“Caliburn… earlier, when you spoke with Sir Gawain about your brother, his mother, and Aroche—why are you so certain they couldn’t have been the ones to betray your father and cause his death?”

Burn sighed, pulling her closer against him. Her voice was muffled as she nestled into the crook of his neck, but he heard every word. He adjusted the blanket around them, shielding their bare bodies from the chill of the room.

“I knew you’d ask eventually,” he said, his tone dry, though his hand lingered on her back. “But have you recovered?”

Morgan had only just stopped vomiting blood, the all-too-familiar price of another time loop starting.

“I have,” she assured him, her voice steady now, though her body still felt light from the ordeal. “You can tell for yourself, can’t you? My body’s doing just fine after all the… attention you just gave me.”

Burn fought the urge to smile, though a faint blush betrayed him, creeping unbidden onto his cheeks. It was becoming increasingly difficult to mask—or ignore—the maddening effect this woman had on him. Mercifully, she didn’t notice, too preoccupied with burying half her face in his neck.

“I’m curious about everything about you,” she murmured, her words more intimate than the touch of her skin against his.

Burn closed his eyes, considering her question. He’d have to choose his words carefully—this wasn’t a tale meant for just anyone. Only the innermost circle of Soulnaught’s nobility knew the truth of it.

“The queen passed away long before the regalia even came into existence. My brother… he genuinely loved our father. And Aroche…” he paused, tracing slow, deliberate circles on her back, “…he was a good man.”

His tone was calm, almost unnervingly matter-of-fact.

Morgan shifted, leaning away just enough to study his face in the dim light. She locked eyes with him for several long moments before asking softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not exactly a good bedtime story,” Burn replied with a faint smile—the kind of genuine smile he reserved for these quiet, unguarded nights, when no one but her was around to see it.

Sensing his subtle but clear evasion, she nestled back against him, letting out a small, content hum. “Alright. Let’s just sleep, then.”

He was silent for a moment, his hand resuming its slow path across her back. Then, almost casually, he said, “It’s worse than me eating the flesh of two sentient beings. Still interested?”

Morgan didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but her voice was soft and steady as she murmured, “Your past?”

“Mm,” Burn murmured faintly, his acknowledgment so quiet it almost dissolved into the night. “You might not be able to sleep afterward. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Morgan tilted her head slightly, her voice sharp with dry humor. “Didn’t I just watch you torture that young fleet admiral by having Bella make duplicates of every body part you cut off—including his head?”

A low, rumbling laugh escaped him, resonating through his chest and into her body. “Fair point,” he said, his amusement lingering in his tone. “I suppose it’s not my place to underestimate the Original Saint.”

House Leodegrance was a name woven deeply into the history of the Southern Region of Soulnaught—a Southern Ducal house of immense power and prestige. It wasn’t just a juggernaut within the kingdom but a commanding presence across the continent.

Generations of loyal, brilliant individuals carried the Leodegrance name. Burn had heard the tales: how Urien Soulnaught Pendragon married the Leodegrance princess and made her his queen.

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Morgan chuckled softly at that, her tone teasing. “Oh, they were adorable together, that blockhead…”

Burn gave her a sharp, mildly annoyed look, the corner of his mouth twitching as he recalled something Isaiah had told him. Apparently, Urien had once nursed a massive crush on Morgan. Then again, Isaiah had also claimed no one in their right mind could genuinely love Morgan—not even Urien.

Burn shook the thought away and pressed on with the story. His grandfather, Uther Soulsoar Pendragon, had arranged a betrothal between his father, Arthur Souljust Pendragon, and a lady from the Leodegrance Duchy—Miss Guinevere Leodegrance.

She had been chosen for her celebrated beauty and intelligence. They’d called her the “Lady of Virtue,” though her lineage wasn’t from the main branch of the family. Guinevere was born to the brother of the Leodegrance family head.

“In short,” Burn said, his voice steady, “my brother’s mother was Aroche Leodegrance’s aunt. So, my brother and Aroche weren’t just close friends—they were cousins.”

