Morning tiptoed into the grand hall, a reluctant witness to the fallout from Burn's nocturnal extravaganza. The once lively room was now a tableau of debauchery's leftovers, a sprawl of Burn's men entwined in a dance of drunken slumber.

The air, thick with the aroma of stale ale, sweat, and the ghost of perfumes past, seemed to hold its breath, as if trying to forget the sins of the night before. The first light of day, unapologetically harsh, nosed its way through the dirt-streaked windows, casting a judgemental glow over the remnants of the night's excesses.

Burn, the puppet master of the night's revelries, was an island of satisfaction amidst a sea of unconscious bodies. His men’s snores provided the baseline to a symphony of occasional groans, muffled snorts, and the rhythmic drip-drip of an unclosed keg that someone had left as a monument to their inebriation.

The women, strewn across him were as motionless as discarded marionettes, their stillness broken only by an occasional twitch or sigh. The quiet was a palpable entity, a silent testament to the headaches-in-waiting and the memories that would be better off drowned in a sea of forgetfulness.

Marissa's eyelids fluttered open, her body wedged between a noblewoman and the man himself, Burn. They were draped over him like a pair of well-worn shawls, the centerpiece of this tableau of debauched decadence.

It was a familiar scene, the kind of morning-after that could only occur after nights fuelled by Burn's legendary hospitality.

Occasionally, a particularly adventurous—or perhaps fortunate—damsel would manage to weave her way into Burn's bed, becoming his paramour for the night. Yes, Burn was nothing if not a generous host.

Burn treated his women with a courteous detachment. He would ensure they were well compensated for their time, allow them to bask in the afterglow of his attention until they wearied of the game... mostly because the game held little appeal for him.

To Burn, they were like butterflies—beautiful to behold, but ultimately, fleeting distractions. His interest in them was as temporary as their presence in his bed, a mutual understanding that suited everyone involved.

Marissa remembered what he told her last night.

“Be her servant.”

The man told Marissa to become that woman’s servant.

At times, Marissa found herself pondering a great "what if". Would Burn ever find a reason to settle down? Would there ever be a woman he'd treat differently? Not some fleeting bedfellow, but someone he would want to keep by his side for more than an intoxicated night or two.

Or at least, someone he would utilize differently?

It was then that she noticed a small locket nestled against Burn's chest. With nothing better to do—and perhaps a dash of curiosity stoked by the morning's revelations—she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over the locket before gently prying it open.

What she saw inside made her eyes widen.

It was that woman. Not just any woman, but a woman whose portrait seemed to be painted with a warmth and affection wholly uncharacteristic of Burn. This wasn't just another face in the crowd; this was a face that held a place of honor in a locket close to Burn's heart.

It was painful to acknowledge, like a punch to the gut, that there might be more to Burn's relationships than she had thought.

Who the hell was this Miss Momo? Who was this celestial beauty that had seemingly captured the interest of the untamed Emperor Burn? Was she the one? The one who had cultivated a seed of love in Burn's otherwise barren heart? The one who had brought light into his life?

And then, the light entered.

No, not that self-righteous ball of gas one call the sun, who'd already passed its hungover judgment on the scene—it was the other light, Morgan Le Fay.

She slipped through the protesting hall door, a box cradled in her arms. It was filled with bottles, each radiating a glow that put even the gaudiest of disco balls to shame. The liquid within each bottle swirled and glittered like magic.

Her steps silent, she navigated the battlefield of inebriated warriors, arriving at the side of young Yvain.

The only child present, Yvain had been part of the night's festivities, surrounded by Burn's elite. The boy had been staying up past his bedtime, a rare treat, and was now lost in a sleep as deep as the ocean.

As his guardian, Morgan couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern, but then again, what's childhood without a little rule-breaking?

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The boy, Yvain, had remained on the safer shores of non-alcoholic beverages last night, so he wouldn't need anything more rejuvenating than a warm bath, a hearty breakfast, and a few more hours of sleep.

His greatest challenge would probably be scrubbing off the sticky residue of sugary drinks and the odd wayward streamer tangled in his hair.

Burn, on the other hand, well... Burn might require a dash more attention—

Navigating the post-party debris with the grace of a gazelle in a china shop, Morgan finally arrived at her destination.

She deposited her box of miracles on the low table in front of Burn, pushing aside the empty soldiers of a war waged on sobriety to make room. With a sigh of stoic resignation, she perched herself on the table, taking a moment to assess the scene before her.

