After the last Mythical Assembly, Aroche was… rattled. Not that he was the only one—everyone present looked like they’d aged ten years on the spot.

“Please take a seat,” he said, purely out of muscle memory, slipping into command the moment Burn exited. No one moved. Apparently, shock had a silencing radius. So he rapped the table, sharp and deliberate. “Take a seat, ladies and gentlemen.”

It wasn’t until then that the rest followed Vlad and Isaiah’s example—who had, to their credit, already sat down like civilized men trying to process an apocalypse.

Fate.

First, there was the illegitimacy. Then Soulnaught Syndrome. After that, the public branding as a monster. And then a tyrant. Burn Pendragon and peace had apparently signed different contracts.

But this?

This took the cursed cake.

His best friend—the Emperor, the one man still breathing in his life who didn’t come with a side of betrayal—had somehow, quite accidentally, managed to stumble into an incestuous relationship. And not just any incest. Oh no. With her. The Saint. The Original Saint. Of course.

If destiny was a playwright, she had a sick sense of humor. Apparently, Burn was fated to barrel through moral boundaries like a drunk knight on a stolen horse, tossing aside honor, dignity, and social norms like yesterday’s bathwater.

As if being hated by both his mothers, ignored by his father, and stabbed in the back by his brother weren’t enough—turns out, the cherry on top was that he wasn’t even theirs in the first place.

“We will suspend the Assembly for now. Rest until further notice,” Aroche declared, voice tight. “My friends, fellow vassals of His Majesty Emperor Burn Pendragon—I offer you a chance to prove your loyalty. As Master Vlad said, do as you’re told.”

He dismissed them, watching the members file out one by one like stunned cattle after a lightning strike. He was halfway through the doorway himself when someone blocked his path: a boy. Not just any boy. The boy who, just days ago, had demanded Inkia like it was his birthright.

Yvain Edensworn. Burn’s adopted son. And Aroche’s personal headache by association.

“Sir Aroche, what’s happening? What’s wrong with Papa?”

The question was a dagger to the ribs. Aroche clenched his jaw until it ached, forcing a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The kid was a wreck—nervous, anxious, spiraling. So Aroche reached out and patted his head. What else could he do?

“It’s okay, nephew. We’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t know?” The boy asked the question like someone who’d been told “you’re too young” one too many times. There was an edge to it, sharp and bitter.

Aroche nodded.

Instantly, Yvain’s expression shifted—cold, detached, calculated. Aroche blinked. Saints above. That was Burn’s exact face, right down to the disapproving tilt of the chin when he was his age.

The resemblance was eerie. This little brat really was his son.

But no—this was not a problem Yvain should know about. In fact, this was the kind of problem no one should know about.

Not if they valued their sanity.

“This time, it’s better if no one knows,” Aroche said, voice calm and maddeningly even. “Not just you. I wish I didn’t know what just happened either, Your Majesty.”

Yvain’s head snapped up, eyes wide with something far worse than offense—real, gut-deep fear. It wasn’t being brushed off with “you’re too young” or “you wouldn’t understand” that shook him. It was this. The idea that even Aroche didn’t want to know. That whatever had happened was that vile.

“Even Papa?” he asked, like he already knew the answer and hated it.

Aroche nodded, drawing the boy into a quiet hug.

“Especially him,” he said, because irony was the only thing life ever served hot.

Behind Yvain stood Blair, wide-eyed and silent. The two teens had only been a hallway away when Burn came storming out like a man possessed—face twisted in rage, launching into the sky like a wrathful god with somewhere better to be and no time for humanity.

He walked past his own son without so much as a blink. As if Yvain were a rock on the path. As if he didn’t even exist.

“Is he okay?” Yvain asked, a whisper more than a question.

Aroche shook his head, slow and heavy. “No. Your papa is very much not okay. And right now… everyone is scared out of their damn minds.”

It wasn’t comfort. But it was honesty. And for Yvain and Blair, it was something. Something to hold on to. Something terrifying.

