Gawain didn’t rush to respond. He leaned back, letting the pieces of the puzzle click into place, one by one, until the mention of "regalia" made his expression darken.

“Your Majesty, I understand why you called me now.”

The former monarch’s regalia.

His brow furrowed deeper. “Of course. Because it was the Agravaine family who had the honor—if we can call it that—of crafting the last monarch’s regalia. But Sir—”

“I know,” Burn interrupted, his tone sharp. “After that, they were vetted, locked up in the House of Leodegrance, and ceremoniously handed over to become the monarch’s regalia.”

“But the House of Leodegrance had absolutely no reason to harm the king,” Burn’s tone darkened with each word. “Not my brother, not his doting mother’s loyalists, not Aroche.”

“Sir, I wasn’t implying—” Gawain stumbled, catching himself before he could dig the hole deeper. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I’ve overstepped. I am ashamed for letting my nerves get the better of me. Please, forgive me.”

He bowed stiffly, his face a study in guilt—not of wrongdoing, but of fear. Not fear of reprisal or punishment, but of losing the trust of his king.

Burn let the silence linger like a blade just above the neck before finally offering a thin, knowing smile. “I do not doubt you.”

Gawain exhaled sharply, his eyes briefly closing in relief—though dread soon followed as the question still loomed: if not the House of Leodegrance, and not the House of Agravaine… then who?

“If that stepmother of mine had been alive when Father’s regalia was changed,” Burn said, his sigh sharp enough to cut through the room, “she’d already be at the top of my list of suspects.”

But no, the logic unraveled itself plainly. His brother’s faction and their supporters relied too heavily on the king’s protection; even the combined might of the kingdom couldn’t neutralize Burn’s influence on their own. They had no reason to make such a risky move.

And Aroche… no. Impossible.

“Alright,” Burn said, voice dropping into something bitter and raw. “Even if it was my brother…” He rubbed his temples with one hand, resting his face in the other as though physically trying to keep himself from falling apart.

“You’re not the king’s son! I, Clarent, am his only son!”

His mind echoed with a voice that wasn’t there.

“No. It couldn’t be,” Burn’s lips twisted into a grimace at the memory.

“Caliburn,” Morgan’s voice cut through, soft but firm. She rose from her seat beside Yvain and knelt before him, her fingers brushing his cheek to ground him. “Let it rest. We’ve uncovered the Demon Lord’s identity. That’s enough for one day.”

Burn slowly closed his eyes, leaning into Morgan’s touch.

“Gawain, get me a full list of my brother’s supporters, my stepmother’s backers, and anyone tied to Aroche. Track down any connection they might have to Lance Inkor. That’s all.” Burn rose from his seat, gently pulling Morgan to stand beside him.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for trusting me again,” Gawain said, a flicker of relief in his voice.

Burn let out a tired sigh. “Didn’t you already pour your Force into a cup for me?”

Gawain smiled faintly, inclining his head. “Even so, I am far from worthy.”

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Burn’s gaze shifted toward Yvain, who sat silently, the weight of Burn’s unspoken burdens written across his face. Whatever betrayals Yvain had endured paled compared to the labyrinth of treachery Burn navigated daily.

“Go to sleep,” Burn ordered simply. “Tomorrow, you’ll watch and learn from your master how to create an organic vessel for your new sister. Help her while you’re at it.”

“Wait. What?!” Yvain shot up from his seat, his expression somewhere between disbelief and existential dread. “Your Majesty, those words in that order don't make sense!”

“You can help after school,” Morgan added sweetly, as if that made it better.

“After school? Help?! You’re making my sister?!”

Finn and Gawain exchanged a glance, both equally lost.

Though, to his credit, Finn had started to adapt to the chaos these three casually conjured. With a shrug, he muttered, “This reminds me of that tabletop game with the most ridiculous campaigns my men and I sometimes play… utter nonsense.”

That caught Burn’s attention. He turned to Finn, his sharp golden eyes lighting up with what could only be described as excitement.

“Finn, prepare a campaign,” Burn declared, his tone as decisive as if he’d just ordered a siege.

“I want in too!” Morgan chimed, clapping her hands together like a delighted child.

“Why me?!” Finn shouted, his composure crumbling under the sheer absurdity of the situation. Wasn't he already burdened enough with Inkia’s invasion? And now he had to prepare his boss’ entertainment?

“Speaking of roleplay,” Burn turned his sharp gaze back to Gawain, his tone dripping with irony. “Don’t you need the highest authority to dig up all that information?”

Morgan, ever prepared, handed Gawain a pair of rings.

“Find yourself a woman to pose as my wife and head to the imperial winter retreat villa in the South,” Burn instructed, as if this were the most logical next step. “Show up there, dig around, and investigate closer to the source.”

After all, the House of Leodegrance had once been the mightiest of the Soulnaught Southern nobility.

Gawain stared blankly at the rings—Galahad and Landevale’s disguises when they once impersonated Burn and Morgan. Yes, the fact he just learned from their short explanation.

But well…

“Sir… I have… no such woman,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

“Oh, right,” Morgan interjected, her tone light as air. “That Marissa Lombardi girl does look somewhat like me.”

Burn’s brow arched skeptically. “Who?”

Morgan’s sly smile only widened as Burn’s memory sluggishly turned its gears. And then it hit him—the blonde, blue-eyed thief who’d once stolen his locket. His expression twisted with irritation.

“What similar? Donkey-and-alicorn similar?” he snapped, clearly unimpressed. The only reason Marissa Lombardi had any claim to Morgan-like resemblance was thanks to a painting he’d painstakingly made while searching the world for her. And this thief had the audacity to subtly suggest to the world that she was his future empress?

Morgan gave him a playful nudge, her grin bordering on wicked. “Make her pose as me. She’ll behave if she’s even remotely intelligent.”

“Oh, you’re teasing me,” Burn deadpanned as the realization finally dawned, while Morgan promptly threw her head back and laughed without mercy.

“Fine, fine,” Burn relented, letting her amusement run its course. Turning back to Gawain, he said, “Take Marissa Lombardi with you to the South and make her pose as my wife. Your job is to ensure no one finds out that I’m not where I said I would be—and certainly not here with my actual wife.”

Morgan tried her best to hold her laughs but failed miserably.

Gawain blinked as the memory of Marissa Lombardi resurfaced, particularly the chaos at the victory banquet after Burn had been stabbed. Still, orders were orders.

“As you command, Your Majesty,” he said, though his tone betrayed just how much he dreaded this assignment.

As Burn silently retreated for the night with Morgan by his side, Gawain’s gaze lingered on his back, growing darker with each passing second.

Betrayal.

There was nothing Gawain loathed more—except perhaps the memory of that particular traitor. The one who had shattered everything, leaving destruction in their wake and forging half of Burn’s infamous reputation as a villain.

His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides.

With a voice barely louder than a breath, Gawain murmured, “Long live Caliburn Pendragon.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, heading toward the mission that awaited him.