Thunk.

Yvain, Aroche, Bella, Isaiah, and even the ancient, iron-nerved Cardinal Vlad flinched in unison.

Thunk.

A synchronized shiver rippled up their spines like some kind of divine warning.

Thunk.

The sound was unmistakable—heavy, deliberate, rhythmic. A butcher’s knife kissing a cutting board in unsettling harmony. Between the two, a lamb was being dismantled—efficiently, expertly, and with a precision that screamed suppressed rage.

No one knew exactly why Burn had invited them here—into this aggressively culinary show—rather than simply accompanying Morgan to the Assembly.

Then again, everyone kinda knew exactly why.

The man was, in no uncertain terms, furious. Not the shouty, flailing kind of fury. No, this was colder. Sharper. The kind of anger that fillets meat with terrifying grace while making seasoned war heroes question their life choices.

Aroche tried for diplomacy. “Master Vlad, you’re the oldest of the heroes. You should’ve known Merlin pretty well, so why did you also assume he was Her Holiness’ biological father?”

Vlad scoffed, fangs flashing. “Merlin? Me? Please. I respected the bastard because I thought he fathered Her Holiness and because he helped us take down the first Demon Lord.”

Isaiah muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else. "Urien wouldst have flown into a great fury, had he known that man were in sooth his sire…"

A fair point. Tragic, really. The heroes of old had trusted Merlin deeply. He was a myth given flesh, cloaked in wisdom and mystery, always just a little too enigmatic to doubt.

They’d bled beside him, laughed with him, mourned with him—especially after Romeuf fell. Urien had stepped up then, led the charge, and personally dealt the final blow to the Demon Lord.

Five centuries later, the script repeated itself. Merlin’s other bastard—Burn—finished off the next Demon Lord. A neat little generational loop of tragic sons cleaning up their father’s messes.

And the Soulnaught Syndrome had always loitered in the background. A few unfortunate cases here and there over the centuries. Quiet, sad deaths. All tied to “mystery origins.” But now the pattern was undeniable.

Of all the cursed children of Merlin, only two survived to adulthood—Urien and Burn.

And both were legendary. Worshipped. Feared. But the rest were dead. Decomposed footnotes in medical journals.

Meanwhile, Burn was now roasting the lamb like it personally offended him. The smell was divine. The tension was apocalyptic.

Yvain eyed the meat with twelve-year-old desperation, then decided he liked having a father more than he liked lunch. He stayed silent.

This morning, he’d finally been told what actually happened at the Assembly—the real reason his father had stormed out two days ago like a god striking down from Olympus.

And now Yvain was pale. Spectral. Completely understood why Aroche hadn’t told him earlier.

Because it was blasphemy. Literal, screaming-from-the-mountaintop level blasphemy.

Incest? His father and his mother?!

He clenched his little fists tight, lips trembling. No rage, no tears. Just a quiet, solemn vow in his heart. A curse for the Demon Lord who had uttered one single, carefully planted half lie—and broken his father’s entire world with it.

“Father, do you think Demon Lord Lancelot knew and deceived us, or do you think he too bought into the myth that Her Holiness was Merlin’s biological daughter?” Bella asked, directing the question toward Vlad.

“Lancelot wouldn’t know,” came Morgan’s voice—dry, composed, and already far too close. She appeared beside them without any sound. She walked past the awkwardly seated group, who had all been loitering at the kitchen's edge under the flimsy pretense of waiting for Burn’s therapeutic cookery to finish.

“If all of you assumed I was his by blood, then surely the Demon Lord, of all people, would’ve assumed the same,” she added.

“Besides, Merlin likely intended to cultivate me like a well-watered houseplant. Only, instead of fruit, he wanted a ripe, harvested soul. Much easier to keep the lie going if you just... never mention the adoption.”

Of course. The simplest magic was omission.

Morgan recalled that Merlin was never the type to keep long-term company unless there was something in it for him. Companionship? Loyalty? Please.

Every so-called companion in his ‘adventures’ had the same job description: be useful now, be disposable later. They were background characters in a story where he played all the main roles.

He had only ever broken his quiet streak of betrayal three years ago—when he blatantly stole 500 years’ worth of Morgan’s soul energy.

And of course, after that grand heist, he disappeared into the dimensional rift—one conjured, naturally, by the stolen energy itself. When you plan to leave the stage, why not set the theater on fire?

He didn’t need to hide anymore. She was supposed to be comatose for six years. Unfortunately for him, Burn had the gall to wake her up early, just as the year began.

Then again, perhaps Merlin had been hoping to kill her altogether, throw her back into the cosmic gacha system of death and reincarnation. At the very least, his plan would buy him a few quiet years before the truth emerged like a corpse in a well.

Morgan calmly stepped behind Burn, who stood over the fire like a wrathful demi-god of domesticity. She reached around him, undoing the blood-slick leather apron he’d worn earlier to carve the lamb. In its place, she slipped on a softer, cleaner cloth apron.

She chuckled under her breath. “You didn’t want to queue yesterday. Now look at you, personally roasting the lamb.”

“I made batter for the wraps. Go heat the pan,” Burn replied without so much as a glance, his eyes fixed on the meat as if it had personally wronged him in a past life.

“Yeeees,” Morgan sighed with performative exasperation, slipping into her own apron and went to wash her hands.

She approached the stove, testing the pan’s readiness with the tips of her fingers in that dangerously casual way that screamed "I’ve died before, what’s a little burn?" A bit of olive oil followed. 

The batter was poured and spread with the kind of effortless precision that made it clear this wasn’t her first time flipping food while emotionally processing divine betrayal.

She wondered, in the brief quiet, what exactly had killed her.

Because only she had died that time.

Pathetic.

She flicked the pan, and the wrap flipped with perfect form—no mess, no fuss. Just a silent flourish that said, “Still got it,” even if the soul didn’t.

Then, Yvain chose this peaceful culinary moment to lob a conversational grenade across the kitchen.

“Do you think there are still people with Soulnaught Syndrome out there?” he asked.

Burn froze mid-motion, his hands still gripping the bowl of freshly mixed condiments. He set it down slowly—deliberately.

“I’ve told Galahad to find them,” he said, voice quiet. “If they exist at all.”

Anyone born with Soulnaught Syndrome before him was probably long gone—another forgotten footnote in Merlin’s tragic family album. But those born after him? Maybe. Maybe they were still out there, waiting to be found. Waiting to be saved.

They were his real siblings.

“To cure them, wouldn’t they need to… eat a unicorn and a merfolk like you, Papa?” Yvain asked, carefully.

Technically, yes.

He could probably arrange for a merfolk to volunteer as posthumous lunch—Aidyl Navarre might be willing to send a death row convict from his kingdom. The merfolk, at least, had a process for these things. But unicorns? That was another problem entirely.

The last time, Burn had been “fortunate” enough to stumble across a predator unicorn—one that hunted women and young girls. The kind of rare, morally unambiguous monster the universe only gift-wrapped for heroes in myth and prophecy. He hadn’t heard of another like it in years.

And frankly, he wouldn’t wish the remedy on anyone. Even if it worked. Even if it cured them.

Unicorns and merfolk were still sentient. Eating them wasn’t a cure. It was a curse to abandon humanity, which he did once.

Morgan placed a hand on his arm, grounding him.

“We’ll find a way if it comes to that,” she said. “If your siblings are out there.”

That afternoon, they sat down to eat lamb wraps together.

.

.

.

.

.

.

--------------------------

Bracing myself for war!