“S-sir, please calm down! Please put the Count’s nephew down!”
The palace guard’s voice cracked like a poorly tuned instrument. Morgan, standing just a few steps behind her husband—who currently had a grown man by the neck—cast a contemptuous glance downward.
“Why are you commenting on your Emperor’s actions?” she asked, voice silken with venom. “Are you that important?”
The guard froze. To his credit, so did everyone else. They had seen the pair approaching the palace gate on foot, casually, as if out for a late-night stroll rather than arriving at one of the empire’s major strongholds. Who could have guessed it was them?
After all, why would the Emperor and his rumored Empress show up unannounced, unguarded, and unbothered? On foot, no less?
Besides, wasn’t the Emperor supposed to be in Inkia? Attending the Great Mythical Assembly? The whole world knew about it—every noble, every court, every faction—because this Assembly had been a public affair. A grand announcement. The Soulnaught Empire basking in the loyalty of mythic world leaders, with the Emperor at the helm.
And yet—here he was. Not in Camelot. Not in Inkia. But in Camlann, of all places.
The man Burn held in the air clawed uselessly at the iron grip around his neck. His feet didn’t even touch the ground.
“You confirmed our identity the moment I left that cufflink at the restaurant,” Burn said evenly, voice as warm as a snowstorm. “Still not going to greet me?”
“I—I—gasp! I’m—please—let me—go—! U-uncle—!”
Burn did. Violently. He hurled the man toward the palace gate, where he collided with the steel railings in a crash loud enough to startle the stars. Somewhere in the heavens, decorum gave a quiet, apologetic sigh.
More guards arrived, alarmed and breathless. But the damage was done—both physical and psychological. And Burn? Burn wasn’t even interested in the aftermath. The man had annoyed him. That was reason enough.
The Count in charge of the palace burst onto the scene moments later, using what little Force Art he knew to arrive with slightly more dignity than a kicked door. He skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees like a man praying for rain.
“My lord, forgive me! It is entirely my fault. This nephew of mine—he’s from the countryside. He knows no manners!” Count Rosberg said, forehead practically kissing the gravel.
And as soon as he knelt, the rest of the staff followed. Like a wave folding beneath the moon.
Of course Count Rosberg would kneel. His nephew now lay sprawled near the gate, unmoving, spine possibly restructured in alphabetical order. What could he say? What dare he say?
“Your nephew?” Burn asked, still stone-faced, though the faintest edge of disdain sharpened his words.
“Yes, sir,” Count Rosberg replied, bowing so low it bordered on geological.
Burn made no further comment. Instead, he turned to Morgan and, with all the ceremony of picking up something infinitely precious and mildly amused, swept her into his arms.
And just like that, they strolled past the carnage and into the palace—like royalty come home, and too tired to deal with fools.
Halfway through the pathway, Burn glanced down at Morgan’s face. She was unusually quiet. Calm, even. When she met his gaze, she said nothing—no reprimand, no sigh, no flutter of disapproval.
Strange. Normally, Morgan Le Fay—soft-hearted to a fault when it came to the petty or pathetic—would have chastised him for his rather brutal method of correcting etiquette. Especially over a random, garden-variety idiot.
But not tonight. Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps she was distracted. Or perhaps she simply couldn’t summon the energy to stop her husband from doing what emperors do best: terrorize the incompetent.
Of course, the palace men knew none of this. To them, she was still an enigma wrapped in silk and sealed with a title—the Empress.
Sure, they had heard whispers. That the Emperor had finally chosen someone. That she was devastatingly beautiful, mysterious, beloved. But they hadn’t yet connected the dots that she was the Morgan Le Fay—the Infinite Witch, the Holiness herself.
Burn planned to make that little revelation during the wedding. It would be a stunning surprise: cake, crowns, and cosmic power.
So naturally, the guards didn’t blink when the Empress mirrored the Emperor’s iron will and frostbitten temper. They were used to Burn. After all, most of them came from his old principality. The idea of an Empress with a matching mean streak? Frankly, it made sense.
They arrived at the palace proper, then made their way to the sleeping chamber without ceremony or comment. The Count’s nephew—a limp memory on the gate—was not mentioned again.
Burn began stripping out of his garments, his voice casual as he folded his coat like someone who hadn’t just thrown a man into a wall.
“Tomorrow, remind me to have someone send word to Inkia. Tell them we’re on a break.” He paused, tugging off a cuff. “We’ll return the day after. What do you think?” seaʀᴄh thё NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
“Okay,” Morgan murmured, already climbing into bed like a woman who’d witnessed ten worse things before breakfast.
And that was that. No lectures. No moral debates. Just one unconscious noble, one casually tyrannical couple, and the promise of a slightly delayed diplomatic return.
It wasn’t until Burn climbed into bed, pulling Morgan close beside him, that the silence shifted.
He mouthed at her soundlessly: “Who the fuck?”
Morgan gave the smallest shake of her head, replying just as silently: “I don’t know.”
Stillness returned. A long, thoughtful pause.
“Coincidence?” she mouthed.
Burn’s eyes narrowed. His mouth moved in deliberate sarcasm: “So much coincidence? What am I, the main character?”
Morgan took her time mouthing her reply, slow and precise, like a scholar quoting universal law: “The only thing sloppier than fiction is reality. In fiction, everything has to make sense. In reality? Good luck explaining half of it.”
That earned a faint smirk from Burn.
“So… a fucking coincidence?”
“Yah.”
He stared up at the ceiling now, as if divine answers might be scribbled between the carved rafters.
“No way,” he muttered, barely audible now. That erratic, no-name slave he’d crossed paths with during the carriage ride. The one who’d reeked of trauma, rage, and someone else’s tragedy. A Demon Lord’s castoff, or so it had seemed.
And now this idiot at the palace gate.
He shook his head slightly, mouthing to himself: “Am I this lucky? Do I have plot armor? A protagonist halo? Am I the son of heaven?”
Because the man he just casually launched into a fence might not be some random backwater noble.
He might be from the Alliance.
A powerful one.
“Well,” Morgan mouthed at the edge of his peripheral view, eyes on the darkness above, “what if it wasn’t a coincidence?”
Burn turned his head toward her, a frown tugging at his brow.
“You mean, on his part?”
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