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

“My lord—” Bella’s voice trembled, reaching out as if she could hold back the weight of everything crashing down on his back. Vlad moved instantly, alarmed. Even Isaiah, who rarely betrayed emotion, blinked in surprise.

But Aroche didn’t stop.

He knelt, spine straight and proud in humiliation, and raised his face.

“My brother, Burn, is crazy.”

The room held its breath.

Because of course he was. Of course Burn Pendragon was insane. No sane man could carry that much, live through that much, choose to keep living through that much.

Still, they waited. Let him speak.

“His Majesty is selfish. Arrogant. Brash. Brutish.” Aroche’s voice stayed calm, but it cracked in the corners. “He’s tyrannical when it suits him. He’s the villain in too many stories to count. People fear him. Deeply. Sometimes for good reason.”

He inhaled. Not the kind of breath meant to calm—this was the breath of a man trying to stop his soul from shattering.

“But this…” he said, voice now quiet, almost reverent, “this is the first time that stupid brother of mine has ever fallen in love.” A pause. “Perhaps the only time.”

And there it was.

A confession as heavy as any war crime Burn had ever been accused of.

“So I beg of you…” Aroche said, turning to Vlad, then Isaiah. “Master Vlad. Lord Isaiah. Please…”

But the sentence failed him. What was he even asking? What could he ask? Forgiveness? Mercy? For a crime no one had a name for?

He swallowed down the weight of it anyway. “Please spare my brother… of pain. Of shame.” His voice cracked then. The words that followed weren’t pretty—they weren’t eloquent or kingly. They were real.

“Please. I beg of you… let him have his dignity. Let him keep his honor.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with grief.

Vlad and Isaiah stood still—too still. Bella knelt beside him now, quiet and helpless. Her hands hovered, wanting to lift him, not knowing how.

“He is—no matter what people say about him—a man of dignity. And honor,” Aroche went on, steadying himself. “Yes, he’s a sinner. Yes, he’s a monster. A murderer. A tyrant. But every sin he’s committed, every horror he’s endured… was born of sacrifice. Of wisdom. He is a wise, wise king.”

And now, Aroche pressed his fist to the cold floor, lowering his head.

“Please let him love Her Holiness. Let him carry this, resolve this, without… pressure. Without judgment.”

He choked back emotion. “He may act like he doesn’t care what others think. But I know better. I know he does. Especially yours.”

His voice dropped to something hoarse and intimate. “Master Vlad. Lord Isaiah. You two are the closest people to Her Holiness. Her guardians. Her—”

“Son.” Vlad’s voice cut through gently. “Stand up.”

Aroche lifted his head, unsure if he’d angered them, shamed himself further. But what met him were not harsh faces, not scornful ones—but ones worn with pain. Understanding. Old, bitter compassion.

He had thrown himself at the feet of legends—men carved out of myth and tragedy. And they were quiet, not because they didn’t understand.

But because they did.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

They would confront Burn. They would step forward, not because of righteousness or judgment. But because they cared.

Aroche couldn’t have this.

Burn would listen to them—more than anyone else, taking it to heart. And Aroche could not let Burn face them alone. Not for this. Not for her and himself.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He stayed on his knees.

“Stand,” Vlad said again, more firmly this time.

And still, Aroche hesitated—because to rise now, before his king was safe, would be betrayal.

“You kneeling like this… perhaps means you don’t know what kind of woman Miss Momo is,” Vlad finally said, voice slow, deliberate.

Aroche flinched, eyes closing as if the words physically struck him.

“That girl’s too sharp for her own good,” Vlad continued, tone half-wry, half-weary. “No matter how clever that boy thinks he is, Momo would see through him just as easily. Say he could fool her, somehow. Even then—once they’re back, once she sees us—she’ll know.”

If Burn wanted to deceive her, he’d have to do the impossible: erase her entire world. Keep her from ever seeing them again.

That was never going to happen.

Not telling her wasn’t about keeping a secret. It was about stalling inevitability. Burn himself knew that.

“Yet the true affliction,” Isaiah said quietly, “is that she would not ask.”

Aroche’s eyes flew open, stunned.

“Miss Momo… is gentle past all reason,” Isaiah said, his voice gentling like a confession. “So gentle that, did aught seem amiss, she would know it in her soul. Yet she would press not. Perchance she would entreat, aye—but never command. Not if it did wound those whom she holdeth dear.”

“And if Brother Burn did seal his lips,” Isaiah went on, “she would endure it. Still would she take his hand in troth. Still would she gird herself 'gainst the scorn of men—even knowing not the cause.”

“And when she finally does understand,” Vlad said, “she’ll forgive him.”

That was the part that scared them.

Because what came after forgiveness was uncharted territory.

“She’ll try to fix it,” Vlad said simply.

The Original Saint—Morgan Le Fay herself—was not a being limited by logic or the laws that bound ordinary men. Her nature was singular. The rest of them had to live within consequences. But her? For her, the impossible was an open door.

Not only Burn. Even The Infinite Witch had never fallen in love before.

And unlike Burn, who would sooner set the world on fire to end his pain—Morgan would choose the other path.

Sacrifice.

“What are you implying?” Aroche asked, quietly, cautiously—dreading the answer.

“I don’t want to even imagine it,” Vlad muttered, voice hollow.

Because in this room, he was the only one who knew the full weight of that curse. The one that tied Morgan and Burn together—knotting them through time itself.

And if someone like Morgan Le Fay—someone capable of paying the price of the time loop—made her decision?

No one could predict what she’d do.

And worse.

No one could stop her.

***

Sometime past midnight, word slinked into Aroche’s chamber—Burn had been found. Alive, brooding, and very much in the company of Morgan.

Apparently, he wasn’t in the best of moods. How bad? Bad enough to allegedly fling Count Rosberg’s unfortunate nephew across the principality palace courtyard. For what reason? Practically none. Classic.

Poor sod. Wrong place, wrong emperor.

Still, Aroche knew his brother too well. Burn wasn’t the type to casually assault someone without a solid reason—or at the very least, a Burn-class reason. So, without waiting for dawn, he made his way to Camlann.

There, he found Burn—miraculously in one piece and in a noticeably improved temper, flirting with Morgan in the instrument hall.

Then—tug.

Aroche glanced down. His sleeve was being tugged by her. The woman who had insisted—no, demanded—to tag along in this lovely royal manhunt. Miss Bella.

Behind her stood Count Rosberg, looking like he’d aged a decade overnight, and some long-haired blonde fellow who bore the distinct marks of someone who had just survived a very personal appointment with death: strangulation bruises, battered expression, and a very confused aura.

Ah. This must be the nephew.

“What’s your name?” Aroche asked, turning to the human punching bag.

Count Rosberg gave a discreet nudge. The boy straightened like a pole.

“Sir, my name is Alexei. Alexei Rosberg,” he said with a bow so stiff it creaked.

“And what, exactly, did you do to win such… focused attention from His Majesty?” Aroche asked, already bracing himself.

Alexei took a breath, like someone reciting his sins at confession. “Sir, I, uh… I happened to dine at the same place as His Majesty. Then I… may have bumped into him. Twice. And at the gate, he claimed I was—well, he said I was eyeing Her Majesty and—”

“Hm.” Aroche cut him off with a slow nod of dawning comprehension.

Right. So not only was this kid in the wrong place at the wrong time—he had also caught eyeing Morgan. Excellent choice.

In short: Alexei wasn’t just unlucky. He was actively courting death.

Even Bella grimaced at it and had to cover her face in grief.