It wouldn’t be a formal event.

Burn had about as much fondness for formal soirees as a cat has for water. It didn’t have much use with the way he ruled the empire anyway.

While the empire's glitterati continued to swan around in their palaces and mansions, playing the game of pleasantries and formalities, Burn swam against the tide, much like a salmon with an attitude problem.

The parties he hosted were less champagne and caviar, and more ale and bawdy singalongs. They were mainly for his men. They were grand, no doubt. The kind of grandeur that doesn't need a three-piece suit or a string of pearls to validate it. More... well, let's call it 'liberated casual'.

And there he was, Burn himself, sauntering into the banquet hall in his dark, opulent silk house robe, the embodiment of devil-may-care insouciance. He was probably the only one with the audacity (or the authority) to wear pajamas in a palace banquet.

Yet, despite Burn's disdain for formality, the hall was still filled to the brim with the empire's traditional nobility. They were like a flock of peacocks in a barnyard, each with their own hidden agendas tucked neatly under their ornate robes.

No sooner had Burn set foot in the banquet hall than he was swarmed by an eager gaggle of opportunists. They buzzed around him like flies to a honey pot, each one vying for his attention.

The topics were as diverse as a rainbow – from the predictability of the weather to the unpredictability of their family’s daughters.

Politics, economics, social affairs, the discourse swung back and forth like a pendulum on caffeine. And finance, oh dear, so much finance it could make a banker blush. Was there a veiled hint of an engagement offer thrown in there? Who knows?

Burn, however, was as unresponsive as a statue in a park. He gave them a cursory glance that could freeze lava, and flicked them off like annoying flies.

"Send your requests to the imperial court," he intoned, his voice as cold as his gaze. It was as if he was ordering a cup of coffee, not brushing off the cream of the empire's nobility.

Because, surely, in this time of war, his courtiers could handle these trivial matters, couldn't they? They were, after all, well versed in the art of bureaucracy, a talent as useful as a chocolate teapot in a war.

But then, who was Burn to deny them their moment of glory? And so, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he left the opportunists to their own devices, their mouths agape like fish out of water.

Burn claimed his spot in a corner, a vantage point from where he could survey the entire hall. It was a swirling kaleidoscope of entertainers, the entertained, and those who seemed to be on a mission to entertain. It was like watching a live performance of a social epic, complete with all the trimmings.

But, oh yes, amidst this riot of colors and sounds, there were clear demarcation lines, as obvious as chalk lines on a blackboard. It's almost as if an invisible wall separated the socializing crowd from the celebrating masses.

On one side, you had the social butterflies, fluttering from one conversation to another, their laughter as light as champagne bubbles. On the other, the reveling throng, people who were there to soak up the festive spirit, their joy as infectious as a viral dance craze.

The emperor sat like an artist, observing his creation, sipping his wine, and letting the evening unfold at its own pace. It was his party, after all.

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Burn had barely raised his hand to pour himself a goblet of wine when two fluttering noblewomen swooped in like hawks to a mouse, relieving him of the arduous task. Then came two more.

Ah, there they were.

The empire's surplus of unmarried noble daughters was legendary, but only those delicately balanced on the social ladder – high enough for prestige but not so high to be above wine-pouring duties – would flit to his side like moths to a flame.

Burn let them. Why not? It was convenient.

Their presence was as helpful as a pocket on a shirt. Not that they'd dare to start anything untoward. Their role was primarily to keep him entertained and prevent the dreaded boredom from setting in.

They chattered around him like birds on a wire, discussing the latest happenings in the empire. It was like listening to a live radio broadcast, complete with the occasional laughter and the constant hum of chatter.

Burn, however, had a knack for selective hearing. His brain would sift through the chatter like a gold miner panning for gold, separating the rumors from the truth, the gossip from the facts.

Listening to the ladies' talk was a pleasant distraction, a soothing background noise that was as relaxing as a babbling brook. Burn would tune in and out of the conversation as he pleased, participating when the mood struck him, or simply enjoying the ambient noise when it didn't.

It was like having his own personal soundtrack, curated to his tastes.

Yes.

He knew these women curated themselves. Like algorithms matched for his interest. How talented.

"My, so you do know how to enjoy yourself."

Burn's eyes flickered at the sound of the enchanting voice, his gaze naturally trailing towards its source.

"Hi, Your Majesty!" Yvain chimed, appearing at his master's side. "This seat is vacant, Master. I'll fetch you a drink."

"Oh, sweet Yvain, why don't you head off with Galahad and have a good time," the master, Morgan, suggested as she gracefully sank into the offered seat. Her face, hidden behind a veil, tilted upward, offering a nod of reassurance.

"Alright then. Master, Your Majesty, please savor the evening!" Yvain didn't hesitate to rush off.

Morgan's soft chuckle rippled through the air, and Burn finally understood. The woman who had claimed the empty seat, a stone's throw away yet within their shared seating space, was wearing a veil.

No wonder there was no uproar, enchanted stares and blastful commotions following her tonight.

Clad in a modest blue dress, she was no less resplendent than the other noble ladies. However, the dress, with its careful tailoring, accentuated her figure in such a way that she looked deliciously tempting, despite its conservative cut.

Simply scrumptious.

Her veil, a canopy of lace, stretched from her forehead to her chest, a strict barrier to her face. Her hair, styled in a neat bun, added to her allure, and the pale white ears peeking from behind the veil were the only hint of her hidden beauty.

What did she say the last time they talked? Ah, yes.

"I'll certainly find a way to break the curse. It's more like an unfinished spell than an imperfect one... but my soul energy hasn't fully recovered yet. It will soon, but for now, I'm managing. I won't be threatening you with my life."

Fair.

If it weren't for the loops, he might have faced death once. Well, not really.

The crux of the matter was that even without the spell, he wouldn't die. The spell itself had created the scenario for his demise. So, in a twisted way, the spell was still a problem.

"But after the white dwarf, wouldn't it be wise to keep the curse for now?"

"Why are you worrying so much? Who do you think I am?"

Burn had retorted. But even so, the spell was somewhat convenient for him to keep.

It allowed him to push his limits without the fear of death looming over him, like a safety net that made the high-wire act less daunting—

CLINK!

"I'm truly sorry, but His Majesty has prohibited anyone from partaking wine from the same bottle as him."

One of the women around him had swiftly snatched the wine bottle Morgan reached out to, and poured more for Burn’s glass. Morgan’s hand was still floating in the air when she tilted her head.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” she calmly said.

Putting the wine bottle back to its spot, the woman said in a sweet, soothing, annoyingly curated voice, “Please forgive her, Your Majesty.”