Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
238 – The Eighth Sun’s Purple Dusk

“Bye, guys! Feel free to return and play again tomorrow,” Yvain called out, his grin wide as he waved at his two schoolmates riding off into the sunset.

“Bye, Yvain!”

“Farewell, Your Majesty!”

“Shut up.”

“Pff—”

As their figures disappeared beyond the gates of Wilderwood Mansion, Yvain’s attention was drawn to the approaching carriage, flanked by three knights on horseback. Even in the fading light, he recognized them instantly.

“So today, it seems my duty is solely to receive guests,” Yvain murmured, watching the familiar trio draw near.

The riders were none other than the second, third, and fifth-ranked knights of the Round Table—Galahad, Landevale, and Gawain.

“Your Majesty,” Galahad greeted him first, nodding before dismounting. He observed Yvain for a moment before offering, “You seem… taller.”

“I am well, thank you,” Yvain replied, lifting his chin just slightly less than necessary to meet their gazes. “And the three of you?”

“We’re doing fine,” Landevale answered with a knowing smile. “Just a little surprised that our favorite sovereign has undergone a rather… shocking growth spurt. Teenagers are amazing.”

Unlike the others, Gawain did not dismount for pleasantries alone. Instead, he stepped forward, opened the carriage door, and offered his hand to a young blonde woman, escorting her forward before turning back to Yvain with an air of satisfaction.

“Perhaps I’m the one who has undergone the most significant change,” Gawain declared. “After all, I got married in the brief time we’ve been apart. Surely, that merits some form of praise, Sir?”

Yvain narrowed his eyes, raising a finger to point at Gawain as though he had just committed some grievous offense. “Why—why does this feel ominous?”

Galahad and Landevale, seasoned in the art of selective involvement, simply raised their hands in surrender and shook their heads.

The young blonde woman curtsied with perfect decorum. “Your Majesty, King of Edensor, Heaven’s Eighth Sun—”

“Stop,” Yvain said flatly, his expression instantly dulling. “I’ve heard that enough times today.”

Without another word, the twelve-year-old king turned and led them inside the mansion. Their conversation meandered through light topics—the weather, and more notably, the fever-dreamish nature of the Inkian conquest.

It had been an event that felt both too immediate and too detached, a campaign where they were present yet strangely absent. It had unfolded too quickly, too impersonally. The work had been largely done by others, driven by forces beyond their own hands.

Well, that was the nature of having the Original Saint on your side—efficiency beyond comprehension, followed by the inevitable burden of cleaning up the aftermath.

“…Everything feels a little too chaotic,” Galahad muttered, already sensing the deluge of work awaiting them.

“That must be why we’re here, then,” Landevale remarked with a dry chuckle.

“Actually, he hadn’t rested properly from beginning to end. He buried himself in paperwork most nights,” Yvain said, before pausing, remembering something.

The only night Burn had managed more than two hours of sleep was, ironically, the one before Aroche had yelled at him for being happy the following morning.

The boy shrugged. “So don’t worry, Papa didn’t spare you guys much work.”

The four following him—three knights and a lady—halted ever so slightly.

So, it was official then? The young king had been adopted by the imperial couple? Hooray!

“Ohh, is that so, sir? Where are Their Majesties now?” Gawain asked.

Yvain shrugged. “I don’t know, doing each other?”

The three knights and one lady collectively grimaced.

Okay, leaving this child in the company of Their Majesties’ unfiltered vulgarity was, in hindsight, a terrible mistake.

“So, if you’re looking for them now, you might just end up interrupting something you’d rather not witness,” Yvain remarked dryly. “I’ll have someone escort you to your chambers so you can rest for the night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a grin, Yvain waved them off before skipping away, carefree and lighthearted—or at least, that was what he let them see. The day had been almost perfect, if not for the fact that she was still unconscious.

Blair.

The moment no one was looking, the youthful facade peeled away. The boy disappeared. In his place, King Yvain remained—the ruler who had ascended the throne at the age of seven.

Oh, he had noticed. The adults, his friends, they all seemed more at ease when he acted his age. It was a relief to them. And in a way, that was a good thing. The adults who surrounded him before had treated him as nothing more than a puppet king, forcing him to learn how to wield power before it was stolen from him.

Things were better now. Better. But he had already become the person he needed to be. It wasn’t as simple as reverting back to the child they wanted him to be. Well, not that he could fault them for wishing him a life of pure happiness…

Perhaps that was why he liked Burn so much. The man was brutally realistic—the one he now called Papa. Shield him from the horrors of the world? Sike. Burn would rather pry his eyelids open himself and force him to see every bit of filth.

So, Yvain continued on his way to Blair, hoping—no, intending—to be for her what others had been for him. Brutally realistic like Burn. Fiercely protective like Morgan. Comforting, like the adults around him now.

Okay, seeing how they reacted to his casual dirty jokes earlier, he might need to refrain from it from now on.

Yvain stepped into the dimly lit chamber, his usual lively gait slowing to something more deliberate, almost reverent. The room was quiet, save for the steady rise and fall of the girl’s breath beneath the covers.

Blair lay still, her small frame dwarfed by the grandeur of the bedding. The soft glow of candlelight made her features almost unreal—pale, delicate, like she had been carved from moonlight itself.

A sleeping princess, but not the kind from fairy tales. No spells, no enchanted slumbers, no gallant rescues. Just a girl, broken by a kingdom that had never truly wanted her.

Yvain sat at the edge of the bed, his weight barely shifting the mattress. He watched her breathe, as if making sure she was breathing, and let his thoughts wander.

Burn had been right. Burn was always right. A miserable fact of life. If the man hadn’t all but shoved him into Saint Lucia, Yvain never would have met her. Never would have had the chance to save her.

Well, if that was even what he did. If dragging her into his orbit, into his world of politics and war and inconvenient attachments, could be called saving.

He reached out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek, not quite touching. The warmth of her skin was almost tangible, and yet—

A sharp clearing of the throat shattered the moment. Yvain’s fingers twitched away, his head snapping toward the door.

Standing there, looking entirely unimpressed, was a young man—a few years older, with the same purple eyes as Blair but none of her softness.

Locan. The legitimate prince. The one whose birthright had been stamped in gold while Blair’s had been written in dust.

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