Because if the man who was the storm had broken, what in the world had managed to break him?

Caliburn Pendragon himself?

Aroche exhaled sharply. “Can you do me a favor and stay calm?” he asked, still somehow composed. “We can’t do anything right now. Later, your papa will make a decision. And we will follow.” 

Yvain nodded slowly. “Okay, Sir Aroche.”

“Good.” Aroche pulled away and ran a hand down his face. “Now I’ve got to talk to the others. After that, we find out where that bastard disappeared to…”

He trailed off, breath catching, hand trembling. The thought alone was enough to make his spine sweat.

Because if Burn was really gone—unhinged, unchecked, and airborne—this wasn’t a crisis.

This was apocalypse prelude.

And the only thing worse than Burn losing his mind was someone in that Assembly being stupid enough to poke it. Because if Burn decided the sky wasn’t enough, the earth might just crack open to make room.

He went to find Vlad and Isaiah first.

Of course, he already knew there was no solution. But that wasn’t going to stop him from doing the responsible thing: dragging the other two ancients into the pit with him.

One was a Dragon. One was a Vampire Cardinal. If anyone could help him process the unprocessable, it’d be those two—assuming they didn’t turn to dust from the sheer weight of the scandal.

He found them in the solarium. Bella was standing nearby, quiet and composed—likely too stunned to even do anything.

He gave her a nod. She nodded back. Civilized trauma all around.

“Lord Isaiah, Master Vlad,” he greeted, then nodded again at the vampire daughter, “Miss Bella.”

“Son, you’re here,” Vlad said. Isaiah, equally restrained, gave him a silent nod too.

And then... silence.

No one knew how to begin. What was the protocol for discovering your emperor is in love with his half-sister, who also happens to be the current Pope equivalent?

“We didn’t know about any of that,” Vlad finally said, in the tone of a man who was choosing calm so he wouldn’t start screaming.

Right. That Burn was Merlin’s son. That Soulnaught Syndrome wasn’t just some tragic affliction but practically a cursed birth certificate. That Arthur Pendragon hadn’t fathered him. That Morgan Le Fay, the saint they all worshipped, was actually his blood sister.

And Burn, in all his impeccable timing, went and fell for her. Naturally.

“Burn always had the identity of being illegitimate,” Aroche said, voice flat. “But His late Majesty Arthur never questioned him. His Soulnaught Syndrome mirrored the founder of our Great Soulnaught’s symptoms. And his mother was, of course, the Lady of the Lake—”

“Viviane, yes. That child…” Vlad sat down like his spine had finally given up. He rubbed his old, vampire face. “I didn’t know that child had that kind of relationship with Merlin either.”

Well, clearly, Viviane had decided to spice up the family tree by twisting it into a damn pretzel. For her to lie about Burn’s father—

They didn’t even know Soulnaught Syndrome was caused by fucking Merlin. Like, of all people. Of course it was. Why not?

This was such a mess.

“Let us attend to the matter at hand,” Isaiah gently said, trying to salvage the conversation before they spiraled into a collective existential crisis. “Son of Arth—nay, Brother Burn and Miss Momo, as for this trespass, let them judge it 'twixt themselves.”

Bella, still innocent enough to ask questions but not enough to like the answers, piped up. “But His Majesty told us to never tell Her Holiness. Isn’t he likely to never tell her himself? He wouldn’t be able to… right? Since… since he loves her so much…”

“He will,” Aroche said.

Unlike the others, Aroche didn’t have the luxury of underestimating Burn. He knew him too well. Too damn well. Perhaps more than Burn himself.

Maybe Burn wouldn’t say anything now. Maybe he’d even try to bury it deep enough to build a palace over it. But later, eventually… he’d tell her. Because he loved her too much not to.

Because Burn, despite every monstrous thing written about him, every curse whispered behind his back, wasn’t evil. Wasn’t immoral. Wasn’t selfish enough to drag the woman he loved into damnation with him.

And that was exactly what made it so goddamn tragic.

So, with that, Aroche slowly sank to his knees.