Aroche, unlike Guinevere, came from the direct line of succession. Talented, loyal, and a natural leader, he wielded far more influence than Clarent, the first prince. He had ascended to the role of duke at a remarkably young age and excelled in it—earning the kind of reputation that others could only dream of.

“You did mention once that they betrothed you to Dame Landevale?” Morgan asked, her tone curious yet edged with a knowing smirk.

Landevale, the current third-ranking knight of the Round Table, had once been Burn’s fiancée. That was, until she decided her true calling lay in becoming a knight. Ten years ago, they’d mutually agreed to sever the engagement.

And Landevale? She was a Leodegrance.

Not just any Leodegrance, but one from the main branch—Aroche’s full-blooded younger sister. If Guinevere bore the title of “Lady of Virtue,” Landevale carried an even heavier burden of responsibility as a member of the direct succession line.

Which begged the question: why would she be betrothed to Burn, the bastard prince of Soulnaught?

Sure, Burn was acknowledged by the crown. And yes, his talent was undeniable—a brilliance the world had never seen before. But rather than pairing him with someone who might support his ambition for the throne, his father and Guinevere had conspired to bind him to House Leodegrance.

Shackling him with marriage.

Marrying into the main branch of the most influential ducal house wasn’t necessarily a boon for a prince. If anything, it was a political trap. A match like that could leave a prince vulnerable, swayed by the interests of his in-laws, making the throne an even more distant dream.

Especially when that very house—the house Burn would have married into—was also the one propping up Guinevere and her son, Clarent.

And as for bloodlines? Burn had no blood relation to the Leodegrances. Which, of course, made it a “perfect” match in the eyes of his father and Guinevere—a neat way to tether Burn without risking any awkward questions about shared blood.

That was the nature of the bond between Clarent, Burn, and Aroche: a weaker, legitimate son; a monstrously talented bastard; and their cousin, caught somewhere in the crossfire.

Strangely, Aroche had never been a boring politician.

As Clarent’s cousin and Burn’s would-be brother-in-law, he never took sides—never truly aligned himself with either of them. Instead, Aroche stood firmly on his own ground, deftly avoiding enmity with both.

He’d started off close to Clarent, of course. They’d been childhood friends, bound by family ties and the kind of camaraderie only cousins could share. But as they grew older, Aroche found himself gravitating toward Burn.

By the end, their bond was stronger than anything Aroche shared with Clarent.

Burn had noticed this pattern before—people like Galahad, Percival, Gawain, Landevale, and… Aroche. People who looked beyond. Beyond the labels others slapped onto him, the bastard prince with his sights set on the throne. They looked at his intentions.

Yes, he was ambitious—blatantly so. But the question they asked wasn’t what he wanted, but why. For whom?

Why would someone like Burn willingly choose to play the role of the villain?

Out of everyone, Aroche understood him best. Better even than Galahad or the others. Aroche saw the truth: that Burn, for all his unwanted existence, was the glue holding the kingdom together. Silently or brashly, he carried that weight.

He understood him. Beyond loyalty. Beyond blood.

Perhaps, Aroche was his only real brother. His only real family.

Aroche had always been there. Like the time Burn, despite Clarent’s refusal for help, broke into his principality to exterminate wave after wave of Cyclopes and save the people. Aroche covered for him without hesitation.

Or the time Burn decided to announce the breaking off of his engagement with Landevale by sending her on a perilous mission while throwing a wild, scandalous party with half the noblewomen of the realm.

Aroche had laughed that night, calling it “Peak entertainment!”

Of course, the next morning, he’d shown up and beat Burn’s hungover ass into the ground. But that was beside the point.

Aroche was the only one who truly saw Burn for what he was—his intent, not his methods. And Burn knew, in his heart, that kind of understanding was a rare, fleeting thing.

He was there even when Clarent wasn’t—when his father passed away.

He was there for him until the end of his life.