“COUGH—” Morgan immediately closed her mouth as crimson seeped through her pristine gloves and fingers.

Burn blinked. It always felt like it happened in the blink of an eye to him.

“Mama?” Yvain widened his eyes in horror, standing in the middle of the entrance ceremony’s feast.

Burn wrapped her in his embrace, his expression hardening. Instantly, his formidable aura washed over the hall, making the air thick enough to cut. Even those closest to him felt a curious amnesia about breathing.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Burn said, sidestepping Yvain’s terrified gaze. Without waiting for any grand approval, he scooped her up, his heavy metal heels echoing like a bad omen, forcing the sea of guests to part as if the buffet were a biblical event.

Morgan refrained from reading his mind. Her worried eyes followed him as he navigated the buffet’s chaos. The pain in her chest was sharp, but at least it wasn’t as spectacularly intense as usual.

“So… it’s close…?” she asked. “Three days… is it after the assembly?”

Burn remained annoyingly silent, as if he’d just found out that the weather forecast included a monsoon of doom and was keeping it all to himself.

An academy staff member trailed behind him, offering a room for them to rest, though the intention felt more like a desperate plea for calm as Burn glared at him. The staff squirmed under the weight of that icy golden stare, clearly perturbed by his wife’s sudden fit of coughing blood.

“Please, this way, sir…”

He walked forward, though it was disconcerting that Burn seemed to follow his own erratic intuition rather than the guiding staff, who were merely floating along behind him like anxious shadows.

Burn turned to the room before the staff even had the chance to point it out, as if he had memorized the layout.

“Please tell us if you need some—”

The door was abruptly shut in the staff member’s face, cutting off his well-intentioned offer. The academy staff member chuckled nervously, masking his irritation.

The Sator family was simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying—an understandable reaction considering the spectacle of a woman hurling blood in the midst of an elegant buffet.

As he ambled away, he noticed the family’s son, Evan, following closely behind. The boy, polite yet clearly distracted, bowed deeply, seemingly unaware of how to navigate the tension in the air. “My Papa is a bit tense. He loves Mama too much; please understand.”

The academy staff managed a smile, despite the undercurrent of chaos. “Please don’t worry. We understand,” he replied, a touch of sarcasm lacing his words as he thought about how "understanding" amidst a bloodbath is, in fact, a rather high bar for emotional intelligence.

The day was proving quite eventful—who knew that buffet etiquette included dealing with life-threatening emergencies?

The rumors about Madam Sator’s illness had spread like wildfire, as if someone had set a match to a pile of dry leaves. And if that wasn’t it, wouldn’t the academy be gloriously blamed for her sudden flare-up?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The staff excused himself, casting one last glance at the boy, who lingered at the threshold like a hesitant ghost. His eyes were a cocktail of emotions—complicated, confusing, and perhaps a touch existential—as he stared at the door, hands clenched so tight one might think he was sculpting a marble statue of anxiety.

He left after the boy's complicated expression seemed to seep into his own face. Who knew the youth could infect adults with such a potent brew of despair? It was almost admirable, really.

The Sator Family, renowned merchant group owners.

Nothing was perfect in this world.

***

“Caliburn… what’s wrong?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, inching back as Burn carefully placed her on the couch. He turned and locked the door with a decisive click.

Voices from outside drifted in—Yvain conversing with the staff—before Burn felt the weight of his presence looming behind the door. He turned to Morgan. “Lay down,” he ordered. “Recover.”

Morgan, sensing the urgency in his tone, didn’t need a second invitation. She settled back on the couch, trying to muster focus, although this was the first time the air felt thick with nervous energy whenever he was near. How delightful.

Burn stood by the door, his expression as impenetrable as a fortress. Once he confirmed Yvain had vacated the premises with his merry band of companions, he turned to Morgan, his eyes an icy storm.

“...Caliburn…” Morgan fidgeted under his unyielding gaze. “Did I do something? In the future?”

“No,” Burn replied, the single word as sharp as a sword.

Morgan curled deeper into the couch, a human pretzel retreating from a great threat. “You look… mad.”

“I am,” Burn stated, the simple confession shattering any illusion of warmth.

Morgan scooted even further into the couch, as if trying to fuse with its upholstery. “Hnggg…”

It was abundantly clear when Burn was angry. The angrier he became, the eerily calmer he appeared—like a tempest pretending to be a gentle breeze. If he resorted to cursing, there might still be hope. If he took immediate action to fix whatever mess was at hand, things might not be so dire.

But now? Now, he was doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Morgan knew this time it was only her who had managed to kick the proverbial hornet's nest. So, naturally, she had done something to provoke his simmering rage. Had she jumped headfirst into danger again? Had she pulled off another one of her trademark stunts?

As if attempting to merge with the fabric of the couch, Morgan sank deeper into it, offering the universe a silent plea, “Papa, please spare me…?”

Burn’s glare, however, remained fixed on her from across the room. In that instant, Morgan was convinced that even if she could warp to a galaxy far, far away, that stare would still find her.

Yet, ironically, seeing her quaking in fear only complicated things further for Burn. The past—future couple of days had been a relentless rollercoaster of emotional upheaval and startling revelations—And how splendidly it all came crashing down in the end.

“You hadn’t read my memory?” Burn asked.

Morgan shook her head, brow furrowing in concern.

“Why?” Burn pressed again, his voice an icy whisper.

“Because you look disturbed,” Morgan replied, the simplicity of her answer belying the gravity of the situation.

“This time I can’t tell you to read it, so please just take the initiative and steal the memory from me,” Burn said coldly.

“Caliburn, seriously, what’s wrong?” Morgan’s patience wore thin as she sat up, her eyes now full of worry—and perhaps a hint of exasperation.

Burn shook his head, sealing his lips tighter than a vault. He wouldn’t give in, even if the sky fell—this secret seemed to weigh as much as the world. This frustrated Morgan immensely; she was no more eager to steal his memory than she’d been to wade into quicksand.

After all, last time had been more than just a little messy.

With a resigned sigh, she stood and approached him. “Fine, I’ll throw ethical concerns out the window for you and steal it without your permission.”

She reached forward, but Burn deftly sidestepped her hand.

“Caliburn…” she groaned, exasperation dripping from her words.

He shook his head stubbornly, his resolve as firm as bedrock.

“Bunny…” Morgan’s tone softened, tinged with sorrow as his bizarre dance around the truth tormented her. “What happened? Seriously, I can’t even begin to fathom how we got here.”

After a session of reaching and dodging, she sighed. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know. Keep your secrets. I’ll just bumble through this minefield myself. What’s the worst that could happen? Just me leaping headfirst into peril again. You think I’ll do it again, even without your warnings?”

“I really won’t die this time!” Morgan yelled.

“It’s me, Morgan,” Burn said suddenly. “I was the one who killed you this time.”