Aroche was now consumed by pure, unfiltered rage. His clenched fists trembled, his jaw tightened to the point it might shatter, and his usually sharp tongue was momentarily stilled by the sheer weight of his fury. But not… heh… for long. He sneered.

“That bastard…” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

For Aroche, this wasn’t just a betrayal—it was an insult. Of all people, it was Clarent who had the gall to stage a rebellion? Aroche’s rage burned hotter than anyone else’s, even more than Burn’s, because it wasn’t just disappointment—it was personal.

After King Arthur’s death, Clarent’s absence during his father’s final days had already left a wound that nothing in this world could heal. He hadn’t just failed as a prince or a son—he’d failed as a human being.

Aroche couldn’t even imagine how Burn would feel having this kind of elder brother after that incident.

But even so, Aroche had grudgingly accepted Clarent’s silence after Burn claimed the throne. It was a quiet surrender, a nod of agreement that Clarent knew his place. At least, that’s what Aroche thought.

But now? This? Almost ending Gawain’s life and killing his brothers? Waging war against the kingdom? The sheer audacity of it all felt like Clarent had taken everything decent left in him, wrapped it up in a box, and set it on fire.

“Who would’ve thought?” Aroche muttered, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. “All this time, I thought he was just a sniveling coward. Turns out he’s a murderous sniveling coward.”

His rage was cold, lethal, and honed like the edge of a blade. Aroche wasn’t the type to throw tantrums; he was the type to let his fury simmer until it boiled over, scalding everything in its path.

And in that moment, the only thing he wanted more than to yell at the world was to personally make sure Clarent paid for every drop of blood he’d spilled.

But then, Aroche froze. His breath hitched as he saw Burn kneel beside Gawain’s bed, a motion so unthinkable it made the dying man himself pale in fear and horror.

Everyone present—Galahad, the physicians, the servants—stumbled to their knees the moment their king knelt. Aroche, however, remained frozen, caught in a whirlwind of shock. His rage clashed with confusion until shame swept over him like a tidal wave.

He knelt down, low, the weight of immense shame pressing on him, a burden too heavy for even a Duke of Leodegrance to carry. For the first time, he felt it—shame so raw it nearly consumed him. His cousin. His cousin had done this.

Burn didn’t speak at first. He didn’t falter. But the weight of his presence was suffocating. He was the kind of man whose anger grew quieter the deeper it ran. And now, in this chilling silence, his wrath manifested in a way no one had ever seen before.

The black shadow of his fury seemed to cover his face like a mask, an impenetrable veil of cold, calm rage. It wasn’t the fury of a man screaming for blood—it was much, much worse.

“Gareth’s and Gaheris’ bodies will be retrieved with honor, no matter the cost,” Burn finally said, his voice calm, solemn, and heavier than iron. “Their names will be etched into history as heroes. I, Soulnon, swear in the name of my father, Souljust, that they will be granted the middle name of Soulnaught and become my covenant brothers.”

“From this day forward, they will be known as Gareth Soulbright Agravaine and Gaheris Soulforge Agravaine.”

He lowered himself further, his clenched fists pressing into the ground.

“And as of this moment, Clarent the traitor is no longer a Soulcrest, or a Pendragon.”

The words dripped with finality, like a judge’s verdict. There was no room for argument, no hint of forgiveness. Aroche could only kneel there, swallowing his own tumult of emotions as Burn’s quiet fury reshaped the room into a battlefield.

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No one dared to raise their heads, not even Aroche. Not even when their lowered eyes saw Burn’s knees rise and the bed sink by the edge, catching the desperation Gawain unleashed as he crawled up with his dying body to bury his wails on his King’s shoulder.

Four short, sharp sobs. Then silence.

The kind of silence that stretches too far, pressing against the room like an invisible weight.

In that split second, heads shot up, expressions twisted in horror. Had Gawain just—?

The physicians were on their feet before anyone else, scrambling to confirm whether the young knight had succumbed to his wounds.

But Burn calmly raised a single hand, halting their panic without so much as a word. With almost infuriating composure, he eased Gawain’s limp, unconscious form back onto the bed, the motion so gentle it felt like a mockery of the tension in the air.