There, in the eye of the Hurricane Burn, was the man himself. Caliburn, the monarch, sprawled out in slumber amongst a bouquet of noblewomen who framed his young and robust form like a classical painting—albeit one that would make a nun blush.

They lay in tangled repose, seemingly undisturbed since the night's shenanigans, their peaceful slumber a testament to the hedonistic merriment that had unfolded. Quite the party, indeed.

Morgan's gaze drifted down to Burn's knees, and she gave his funny bone a light knock, eliciting a small jolt.

"Ugh, what?" Burn grumbled, rousing from his alcohol-laden slumber. His words froze in his throat as he found himself face-to-face with an ethereal beauty, her smile radiant against the room's morning light. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had crossed over to the other side—heaven.

But it was just Morgan.

"Here," she said, her voice as smooth as the potion she retrieved from her box. Uncorking the bottle, she handed it to him. "Mana potion."

"Why?" His voice was a gravelly echo of its usual self, but he accepted the bottle nonetheless.

"You don’t share your liquor as a precaution against poison, right?" Morgan sifted through the empty wine bottles, fishing out one that was completely drained. She held it up, sniffing its hollow interior. "Hmm, you even finished it."

"I'm not footing the bill if some fool decided to steal a swig and died," Burn retorted, his eyes narrowing at the potion Morgan had offered him.

She knew a run-of-the-mill antidote wouldn't do him any good, so she had procured mana potions instead. And not just any mana potion, but one of the rarest and most costly on the market...

Burn downed the potion in a single gulp, not giving it a moment's thought.

"So this is your secret?" He asked, wiping a trace of the potion from his lips. "You don't need my kisses anymore now that you have these?"

With a sigh, Morgan reached into her box and brought out another potion. "I managed to acquire these when we returned to Edensor. Yvain brought even more for me when he got here—" but Burn cut her off, placing a hand over hers.

"I'm fine. You should drink these yourself. Recover quickly," he said.

"Hey, you just ingested a fair amount of poison last night. I can easily produce more of these," Morgan countered, her brows furrowing in concern. "What possessed you to drink them in the first place?"

"Standard liquor barely makes me tipsy, okay? These poisoned ones at least add a dash of... excitement," Burn retorted, his words eliciting a stifled laugh from Morgan.

"You can concoct high-grade mana potions?" Burn asked.

"Who do you think I am?" Morgan replied.

"Point taken."

"Here."

"Fine," Burn conceded, reaching out to take the proffered potion. In the end, he drank more, despite his initial resistance. But right after that, he became a bit suspicious, so he asked, “What's with this random kindness in the morning? What do you want?”

Morgan blinked, a subtle spark of mischief glimmering in her eyes.

“What did you do?” Burn prodded, pulling her jaw to face him when she looked elsewhere, feigning ignorance.

“I read through your library,” Momo muttered with her moist, red lips.

“Huh?”

“The library near your chamber,” Morgan confessed, her words barely more than a whisper, her eyes closed in anticipation of his reaction.

Burn narrowed his eyes again in confusion. “And?”

"I read all of it, okay! Your books, the ones you collected from outsiders... they were so fascinating, I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry!" Morgan's voice was a mix of excitement and apprehension, her tone rising even if her volume didn't.

Burn blinked. “Okay?”

“You’re not angry? You’re not hiding them?” Morgan meekly asked, her regretful expression so beautiful and adorable Burn wanted to squeeze it.

“You think I need to hide something? Silly, they’re just normal cultural material—”

“Even the weird ones?”

“What do you mean, weird ones? I don’t have weird taste—pfft—”

Morgan burst into a fit of giggles as Burn attempted to stifle his own laughter. "It's okay, on second thought, they weren't that weird," she teased, her whispers punctuated by bouts of laughter.

“They’re not weird at all, Miss Momo,” Burn countered, feigning indignation.

“Yeah, they’re not,” she teased.

“You said they’re exciting, so you’re just as weird as me.”

"It's not about preference, it's research. I love learning about new things."

“Sure. So, did you sneak out last night and read until morning?"

“Yup.”

“Pffft—”

Maybe it was because he was in a great mood. Whether it was the lingering effects of the wine, or perhaps the poison, Burn found himself surprisingly inclined to laughter that morning.

Oh, absolutely. Because what better way to keep the rumor mill quiet than to engage in flirtatious banter amidst a crowd of people who, at some point, had regained consciousness?

It was a flawless plan, truly. After all, who would possibly want to spoil such a delightful moment of shared amusement with the minor inconvenience of spreading scandalous whispers? No, not a soul. Bravo, you two. Bravo.

Augh, you know, not that they cared.