Burn killed his father. True, Arthur might’ve mustered a thank-you in the end, but it was Burn who decided it was his end. Then, he killed his own brother shortly after.

He racked up a considerable body count, the kind that would impress even the most seasoned tyrant. He slaughtered countless innocents, Yvain included, and laid waste to entire kingdoms. A veritable buffet of destruction, as Burn was practically a one-man apocalypse.

And yet, he felt no shred of remorse.

So why did killing her feel so damn hard now? He had killed her before, time and again. It was almost a sport at this point. He knew he would see her die countless times in the future if they continued on this delightful cursed merry-go-round.

It wasn’t like it was a personal vendetta; she just needed to die to reset the loop—a minor inconvenience for the greater good, right? And this time, simply for the sake of breaking free from her mind prison.

“Look at me—acting like a fucking child,” Burn grumbled, teeth clenched. “This is the kind of weakness I loathe the most.”

He recalled the scene vividly, sitting on that treasury floor, cradling her in his arms, poised with a concentration of Force in his hand, ready to stop her heart from beating…

She was sleeping, breathing naturally, eyes shut tight—so blissfully unaware. She wouldn’t respond if the world crashed down around her. That mind prison of hers? A delightful blessing in disguise. Lucky girl.

He grasped her tightly, his fist clenching and unclenching, weighing whether today was the day he’d halt her heart, stalling the inevitable fate he had written for her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, jaw taut, eyes shut as if that would shield him from reality.

Once upon a time, killing her might’ve seemed like a walk in the park. Easy, almost routine.

Disabling his ears, he let out a long, guttural scream against her chest. Who wants to hear their own sadness? Not him.

Of course, he’d been handed the short end of the stick again. The universe clearly enjoyed a bit of black humor. Forced to do the dirty work once more, as if his hands had been crafted solely for the grim task of dispatching loved ones. Just imagine the fine print on that birth certificate.

In this moment, he mused about whether it was even possible to kill someone gently. A delightful thought—though, let’s be honest, it wouldn’t change a damn thing, considering she was locked away in her mind, completely oblivious to pain.

But maybe it was more about self-deception—lying to himself that he could manage some semblance of kindness. Convincing himself that he was capable of gentleness, even when the only thing he wielded was a cold blade and a heavy heart. A ruse to be kinder to himself.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

After all, who wouldn’t want a little self-deception in a world where kindness could come wrapped in a kill?

He still killed her nevertheless.

***

In the shadow of the resplendent towers of the Saint Lucia Academy, where the air crackled with the potential of untamed magic, a rather ordinary playground hosted a gathering of the decidedly unextraordinary.

Swings creaked under the weight of children who were blissfully unaware that just a stone’s throw away, great mages were embroiled in arcane discussions, possibly over the entrance ceremony buffet.

The swings, adorned with chipped paint and rust, swayed with tired resolve as children clamored for heights they’d never reach—not that they knew. Their laughter rang hollow against the backdrop of the cracked sky.

“We will be offering another set of Infusers to the second elf princess. Aborac will manage it this time,” announced a man.

He stood behind a pair of nobles—both dressed as though attending a funeral, but the woman, draped in a black veil, took the lead in looking entirely anonymous, her skin shrouded as if it posed a mortal threat to the world.

They were watching the kids play, sitting on a bench, wrapped in a shroud of silence as if the air itself was too weighty to disturb.

“And sir… the movement of this… Sator Family…”

The pair of nobles lingered in silence a moment longer, the tension palpable. Finally, the man hummed. “Still no information about who they truly are? Fascinatingly elusive, aren’t they?”

The man behind them shook his head, his expression a mix of frustration and defeat. “Please forgive us, sir. We haven’t uncovered anything substantial. They seem to have sprouted from nowhere.”

It was unsettling, really. Ever since the Sator Family graced the scene, the atmosphere in Inkia took on a strange quality.

The neutral factions began to sway like leaves in an uncertain breeze, and even some nobles who supposedly swore allegiance to the first prince’s faction and the prime minister’s faction seemed to have developed a sudden case of ideological vertigo.

“Marquis Wilderwood is still doing his usual lobbying?” the man inquired, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, sir. Even more fervently now that he’s ‘backed’ by the Sator Family. Oddly enough, it’s more like they’ve formed a mutual alliance. The Wilderwood family has a long history of military might, but it seems this generation prefers the charms of diplomacy over diving into the fray.”

“How delightful,” the noble replied dryly. “One can only hope they remember that a well-placed sword can be just as effective as a well-placed smile, should the need arise. After all, one must make sure the weeds don’t overrun the garden.”

“Kill him,” he suddenly said.

“Yes, sir?” came the obedient reply, as if someone were confirming a dinner reservation.

“Letting a new faction rise now in Inkia will complicate things. The prime minister’s faction and the first prince’s faction are predictable, a script we essentially wrote ourselves.”

The noble continued, “But this… random… out-of-nowhere faction could muck things up. We’d need another decade to pull the strings and make it dance to our tune.”

The man standing behind them appropriately nodded. “Yes, sir. And what of the Sator Family?”

The noble casually shrugged, as if dismissing a mildly annoying fly. “They’re merchants. It’s simple to deal with those who trade in money. Besides, the madam’s sickly disposition gives us delightful leverage.”

“When should we take care of Wilderwood?”

“In a week. For now, let’s turn our attention to the elf princess,” he said, his tone dripping with faux adoration.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, bowing and striding away, leaving the noble pair.

Silence enveloped them again as the pair watched the kids playing. After a short silence, suddenly, the woman pointed at one of the children.

“Lance, look, that one looks a lot like my little Claire,” she said.

The man looked closely and smiled, “Yes, indeed, my love.”