Morgan turned to Burn, her hand clasped in his. As his memories trickled into her brain, she realized Burn had conveniently omitted the precise moment he decided his father’s life was best ended.

"We art on the precipice of breaching the atmosphere. I prithee, hold fast!" Isaiah’s voice thundered in their ears, leaving little room for objection—or sanity.

Morgan muttered a spell, wrapping them in a protective energy field, a magical layering worthy of a poorly planned après-ski party.

Previously, she’d conjured a mana rope to tie them snugly between Isaiah's formidable horns, like holiday ornaments precariously balanced on a tree. As they clung to the great dragon's head, the atmosphere's intensity shifted, reminding her that airflow was not always a gentle caress.

With a powerful surge, Isaiah broke free from the clouds, launching into the void above. They experienced a breathless moment of weightlessness, only to be immediately yanked into the hell of harsh reality.

As Morgan closed her eyes, something sinister stirred within Burn’s psyche, a memory floating up. There he was, perched beside his frail father, holding onto his hand as if it were the mana rope he was clutching right about now.

Arthur had been deluding himself with a facade of strength, but the charade had frayed at the edges. His suffering was a slow rot that had corroded away not just his vitality but also his dignity.

He was wrong. He couldn’t keep the charade for as long as he thought he could.

Burn understood this. Before Arthur became nothing more than a shadow of his former self, he took it upon himself to intervene.

“Rest, Father.”

Arthur groaned, a sound that had long since lost any resemblance to the powerful figure he once embodied—more of a worn-out creaking old throne now.

“Rest. Let go of this wretched world,” Burn continued. “I’ll take over your burdens of reign.”

The sudden absence of atmospheric pressure hit them like a sharp slap, a cosmic wake-up call they never signed up for.

As the last remnants of Earth's air were whisked away, they realized they were entering a critical phase—one that no rational being, or any human, should ever experience, unless, of course, they were auditioning for a death-defying reality show.

For one fleeting second, they felt the exhilarating thrill of freedom, as if the universe had granted them a VIP pass to the void. But that moment was about as brief as a blink of an eye.

Then came the tingling sensation, the kind that suggested their bodies were hosting a bubbly cocktail party, but only the bubbles were coming from the gases dissolving into their bloodstream. Vacuum pressure!

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Reality hit hard, the kind of slap that makes you reconsider your life choices. Morgan gripped Burn's hand tighter, her heart racing.

Burn remembered how he had used his Force to invade his father’s bloodstream. With the vacuum of space eagerly closing in, he envisioned it as déjà vu—the scene replaying in his mind from ages ago.

“I’ll take it away from you even if you don’t want to. Let it go, Dux Bellorum. Your time has come.”

He recalled the last time Arthur opened his eyes, those eyes staring into the infinite abyss—Burn’s own eyes.

Meanwhile, on top of Isaiah’s head came the glorious realization that, oh joy, they could no longer breathe. The vacuum of space had snatched all the oxygen like a thief in the night, leaving them gasping for what was now just a haunting memory.

Burn’s vision blurred, and his brain screamed for oxygen, which was just rude, really. Light-headedness enveloped him as Morgan’s eyes widened, almost instinctively holding her breath as if that would help.

She muttered another spell, and the unbearable became somewhat manageable once more.

At the same time, another memory crept into her mind.

Arthur’s eyes deepened, clarity breaking through his murky daze. Apparently, even in his state, he could manage a moment of lucidity. Arthur’s heart was now under the gentle squeeze of Burn’s Force, the rhythm slowing like a reluctant clock, inching toward a sorrowful pause.

“Rest assured. Take flight and be free, Knight of Logres. From now on, Soulnaught is under my care.”

Burn couldn’t shake the feeling that, in that moment, he was neither son nor future king in Arthur’s eyes. No, he was more like the grim reaper’s understudy—an entity wrapped in inevitability, paradoxically comforting yet ominous, like a warm blanket made of lead.

Someone who was reassuring, releasing Arthur from his duty.

And just before the curtain fell, he managed to whisper— with his last breath—

“Thank you…”

The frigid temperatures of outer space began to seep into their exposed skin, turning Burn’s extremities into miniature ice cubes. He felt the cold biting at him, while his core temperature plummeted faster than he had ever experienced.

Even with adrenaline coursing through him, he sensed the creeping chill—a delightful precursor to hypothermia, just a lovely touch. He forced his focus on Morgan.

Morgan muttered another spell, her smile radiating warmth—if only she could bottle that for him. Burn couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound evaporating in the vacuum.

Sudden pain shot through his chest, a thrilling reminder of how inhospitable space really was. He felt the moisture in his lungs begin to boil—quite the party trick for anyone who enjoys a little pain.

The very air they’d taken for granted had become a bittersweet memory, replaced by a deadly void where the freedom of flight was simply a cruel joke.

As he saw Morgan concentrating, casting her protective spells, he mouthed to her, knowing his voice wouldn’t reach her ears in this vacuum, “I’ve adapted now. You take care of yourself.”

Morgan nodded, her expression serious as she slowly let go of her protection spell for Burn.

Instantly, he felt the radiation exposure hit him, slamming into him like a disgruntled cosmic courier. Cosmic rays? Felt like a warm-up! This was nothing compared to the sheer joy of encountering the White Dwarf.

The feeling was somewhat nauseating, more than the delightful throb of the White Dwarf. He wanted to vomit. Ah, good ol’ radiation sickness—or was it motion sickness? Hard to tell when your body’s playing a game of “guess what’s killing you first.”

The last time he felt this nauseous was when he tightly grasped his father’s heart with his Force, quite literally forcing it to stop beating.

Then, not long after, the realization hit—no, he didn’t know how long it took for that once-warm hand to become as cold as his current surroundings, like an unwanted guest in a frozen wasteland.

The void he was navigating wasn’t just physical; it mirrored the cold grip of loss he re-experienced now. But hey, who needed warmth when you had the vast expanse of nothingness to keep you company?

A flash of Morgan’s sad smile awakened him.

Ahh, of course, he wasn’t alone now.