Morgan Le Fay—

Emperor Burn just called her Morgan Le Fay, the legendary Infinite Witch!

"The locket..." Burn's eyebrows creased. He pointed at Marissa, who was still kneeling like everyone present. "It fell on the ground. This girl picked it up for me."

As soon as the words left his mouth, a chill ran down Marissa's spine that would put the Arctic to shame. She had stolen that locket from him earlier, before Morgan showed up and before Burn had awoken—or was it?

Burn might’ve been awake after all.

Raising her face, she met a pair of glares so intense they could have melted steel beams. Burn's stare was bad enough, but it was his merciful narrative—that she had simply picked the locket up for him—that made her feel like a balloon at the mercy of a pin.

Morgan wasn't about to be fooled by such a charmingly naive tale, though. She stared down at Marissa with an intensity that made Burn's glare look like a friendly invitation.

"Didn't I tell you, you have to wear it always, so I can protect your soul, Caliburn?” She was half-angry, half-frustrated, a tear escaping the custody of her bottom eyelash. “You wouldn't feel as much pain if you wore it..."

“I’m fine now,” Burn grasped her head to his chest, but the force of her glare could have outshone the sun. It was hotter, scarier, downright apocalyptic.

Without uttering a word, Marissa pulled the locket from her sleeve and offered it to Burn, who snatched it up faster than a seagull would a hot chip. Immediately, she prostrated herself, her entire body shaking uncontrollably.

“Let’s go,” Burn whispered to Morgan, checking her pale, exhausted face.

"Your Majesty," Galahad said, raising his face. "What should we do with this man?"

Burn turned to the man who had fainted on the ground, knocked out by Galahad himself. He decided, "Prison. Render him unable to move or speak."

"Yes, sir."

"Yvain," Burn called to the boy who was also kneeling, "Come and help your master heal."

"Yes!" Yvain leapt to his feet when Burn started to lift the woman off the ground. The boy understood what Burn meant and fetched the box of high-grade mana potion from the table.

"Lots to mull over. I will retreat for today, but tomorrow, gather everyone for the war strategy meeting," Burn said to Galahad and his other men.

He turned, walking calmly toward the door, and before leaving, he said, "No one is to bother me tonight."

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Before the party, Burn, of course, had decided to give his usual metal-heeled shoes the day off, but his footfalls still reverberated with an ominous rhythm that bounced off the marble floors. It was a heavy, steady and deep sound.

The others dared not so much as twitch a nostril until the macabre metronome of his steps disappeared into the echoey abyss of the corridor.

Galahad was the first to stir, flashing the guards a look that could've stripped paint. The message was crystal clear: 'Get rid of the human paperweight and the floor's morbid decoration, if you please.’

The woman’s decapitated body and the unconscious man were hastily whisked away. Yet the room's atmosphere clung to its grim temperament still.

"Gather the Round Table," Galahad ordered, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. "The rest can hit the road."

"And what about the party attendees, sir?" inquired a squire. "Rumors will..."

"Rumors will bloom like weeds, naturally," Galahad retorted in a conscious threatening tone. "But, we're all in the loop about their fate, are we not? Be dare. It's nothing but a mild workout for Soulnaught to prune the chatterboxes."

The people paled.

The party-goers, as if on cue, vanished faster than a cake at a kids' party. You could have heard a pin drop, they were so hushed not a whisper was uttered.

This included Marissa, who was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane she was propped up by the three other noblewomen.

Once the room was cleared of the riff-raff, the six members of the Round Table, who happened to be present, drew in like moths to a flame. They were a sight for sore eyes, rumpled and nursing hangovers that could slay dragons.

Yet, their faces were a study in uniformity - grim as tombstones on a moonless night. Their expressions were as solemn as a tax collector at an audit, being the exclusive connoisseurs of the severity of the state of affairs.

And even if one of them was batting below average in the understanding department, his face was still etched with a solemnity to rival the others, if not more so.

"Percival, Bedivere, Morien, Gawain,” Galahad announced, turning to the last, freshest-faced fellow, “Tristan."

The five nodded their heads, echoing, "Galahad."

"Don’t kick things off just yet. I’ve dispatched my men to round up the others. They're around the palace... somewhere," Bedivere, the biggest and tallest said. His crew had slipped out with the party-goers earlier, and he had the confidence that they'd be back soon.

"I feel like I don’t know something," Tristan muttered.

"Count your lucky stars, lad. Can’t believe I’d see it again," Gawain sighed.

"Again?" Tristan's eyes widened. "You’ve seen His Majesty in such a... state? He looked so…”

"Weak?" Morien interjected. “Truth be told, never. Not even during his childhood. That's why this is as screwed up as a soup sandwich.”

Tristan turned to the oldest of the group, Percival. But words escaped him, not even a peep towards Galahad.

"Let's cool our heels for the others," Galahad suggested, sinking into a chair and knocking back some leftover hooch on the hall table. His heavy drinking scene looked as out of place as a vegan at a barbecue—nobody had ever seen him hit the bottle so hard before.

In no time at all, four other knights strolled in.

SLAM!

Galahad treated his now empty booze bottle to a table dance. “Park your behinds,” he ordered, “Take a seat.”

One of them piped up, “Galahad, Landevale's not here yet.”

“It’s fine, she was with me on the battlefield, so she’s as clued in as I am. I’ll catch her up later,” Galahad said, waiting for them to sit facing the same table.

Ten knights, three vacant seats.

“What happened?” one of the late arrivals, Yvolt, a young woman wielding a rapier, inquired.

Galahad took a pause before revealing, “Most of you are in the loop on His Majesty's predicament.”

Their eyes went as wide as saucers.

"I think he’s having a relapse.”