Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
236 – Lost Friends, Found Family

“Hath we met ere now, Lord Isaiah?” Tashr asked in old Elvish, thinking how familiar Isaiah was toward her.

Isaiah tilted his head slightly, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I hath dwelt upon the moon since the fall of the first Demon Lord, and thus must thou pardon mine absence. Yet I hath known thee. The last I laid mine eyes upon thee was upon thy wedding day with Akram.”

Tashr blinked. “Thou wert present at our wedding?”

Isaiah gave a small nod. “Aye, yet I kept mine distance, for it were most unseemly to steal the gaze meant for thee and thine husband.”

Tashr let out a light chuckle. “Oh, thou shouldst not have!”

Isaiah’s smirk was edged with dry amusement. “Nay, I must. Dost thou not know how much Akram didst loathe me?”

Tashr stopped in her tracks. “Mine husband… loathed thee, my lord?”

Isaiah chuckled softly. “I jest. We were good friends.”

Trailing behind them, Shorof glanced between her mother and the towering dragon, blinking. The air between them felt… odd.

“Akram was a moon elf, wast he not?” Isaiah continued, his tone settling into something more measured. “In his youth, he did bear the charge of mine discourse with Nethermere and the World Tree. A long-distance friendship we did weave.”

Tashr looked up at him, her eyes misty. “Ah… I see.”

Isaiah inclined his head slightly. “Forgive me, fair Tasha, for mine absence when he didst depart this world.”

Shorof, blinking again, let out a quiet sigh of relief. Right. So it wasn’t what she thought it was.

“Oft did he visit the World Tree, seeking only to commune with the moon and to keep me company, e’en after his charge was naught but memory. His books, most carefully chosen, were a balm for mine solitary soul. And through his fine taste, fair Miss Momo would send gifts aplenty—wondrous collections of weapons most suited for mine amusement,” Isaiah mused.

Tashr gasped softly, her voice trembling. “Ah… he was ever thus, was he not?”

Isaiah’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Aye. I knew something was amiss when he didst not come for a time. Yet he spake of joyous tidings ere then—his second daughter newly born, his first grown to a fine young maid. I did think, ‘At last, the man hath become ensnared by life’s burdens and hath forgotten old Isaiah.’”

He gave a small, humorless chuckle before shaking his head. “Then came word of his passing.”

Tashr stiffened.

“Twelve years past, was it not?” Isaiah’s voice was quiet now, his gaze distant. “I did make haste, yet by the hour of mine arrival, he was already laid to rest.”

“‘Twas deep in the night, and I—being no stranger to solitude—did not wish to rouse his kin from their slumber. So I did lay myself beside his resting place till dawn’s light crept o’er the horizon, then took my leave afore the sun could witness mine sorrow.”

Grief, after all, was a most uncooperative companion.

Five hundred years of solitude, and he had been denied even a final glimpse of his dearest friend.

Isaiah exhaled, then turned his gaze back to Tashr. “Blame not thy daughter.” His tone was calm, almost amused. “To thee, humans are fleeting. To me, so too art elves. But fleeting things—are they not all the more precious for it?”

Tashr parted her lips to argue, ready to chastise Nahwu for her stubborn insistence on that reckless friendship with the Inkian prince—the very bond that had led to her kidnapping and near exploitation at the hands of the Demon Lord.

And yet, she hesitated.

Isaiah was right.

The Inkian prince had done no wrong. He and Nahwu were but children.

The heavy doors creaked open, and the afternoon light bled into the chamber. Nahwu sprang to her feet, hands clasped in nervous anticipation. She had been waiting.

The second Tashr laid eyes on her, the fury simmering in her chest—righteous, indignant, and well-earned—dissipated like mist in the sun. Her daughter was here. In one piece. Breathing. No signs of distress, no immediate injuries, no tragic last words hanging in the air. That was enough.

Tashr exhaled, slow and steady, pushing back the urge to strangle the girl for her recklessness. Later. Perhaps later.

"Mother," Nahwu started, her voice careful, the way one approaches a wounded animal.

Tashr lifted a hand, silencing whatever excuse, justification, or charming nonsense was about to spill forth. "No. Not now. If I start, I might not stop."

Nahwu pressed her lips together. Wise girl.

Shorof smiled and hugged her sister. Isaiah followed in, his presence turning the room weightier.

"Well," Tashr sighed, rubbing her temple. "Shall we start discussing which part of this mess we’ll pretend wasn’t our fault?"

***

Aroche Leodegrance had decided to take a walk around Wilderwood Capital Mansion today. It was a rare—well, not so rare now that he had been resurrected—moment of leisure, one that he fully intended to spend in peace.

Cradled in his arms was Mnemosyne’s Aeons, the Magic Construct in a humanoid vessel. Built through the same method that had reconstructed his own body, she was an existence both artificial and undeniably alive.

Unlike him, the blood in his veins was his own, regenerated through holy energy and healing magic. But the very foundation of his body—the bones, the flesh, the sinew—was pure mana. More precisely, Morgan Le Fay’s mana.

Aroche exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he muttered, half to himself, “if I can’t get my sister married to that punk, at least I’m still 80% a carbon-based structure made from his wife’s mana. That makes me his brother-in-law too, whether he likes it or not.”

“Yup, Uncle!” Nemo chirped without hesitation.

Aroche grinned. “Good girl. Good girl. Yes, I’m your uncle.” He ruffled her golden hair with unrestrained enthusiasm, watching her giggle at the attention. “Say ‘Uncle’ again.”

“Uncle!”

“And now, ‘Pop-pops.’”

“Pops!”

“That’s my girl,” Aroche said in reflex.

“That’s my girl,” a dark voice echoed, delighted.

The moment of indulgence was cut short as Aroche felt a presence behind him. His body reacted before his mind did—spine stiffening, amusement draining from his expression.

He turned slowly, gaze sharpening, only to be met with an old man clad in black robes. The man smiled at them with the kind of patient amusement that sent a chill down Aroche’s back.

Ah, how fitting. A construct, an undead, and a vampire.

“Pop-pops Vlad! Uncle Aroche! Play?”

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