Aroche Leodegrance.

“Roche,” Burn raised his eyebrows, remembering that this was the same charming fool of a big brother often seen orbiting Burn’s ex-fiancée Landevale, just like now, walking with his ever-earnest knight, Galahad. “Where is Clarent?”

Aroche shrugged, his smile dimming ever so slightly. “Even I, his so-called best buddy, can’t drag him back. Is it that dire?”

“No,” Burn replied, “Father will be just fine.”

Aroche tilted his head, “That’s precisely why he’s avoiding you. Unless…” His voice trailed off, trailing his thoughts like a lost puppy.

He searched Burn’s eyes for the truth. Suddenly, clarity struck—like a knight being reminded of the words ‘duty’ and ‘honor.’ “Tell me the truth, Burn. Is it grim?”

Burn’s gaze shifted to Galahad, who was now awkwardly pulling Landevale away like she was some kind of volatile explosive. With the two friends left in their own little bubble of reality, the silence spoke volumes.

“I’ll go drag him back, alright?” Aroche declared, his bravado rising to the occasion, but Burn’s voice cut through with the sharpness of a well-honed dagger.

“No,” Burn said with a tone low enough to make a grave whisper seem loud. “Let him be.”

“Let him be… It’s your perpetual dance, isn’t it? You old soul, always bending to your indifferent older brother. Sometimes, I’m compelled to think you might as well be the elder,” Aroche quipped.

“Must I reiterate why my name means little in his eyes? Again?” Burn replied, a hint of weariness lacing his voice.

“Precisely, you bastard,” Aroche clicked his tongue with exaggerated disdain. “Fucking piece of shit, just take my sister back and get married.”

Burn’s eyes narrowed. “She’s the one eager to join the round table, to carve her own destiny.”

“Well, it’s hardly insurmountable to be a knight and your wife at the same time,” Aroche shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember when Clarent was enraged at you for breaking off your engagement? Fantastic entertainment.”

“And why should she be tethered by my title? Can anyone truly embody the spirit of a knight while serving as the Crown Prince’s ornament?” Burn challenged, frustration sharp in his tone. “So why does he fail to grasp this?”

“Did you forget your method of severing the relationship?!” Aroche yelled. “You sent my sister away to a dangerous expedition while you threw a wild banquet with the nobles, your men and some random unmarried noblewomen!”

Burn frowned. “I already told her beforehand, and I sent Galahad with her.”

“Unlike you, your brother clings to traditions and promises as if they’re divine scriptures,” Aroche pushed back.

“Ah, yes, which only emphasizes his disdain for me—a bastard aspiring toward the throne,” Burn replied coldly.

“Burn, consider this,” Aroche sighed, shaking his head. “Your blustery approach, wielding brute force as your sword, will elicit nothing but loathing. Especially from someone like your brother.”

“Ever heard of the saying, ‘the wisdom of the strong’? Perhaps it’s time you did,” Burn sneered, a razor edge to his tone.

“Ah, a sage anecdote indeed. Fucking bitch. One day, you’ll stir the pot enough to see what emerges,” Aroche cursed.

“As if there’s someone actually crazy enough to mess up the pot I stirred?” Burn clicked his tongue. “Not even Arthur Pendragon can do anything against me.”

Aroche didn’t say anything. Burn was essentially right. This friend of his wasn’t one to be defeated. He sighed and nodded, offering his presence here within the palace, “I’ll stay here with you and help.”

Burn raised his eyebrows at him, and to tell the truth, right now, Aroche was more of a brother than a friend, even more than his own brother.

“It’s good that you’re idle,” Burn smirked.

“Oh, shut up!”