It was rare, to say the least.

The sight of the absolute tyrant sprinting through the palace, face hardened and eyes bloodshot upon hearing that the Empress had collapsed in the treasury—priceless, really.

Not only the Round Table but even the palace guards were on high alert. Did they need to draw their weapons? Maim something? Lock down the place tighter than a clam, preventing even a lone ant from escaping the chaos?

The closer Burn got to the treasury, the thicker the crowd became.

"Her Majesty hasn't been feeling well lately..." someone whispered, the kind of chatter that makes one wonder who started the rumor mill.

"I saw her being carried to the main chamber by His Majesty just this morning... she’s actually... ill?" another replied, feigning shock like they hadn’t seen this coming a mile away.

Nonsense. That was merely Galahad and Landevale’s acting, not the real Morgan—

"Make way!" Burn snapped, and like obedient sheep, the people parted. He bulldozed through the sea of bodies and finally caught sight of her on the ground, surrounded by physicians who looked like they had just run a marathon.

People bowed as he entered, and the physicians shuffled away, as if they were somehow the real problem, horror etched on their faces.

"What is her condition?" Burn knelt, impatience radiating off him, not even waiting for a proper explanation as he began his own inspection.

Morgan lay limp, her eyes open but offering nothing but a hollow stare, her hair a disheveled halo on the floor as Burn cradled her against him, lifting her into his lap, perplexed by the absurdity of her seemingly perfect physical condition.

"We don’t know, Your Majesty. When we arrived, she was breathing, her eyes open, and her body limp, but she didn’t respond to our calls—just as you see her now," one of the physicians bravely reported.

They continued, noting that while her irises responded to light, she didn’t flinch at abrupt visual stimulation. Sound? Touch? A vigorous application of smelling salts? All useless.

"Morgan," Burn said, tapping her cheek as if hoping for a miracle or, at the very least, some semblance of a reaction. He leaned closer, kissing her jaw, then her lips, desperately trying to pour his Force into her, but nothing happened. There was nothing wrong with her body—nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"What happened before she collapsed? Where’s the servant who brought her here?!" he yelled.

One of the servants stepped forward, his face bowed low, looking like he’d just confessed to purloining the royal silverware. "My lord... I was the one who led Her Majesty here. I opened the treasury and invited her in, and then she asked to be left alone."

He paused, clearly hoping for sympathy or perhaps divine intervention. "After some time, I grew worried and dared to enter the room again—only to find Her Majesty already collapsing. I swear on my mother’s grave, I genuinely don’t know what was happening to her!"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The young man knelt on the floor in a pose of utter despair, as if he expected a bolt of lightning to strike him down for his sins.

Burn, not particularly known for his generosity, couldn’t help but notice that the lad was both young and already handling the key to the treasury—enough to spark a glimmer of trust in his honesty or intelligence.

He had seen this servant flitting about with the chamberlain, always eager to learn, perhaps too eager for his own good. He was clearly his pupil.

Burn turned to the physicians and doctors with a raised brow. "Did you disturb anything else?"

They all shook their heads vigorously, clearly eager to avoid any more trouble.

"Then, be gone! Tell everyone else to return to their work," Burn ordered. Even Percival, who had just arrived with the other members of the Round Table, turned and complied.

"You," Burn said, his gaze pinning the key-bearer in place as if he were a rabbit caught in a snare. "Tell me if there’s anything different in the treasury aside from her collapse. You know the condition of the treasury since you are in charge of it, right?"

"Sir, I only... I only entered it if the Lord Chamberlain permitted. I am merely a cleaning boy, hardly qualified to be scrutinizing these precious items," the young man replied, his voice a mere whisper.

"Look around and see if there’s something amiss," Burn commanded once more, his tone brooking no argument.

With a reluctant nod, the young man ventured deeper into the treasury, his eyes scanning the glimmering treasures, each one more ostentatious than the last—a veritable kingdom of glittering chaos.

He had often marveled at how the former king adorned himself with gold and jewels, yet today the allure seemed to wane, like sunflowers wilting under a heavy sky.

As he observed the array of artifacts, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The crown, once gleaming with a thousand reflections, appeared tarnished, as if it had endured too many tedious council meetings.

The jeweled goblet, usually the toast of every banquet, looked like it had seen far too many spills of subpar wine. Even the scepter—a supposed symbol of power—seemed to sag, its brilliance dulled as though worn down by the weight of authority.

He peered into a display case where the finest jewels were enshrined, but even these suffered a dullness that echoed a greater discontent. Uncertainty crept into his mind.

Had the wealth of the realm turned mere trinkets under the weight of disinterest? Certainly, because Burn wasn’t interested in wearing these things, his vigor and youth were his best accessories, letting them be neglected like this. Or was it just him, imagining shadows where there were none?

With a frown, he turned back to Burn, bracing himself to convey his findings, unsure whether he was about to reveal a theft or simply the slow decline of opulence amidst neglect.

"Sir, it appears we were not careful in maintaining the luster of the former king’s treasures…" he began, "But I swear, yesterday, they weren’t this… dull!"

Dull?

He jogged his memory, contemplating the trinkets that cluttered Princess Shorof's room. Sure, they were full of black ink-like filth, but they still sparkled with an air of intrigue, refusing to surrender to the passage of years.

Not to mention, the items that belonged to his father, the former king, were unable to be injected with the physical form of corrupted mana—not that anyone could install such substance into creations forged of sturdy metal, crafted by the royal crafters with more experience than the average artisan could muster.

"Dull" was a symptom of something far more tragic: the unfortunate side effect of a broken enchanted object that was no longer able to bear the weight of its own runes and enchantments.

Once those delicate artifacts succumbed to the harsh realities of existence, they didn’t just fade away like bad memories; they disintegrated, sometimes dramatically, overnight.

"Ah!" The key-bearer gestured toward an object on the floor near the door, his excitement palpable. It was a curious sight, unfamiliar to him but evidently an old friend to Burn. An hourglass with infinite sand, entwined by the endlessly hungry ouroboros.

Mnemosyne’s Aeons.

"Your Majesty... this... I’ve truly never laid eyes on this one before!"