Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
231 – Forsworn

After ensuring that Aroche’s condition was stable, Morgan left him to rest and quietly stepped out of the room.

A glimpse of a familiar back caught her eye. Without hesitation, she followed.

Behind the Wilderwood Capital Mansion lay the servants’ quarters, a modest space that opened into a short alley ending in a row of clotheslines. Beyond that, a low picket fence framed the edge of a small man-made forest, its trees carefully planted to cool the air before meeting the tall estate walls.

Morgan’s heels clicked softly against the pavement, but compared to the heavy thud of his metal-heeled boots, they were near silent. Unconsciously, a smile tugged at her lips as she trailed behind him at a measured distance.

Was he embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping on her conversation with Aroche?

Was he trying to shake her off by wandering aimlessly?

She followed him toward the clothesline, where white bedsheets swayed gently on taut strings tied between tall wooden posts. A silhouette moved between the layers of fabric—a tall, broad figure shifting in and out of sight.

Just before the last two sheets, she stopped. Peeking through the gaps of drying linen, she caught glimpses of him between the fluttering fabric.

There was a quiet amusement in her gaze.

When had she fallen in love with him?

She had once claimed it was from the very start.

A man who had kissed her back to life yet cursed her to death in his heart. A man she had clung to because of how intoxicating his Force mana was. A man who saw her not as some untouchable goddess or fairy, but simply as a woman.

A blush crept up her cheeks.

Because of her immortality, she had no hunger or thirst, her desires eroded by years of existing as a character with the singular goal of saving the world. And even when it all failed, her yearning for betterment never wavered.

But she had never expected to become mortal again.

To once more fear death.

To rediscover hunger, thirst—lust.

Longing.

She longed for the figure whose back she saw between the softly wind-stirred sheets.

She had always known she wanted someone to love, not someone to love her, and she was right. She didn’t even mind if he didn’t love her. But by God, it was good to be loved back.

Between them, only two layers of thin fabric remained, stirred by the passing breeze.

Then, he turned.

The moment his gaze met hers, his expression twisted into something unmistakably irritated.

Morgan burst into laughter.

“Stop laughing,” Burn muttered, a faint blush creeping onto his face.

“You’re so cute, Caliburn… You and Aroche…” She wiped at her eyes, laughter still laced in her voice.

Burn’s expression soured instantly, a visible shudder running down his spine. “You don’t actually think I should marry him, do you?”

Morgan smirked. “So? Planning to throw a wild party with the noblewomen instead?”

“Should I?”

She kicked his shin.

“Ow,” he grumbled, despite the fact that it hadn’t hurt in the slightest.

“Fine,” she huffed, stepping over the short picket fence with only mild clumsiness. “Find yourself a second wife for all I care.”

Burn caught her waist from behind, steadying her. “Alright. I’ll find someone younger.”

“Oh? Tired of someone older already?” Her narrowed eyes dared him to answer.

A suppressed smile tugged at his lips.

“I’m not worried,” she declared, stepping forward with an exaggerated pout. “In a hundred years, she’ll die, and I’ll have you all to myself again.”

She stomped ahead, deeper into the artificial forest. “And I won’t even have to wait that long. Give it twenty years—she’ll look twenty years older than me, and you’ll lose interest.”

Burn snorted. “How do you know me so well?” He nearly tripped over the fence, caught between laughter and keeping his balance.

“And then,” Morgan continued breezily, “in another thousand years, when you finally get tired of living, you’ll leave me behind.”

Burn’s steps faltered.

His smile froze.

The woman before him suddenly seemed small.

Fragile.

“You’ll want to grow old and die peacefully, surrounded by your children and grandchildren,” she murmured, her voice growing fainter. “But you’ll never see me grow old.”

And after another thousand years, she would still love him.

Oh, she wasn’t worried about forgetting his face or the sound of his voice, nor the way he walked, nor the way he always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders like it was a mere afterthought. Her memory was impeccable—flawless, even. She had never once forgotten a single detail of anything she had seen before, and he was no exception.

Her only regret was that she would never die, while he—unlike her—was not an infinite soul. He would not return, reborn again and again, cursed or blessed to walk the earth anew. No, he was human. He would go to God and enter His paradise. Or hell, if He so pleased. Either way, he would leave, and she would never meet him again.

A woman locked out of heaven and hell, cursed to forever wander the earth.

And once he was gone, would he be able to, or even want to, claw his way back to life? Would he break the gates of the underworld just to return to her? No—once a man crossed the threshold of hell, there was no escape. And once he entered heaven, well… who in their right mind would ever wish to leave?

But as long as he rejected Lady Death, she would be his Lady Life.

What she didn’t yet know was that Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon had always been the sort of man to hang himself on a single tree—just one, never another. And that tree, for better or worse, had always been Morgan Le Fay. Whether he hanged himself to die or to live, it would only ever be for her.

So, hang himself he did.

He caught up to her in just a few strides, wrapping his arms around her before she could slip away, pressing torrential kisses along her neck and cheek. She squealed, half in protest, half in delight, only to meet his gaze with a glare that held no real bite.

“Bet me I’ll still fuck you even when you’re all wrinkled and sagging.”

Morgan threw her head back, laughter spilling from her lips, rich and unrestrained. “So you do want me to grow old with you after all?”

“If you want to grow old so badly…” Burn whispered against her skin, his voice quieter now, softer, steadier. “I’ll find a way.”

The laughter died on her lips. Silence followed, thick and fragile.

And then, she sobbed. “Really?”

“Mm.” He only held her tighter, as if anchoring her to the moment, as if willing her to believe. “When we’re ready… let’s grow old together.”

Morgan nodded, her fingers tracing his cheek as he pressed his face against her neck. “Alright.”

Burn exhaled, shoulders loosening as he nodded. “Alright. I need to head out—Percival asked for some help. I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

“Before that, can I show you something?”

Morgan bent down, picking up a long twig from the ground before taking a few steps away from him.

“I’ve been studying Force through your memories for a while now,” she admitted, twirling the twig between her fingers. “It took some time, but I finally figured something out.”

She moved, her stance deliberate, a touch clumsy—but unmistakably familiar.

And then she spun.

Burn’s breath hitched. His eyes locked onto the twig as it cut through the air, bending like a thin ribbon. The wind stirred, singing as it slid along the wood’s surface.

It was different when she did it. Slower, but mesmerizing—her balance, her center of gravity, made every motion look heavier, more fluid. When he wielded it, it was snappier, sharper, honed like a blade. But in her hands, it was softer—like the weight of the wind itself had been woven into the movement.

It was his technique. His Force style.

Reflected back at him through her.

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