Red-rimmed eyes glanced nervously at one another, everyone visibly shaken, though no one dared to say anything. Tears clung to lashes, but no sound broke the unbearable quiet. Even the most composed among them looked like they’d swallowed a lump too big to bear.

The physicians, bless their overworked souls, didn’t waste a second, rushing forward to assess Gawain. Meanwhile, Burn turned and walked out of the room, the sheer weight of his presence sweeping everyone along like the tide.

“Galahad, go and prepare the army,” Burn said, his voice unnervingly steady, his entire being radiating an eerie calm. Even his gestures—measured, deliberate, and almost lethargic—seemed to suggest he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“The others can handle the notifications,” he continued, tone sharp and devoid of emotion. “Spread the word: a rebellion has begun. Let’s see who’s bold—or foolish—enough to join them. We’ll cut them down just as easily.”

No one questioned him. They obeyed, scattering like shadows under a rising sun.

Aroche fell in step beside Burn, silent. Neither spoke a word, tension crackling in the air between them like a storm on the brink. It wasn’t until they were alone in the corridor, the others having disappeared to fulfill their orders, that it happened.

BAM!

Aroche’s fist collided with Burn’s face, the sound sharp and echoing off the marble walls.

He stood there, straight-backed, closing his eyes as if bracing for retribution. But none came.

Burn didn’t move. Blood trickled from his nostril, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Yet his composure remained—unsettlingly intact.

“STRIKE ME BACK, CALIBURN!” Aroche roared, his voice filled with anger, frustration, and something else—a deep, aching guilt.

“Why?” Burn asked, his tone dry.

“Why?” Aroche echoed, incredulous. “Because your brother just—”

“He’s not my brother,” Burn interrupted, his voice cold enough to freeze fire. “Not anymore.”

Without another word, Burn resumed walking. His steps, slow and deliberate, echoed like a death knell against the polished floor. Every movement reeked of restraint, as though he were battling the urge to unleash something devastating. Without looking at him, he said, “And I know why you hit me.”

Aroche watched Burn’s retreating back, the ominous click of his metal heels growing quieter as he approached the shadow at the end of the corridor.

Burn’s voice, low and weighted, drifted back. “I should’ve listened to you about Clarent. I should’ve taken your concerns seriously.”

“I hit your face because I wanted you to beat me up,” Aroche admitted, his voice raw, cracked, yet steady.

Burn stopped, his sturdy back halfway swallowed by the shadow. Slowly, he turned, just enough for Aroche to see his face. The mask of calm had fractured—just a little.

“I’m ashamed, Your Majesty,” Aroche said, bowing his head. “As your vassal… there’s so much I should’ve done. My cousin… My cousin betrayed us. My cousin…”

Clarent.

Aroche’s closest childhood friend. How could it have come to this? How could it be?

Burn didn’t need to say it—he felt the same. No, he felt worse. The betrayal had carved deeper into him, its blade twisted in the core of his soul.

And yet… he should’ve known.

That fragile hope of reconciliation, the illusion that one day he and Clarent could truly be brothers, had been just that—a cruel, hollow illusion.

Burn’s jaw tightened. He had known. Deep down, he’d known it would never happen.

So why had he clung to that sliver of warmth, that lie of familial bond?

They had grown up together, yes. But never truly together. They had always been two paths diverging further apart.

“Just strike me,” Aroche said, his voice heavy with misery, his eyes glinting with unshed tears. “Make me feel worthy of standing before you and everyone else again.”

Sometimes, Burn wondered what he'd do if he could stand in that corridor again, halfway swallowed by shadow under the blazing sun. Would he grant Aroche’s wish and hit him back? Would that have changed anything?

At the time, he didn’t. Because he knew, deep down, that his punch wouldn’t stop at just one. It would’ve been a force of nature—unrelenting, merciless, and catastrophic.

And as much as Aroche wanted punishment, Burn couldn’t bring himself to strike the only man left who still felt like a brother, even if that brother was begging for his own suffering.

Not out of principle, but because Burn wasn’t about to let his rage against one betrayal spill onto the only loyal soul he had left.

So when it became clear Burn wouldn’t indulge him, Aroche turned and walked away, his guilt wrapped tightly around him like a shroud. Burn caught himself staring at the man’s retreating form, eyes faltering.

He wondered, sometimes, if hitting Aroche that day would’ve kept him alive—