That woman was Morgan Le Fay.
Of course! She was the woman the emperor was looking for. But she… didn’t at all seem like what Galahad imagined.
Oh, yes. Her beauty was undeniable, a fact that even the gruff Emperor Burn, who usually reserved his compliments for his weapons and war strategies, couldn’t help but acknowledge—albeit grudgingly.
Every single word of praise Burn sang about her appearance seemed unjust. But she wasn’t the... person... Galahad had in mind.
“We need to go now. My child needs me!” In a flare of maternal panic, Morgan clutched desperately at Burn’s clothes. Her voice carried the urgency of a woman deadly worried about her child. “Something bad could happen to my Yvain!”
“What can you do when you can’t even stand on your own?” Burn retorted, his tone dripping with the patience of a saint at the end of his tether.
Morgan, now using him as a substitute for her absent wooden bar, leaned heavily, her legs shaking like leaves in a storm.
“I beg of you, Your Majesty!” she implored, her eyes wide with tragedy that could have won her every man’s heart.
“My best men are with him. I will also go right now if you let go of me,” Burn countered, obviously trying to escape the clutches of her ‘magic’ as much as her physical grip.
“Take me with you!” she demanded, her voice a blend of desperation and command.
“No. You’re just dead weight,” he shot back, as loving as a tax return.
“Caliburn Soulnon Pendra—”
“Are you threatening me with your life right now?! You could die!” Burn was incredulous, looking as if he was deciding whether she was more of a hazard to herself or to him.
“I’m not! I promise I’ll be fine!” Morgan persisted, her determination as shaky as her legs.
“Miss Momo!” Burn exclaimed, using her pet name with all the affection of a man calling his lawyer after reading a particularly bad contract.
“Calling me with my pet name disdainfully won’t deter me!” she shot back, her chin tilted with defiance that could rival a cat in a standoff.
Ahhh… what romance…
To the onlooking men, the scene before them was less a crisis and more a prime-time drama unfolding live.
There they were, Burn and Momo, at each other’s throats yet somehow, in the twisted view of the spectators, engaging in what looked suspiciously like flirtation.
To the untrained eye, this could have been mistaken for a lovers’ quarrel, or perhaps a debate over their child’s custody in the weekends following a messy royal divorce.
Ah, what romance indeed—if your idea of romance involves sharp tongues and sharper tempers, all wrapped up in a battle of wills that could rival any war Burn had ever fought.
“I’m sorry that I’m weak, okay!” the woman exclaimed in a voice that was melodious enough to be featured on a tragic opera soundtrack.
“But whose fault was it? Who made me this weak?! It was you who took everything away from me!” Her accusation could have frozen the very air between them, had it not been for the heat of her anger.
FLINCH!
Shiverrrrr…
The men surrounding them suddenly found themselves questioning their life choices—specifically, the choice to be within earshot of this dramatic exchange.
They collectively felt the overwhelming desire to be anywhere but here, perhaps wishing for invisibility cloaks or at least a sudden, urgent call to arms.
Yes. Her words definitely caused a major misunderstanding.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Can’t you at least take responsibility?!” she continued, her voice rising as if she was addressing a courtroom rather than a single, increasingly uncomfortable man. “Can’t you please let me see my child?!”
Yep. A huge misunderstanding!
Burn, for his part, stood there, looking like he wished the ground would open and offer him sanctuary from the tempest before him.
To the casual observer, it seemed less like a lover’s quarrel and more like a public trial, where the charges were emotional robbery and the jury was made up of awkwardly shuffling knights.
SCANDALOUS!
To Burn's men, who were now experts in the art of discreetly edging away, it looked as though they were witnessing either the world's most passionate reconciliation or the preamble to a spectacular breakup.
Either way, popcorn would have been appropriate.
But, in this situation, Momo still had one card up her sleeve.
“You could’ve just kissed me more!” she exclaimed, tossing the statement like a grenade into the middle of the tense atmosphere.
GASP!
HUH?!
EH—
Popping eyes, floored jaws.
The reactions ranged from shock to utter bewilderment, each man present blinking as if trying to reset their brains and make sense of what they just heard.
“I’ll get better and stronger faster if you kiss me more—”
“Why are you embarrassing yourself like this?!” Burn, utterly flabbergasted, exploded in anger.
“What can I do other than to grovel to you in this situation?!” Momo shot back, her voice a blend of frustration and earnest plea.
She stood her ground, having played all her cards, now relying solely on the wild card of whimsy. “I can be of help if you help me get stronger faster!”
She begged and insisted, pouring her heart out in a room where, sadly, only one opinion truly mattered—and unsurprisingly, that opinion wasn't hers.
Moreover, the sole arbiter of her fate was the very person least moved by her distress. How utterly convenient for him.
There he stood, a paragon of indifference: cold, stern, and steadfast. His heart seemed immovable—but then, that would require him to actually have one, wouldn't it?
With a trembling gaze, she wondered what grim nursery rhymes were sung to him as a child to shape such a heartless creature? What bleak landscapes had cradled him to forge such icy resolve?
She mused on how the world managed to sculpt such a... monster.
Here, her significance was painfully clear: she was valued only for her strength, only when she was useful. How wonderfully pragmatic of him to remember her existence just then.
Even so.
“Mmh—”
He kissed her.
Oh, what a magical, soul-stirring moment—except it wasn’t. Reading his mind when their lips touched had become as routine for her as checking the weather.
As she absorbed all the Force he offered, she glimpsed the true nature of his thoughts.
It was darkness, a profound void, as inviting as a black hole. No sympathy, no affection—nothing that hinted she meant more to him than a convenient source of power.
Trapped in the pesky mortal shell of a human body, his attraction to her was probably more about aesthetics than anything deeper. And frankly, he despised that he found her face pleasing.
If it was this man… maybe godhood was something within reach.
No, if this man was a benchmark, godhood seemed not just achievable but a downright downgrade.
“There’s a reason you’re so worried about Yvain, right?” Burn finally piped up, his voice as warm as an iceberg, recognizing her desperation at last. “I’ll bring you there.”
How generous, how magnanimous.
Well, they were both adults. Burn figured that if she was throwing herself headlong into this Yvain debacle, she must really have something gnawing at her.
This woman had been nothing but understanding, almost saintly in her patience toward him. And ever since she was awakened, all she did was to get back in shape and fix everything within reach.
She wasn’t a selfish person.
“You said there was a report from him, right? I’ll read it. Prepare the others in the meantime,” Burn declared.
Galahad, ever the eager beaver, zipped over with the reports post-haste. Burn skimmed through them as he walked, his pace that of a man who believed he could outwalk his problems—until, of course, the content of the report slapped him back to a slower, more thoughtful strut.
“I told you, we have to hurry,” Momo chimed in from behind, apparently having telepathically devoured the report's contents too.
Burn pivoted to regard her, noting her quivering stance. “You still can’t walk?” he asked, with the tenderness of a drill sergeant.
“I’m sorry.”
“But your body?”
“I can manage.”
“Bring my chariot,” he commanded Galahad, then turned back to Momo with all the grace of a chess master making a pivotal move. “You sit with me.”
Her lips trembled, perhaps in fear of being so close to him in a confined space again, but she muttered a resigned, “Okay, thank you, Your Majesty.”
With a gesture that could only be described as knightly—if knights were known for their abrupt, no-nonsense rescues—Burn scooped her up and made his way to the chariot.
This was the very same chariot that previously almost discarded, remembered mostly for the exquisite torture it had inflicted upon them.
Well, no time to prepare another one.
“No more delay. Let’s go.”