With the pomp and circumstance of a parade that nobody asked for, Burn led his army from the grandiose gates of Edensor Royal Capital, bound for the war in the Elysian Kingdom.
The march was quite a grand affair, if one's idea of grandeur involved trudging through mud and dodging the occasional overly affectionate horsefly.
As they moved, the landscape shifted from the manicured opulence of Edensor—with its buildings that looked like they were trying too hard to impress visiting dignitaries—to the rugged, untamed wilderness leading to Elysian territory.
Here, the trees stood tall and unyielding, much like the morale of Burn’s troops, fed on a steady diet of rousing speeches and the promise of glory.
Burn rode at the front, his face set in a mask of cold that could easily be mistaken for indigestion.
On his lap, Momo clung to her own composure with the tenacity of a cat in a bathtub, her eyes scanning the path that Yvain, the boy wonder and accidental military strategist, had carved through the enemy’s defenses.
Ah, young Yvain.
At the tender age of twelve, he had managed to surprise everyone—probably himself most of all—by morphing from a royal novice to a commander with a knack for not getting immediately overrun.
Though being supported by a cabal of seasoned generals and a certain Sir Galahad, whose guidance was as invaluable as Burn’s.
Together, they had turned potential disaster into a somewhat less disastrous adventure, pushing through Elysian defenses with the finesse of a bull in a china shop—assuming the bull had a really good plan.
The path they marched was littered with the relics of these swift victories: abandoned Elysian banners, discarded weapons, and the occasional piece of armor that looked as though it had decided it just couldn’t go a step further.
The scenery was a mix of battle-wearied fields and forests that bore silent witness to the hurried passage of Yvain’s forces, now marked by the heavy boots of Burn’s own men.
As they neared the Elysian Kingdom, the air grew tense, charged with the electricity of impending conflict. Birds, wise to the ways of men, kept their distance, their silence a stark contrast to the metallic symphony of armor and weapons clanking in rhythmic harmony.
Truly, as Burn and his army marched on, one could almost hear the whispered prayers of the local flora and fauna, hoping fervently to remain untrampled by history’s heavy feet.
Such are the joys of military expeditions—glorious to some, a downright nuisance to others. Especially if you’re a squirrel.
Also, this squirrel on Burn’s lap.
“You got pale again. What’s wrong?”
“Your body is hot. I’m sweaty,” Momo replied with the warmth of an arctic breeze. “My body’s moisture is leaving me.”
In all his emperor-ly wisdom, Burn failed to grasp the full extent of her discomfort. To him, she was merely a tad moist, her sweet scent amplifying as if she were a human diffuser rather than a suffering companion.
“Drink water,” he suggested helpfully, as if hydration could solve the existential woes of their journey. Momo reached for the canteen, her hands trembling from exhaustion. It dawned on him that she hadn’t slept a blink since they departed from Wintersin.
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Suddenly, a herald announced their arrival, “Elysian Capital is up front, Your Majesty.”
“We’ve arrived—” Burn began, but Momo cut him off urgently.
“I feel something. Can we get out of here? Can you bring me quickly to the east now?” she jolted, her intuition flaring up like a poorly timed firework.
“What?” Burn frowned, his face contorting into a map of confusion.
“Can’t you feel it?” Momo’s eyes wavered dramatically. “It’s Yvain. He needs me now. Bring me there!”
With a single blink, Burn halted the chariot, shocking the procession of knights and generals as if he’d just announced his intention to elope.
He scooped Momo out of the chamber with the urgency of a man fetching a pizza from an oven.
“I’ll go first. Follow through,” he declared to his men, who responded with a chorus of “Yes! Your Majesty!” that echoed through the air.
By the time their voices settled, Burn had vanished with Momo in his arms.
GASP!
Fast!
Momo, cradled rather unceremoniously in Burn's arms, found herself suddenly hurtling through the air at a velocity that would make a cheetah envious.
The scenery whipped past them so quickly it was as if the world had turned into a poorly tuned television, all static and blurs.
As they dashed toward the capital of Elysian, east to their location—or as Momo thought of it, 'in the general direction of impending doom'—the wind howled around them.
Trees bent in deference (or possibly in self-preservation), and the small wildlife likely filed noise complaints about the sonic booms left in their wake.
The speed was exhilarating, or so Burn's tightly set jaw suggested. Momo, on the other hand, could barely keep her eyes open, what with the gale force winds threatening to turn her eyeballs into a pair of dried apricots.
Her hair, already disheveled, now adopted the look of a bird's nest post-tornado, waving wildly in the airstream, attempting to establish contact with low-flying birds.
But she didn’t care.
“Quick!”
“I know.”
BZZZZZZZZZZT—!
It almost looked like he forcibly ripped the space in half.
As Burn and Momo made their whirlwind entrance into the Elysian capital, it was immediately apparent that they were not just fashionably late to the party, but had arrived at the grand finale of some apocalyptic pyrotechnic display.
The city was ablaze, with flames licking the sky as if trying to escape the chaos below. Screams and cries provided a haunting melody to the fiery dance, crafting a scene straight out of a disaster artist’s fever dream.
In the epicenter of this inferno was a giant tornado of fire, swirling with the kind of fury that would make even the most seasoned storm chaser reconsider their career choices.
It was centered right where the palace stood—or, more accurately, trembled on the brink of incineration.
"Yvain's there," Momo stated, pinpointing the location of the young king in the heart of a firenado.
Burn didn't miss a beat. It wasn’t as though she would agree to wait where it was safe while he stepped into the blaze. He didn’t slow down, using the wind to create a force field of his own, shielding them from the heat.
As they advanced, the fire raged on, almost offended by their audacity to defy its destructive embrace. The flames danced madly, reaching out with fiery fingers, only to be rebuffed by Burn’s wind-crafted barrier.
SSSHHHH!
They burst through the fire tornado.
…
Silence
…
Inside, in the eye of the storm however, was a vacuum of air. Nothing could escape, nor survive. No shadow, no sound. The space was suffused with thick, colorless mana, the kind touted as 'the purest of the soul's vision’.
No air—completely replaced. In this domain, only those with a master in mana manipulation—be it Vision or Force—could survive.
For the Force users, who were used to breathing mana like oxygen, the environment was somewhat tough, but bearable. Meanwhile, Vision users found it akin to stumbling into a field of enlightenment.
A bit farther in, central to this avant-garde performance of mana mastery, floated a small figure. The 12-year-old boy king, suspended a meter in the air, his eyes glowing with the eerie emptiness of a ghost.
It was quite the sight—here was a child who could barely be trusted to run a bath, let alone a kingdom, now floating ominously, berserk.
What actually happened?
“Y— ca—t, Mo—”
Burn's voice evaporated into the thick mana, utterly useless and frustratingly intangible. He was clearly mouthing, “You can’t go, Morgan,” his words forming silent wisp that failed to reach Momo.
But even in that brief, mute exchange, Burn knew the truth: Momo wouldn’t listen to him, even if his words had managed to bridge the dense mana divide.
Instead, she turned to him, her hair floating backwards from the explosion of mana. Attempted to speak, her words fragmenting in the dense space, “Ca—urn S—n Pe—dr—n, p—”
Burn, struggling to piece together her chopped audio, could only catch glimpses of her intent, “Ki— m—”
Kiss me.