Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
243 – Mirth and Majesty

“UNO!”

“Un—F—” Galahad grumbled as he snatched four more cards, seething.

Gawain and Landevale cackled like hyenas, while Tristan and Yvolt simply shook their heads, grinning ear to ear. Meanwhile, Aroche—who had gleefully yelled "Uno" earlier—puffed up his chest, wearing the smug expression of a man who had just won a war.

“Just wait until His Majesty gets here. He’ll annihilate you,” Galahad shot Aroche a glare, his brown eyes burning with betrayal.

“Too bad he’s busy screwing his wife, huh? What, jealous? Did you wish you could screw my sister? Over my rotting corpse,” Aroche grinned, all teeth.

“You’re already dead, Your Grace!”

“Well, take it up with the Kingdom’s First Lady for dragging me back, you brat!”

Percival, comfortably seated with a glass of brandy, chuckled to himself. He never thought he’d live to see this chaos unfold again—men gathered around a round table, drinking, gambling, goading each other into questionable life choices.

“Actually, sir, His Majesty declared Soulnaught an empire earlier this year,” Gawain chimed in.

“Oh? Huh. Not exactly groundbreaking news,” Aroche remarked, lazily tossing down his second-to-last card. “Uno.”

“Brother! Why the hell did you change the color—aaahhhh!” Landevale wailed as she was forced to draw.

“But it’s the same number, right? You lot drilled the rules into my head, and now I’m the bad guy for playing well?” Aroche tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Still, this Outsider game is surprisingly entertaining. Maybe we should add a little punishment round for the losers—make things more... spirited.”

As the game carried on, the doors swung open, and four mythical beings strode into the room. Two were draped in heavy black robes that obscured even their faces, while the other two were far more familiar—the striking Elven Queen, Tashr Reyrie, and the ever-imposing Isaiah, Dragon of the East.

“Hah. It doth figure we should find them hither,” Isaiah muttered, taking in the scene with mild amusement.

At once, Aroche and the others rose to their feet, instinctively readying themselves. But Isaiah waved them down with an easy gesture.

Then, without a word, the two robed figures reached up and removed their veils. Aroche’s breath hitched when his eyes landed on the brown-haired, youthful-looking beautiful woman standing beside Vlad.

“Master Vlad,” he greeted, nodding toward the man.

Vlad, the eccentric old vampire, smirked. “My boy, Aroche, this is the daughter of mine I told you about. Salsabella, meet Her Holiness’ third Cardinal, Sir Aroche Leodegrance.”

“Pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Bella said with a graceful curtsy.

“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Aroche replied, bowing in return.

Meanwhile, Tashr’s jaw practically unhinged. She turned to Isaiah, voice hushed but sharp. “My lord, pray, when didst this transpire? Her Holiness' third Cardinal?”

Isaiah simply smiled, utterly unfazed. “Verily, he wast restored to life by Her Holiness’ own magic and holy power.”

“Uno is the perfect game for the night! Can we join?” Bella’s eyes sparkled as she glanced at the table. “Lord Isaiah, Your Majesty Tasha, come on, let’s play!”

With a shrug, Isaiah and Tashr took their seats beside Tristan and Yvolt. The elven queen offered the two a gentle smile, then asked them in a slightly broken common tongue, “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yvolt replied with a small bow.

“Thank you for your concern. We’re doing much better,” Tristan added. Not that their last ordeal had been a walk in the park—after fighting that Demon Lord’s underling, Ahlgrath or whatever his name was, they’d been shipped off to the Elven Kingdom to recover from corruption near the World Tree.

“The physicians said we just need a little more rest,” Yvolt continued. “Besides, the people His Majesty rescued from that cursed factory need the space more than we do. We’d rather not take up a bed someone else needs.”

“Honestly, seeing how bad their condition was made us feel guilty. We were actually looking for Their Majesties to ask for more work,” Tristan admitted, chuckling. “But… we got ambushed by these Uno-playing maniacs.”

Percival, ever the gentleman, vacated his seat to make room, but Vlad waved a dismissive hand. “You kids just focus on the game and enjoy yourselves. You’re still growing, after all. I’ll sit by the window, read some scripture, and wait for Miss Momo and Arthur’s brat. It’s fine if things get a little rowdy.”

Isaiah nodded in agreement. “Indeed. Thou needst not burden thyself with guilt for taking thy ease. Make merry, and be light of heart.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Howbeit… how doth one partake in this game?”

“I… confess, I know not neither,” Tashr admitted, looking mildly embarrassed.

“I do! Let me teach you, Your Majesty, Lord Isaiah,” Bella beamed. “What, you think only humans know how to play this Outsider’s game? I said, I’ve played these games before!”

“I understood that reference,” Tristan and Yvolt said in unison, finger-gunning her.

“Green light!”

“Red light!”

“Bang!”

“Apologies, but I must excuse myself,” Gawain announced just after securing his victory. “I have a wife waiting for me.”

“Fucking newlyweds!”

“Booooo!”

As the table erupted in boos and mock outrage, Gawain merely chuckled, unfazed, and downed a full glass of beer as his so-called “penalty” before making his exit.

Galahad cast a not-so-subtle glance at Landevale, his expression practically dripping with meaning. Landevale, to her credit, immediately blushed.

Unfortunately for them both, Aroche—seated conveniently between them—slowly inched forward, his death glare sliding into Galahad’s peripheral like an ominous storm cloud. By the time Aroche had effectively blocked his view, the mighty Galahad was already looking down, thoroughly defeated, his entire aura deflating.

“Sir Percival, come on, join us! Gawain just bailed,” Tristan called out.

“No, thanks. I’m here to get absolutely wasted, and that’s it,” Percival deadpanned, swirling his drink like a man with a singular purpose.

“We should add a twist,” Bella suggested, perking up. “How about ‘truth or dare’ for the last half to finish their cards?”

“What’s ‘truth or dare’?” Aroche asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously before flicking toward Landevale.

“It’s a good idea,” Landevale nodded, immediately seizing the opportunity. “It’s a game too, Brother. We have eight players, so the last four to finish their cards have to choose—spill a truth or take a dare.”

Aroche considered this for a moment before shrugging. “Alright. Deal.”

Gawain chuckled as he stepped out of the lively room, but the warmth of the moment faded the farther he walked. His smile gradually disappeared.

He stopped a passing servant. “Have Their Majesties returned?”

But no one had an answer.

After wandering the mansion for a while, he finally spotted them.

There, beneath the glow of the late summer moon, the emperor and his empress strolled at an unhurried pace, their steps light against the polished floor.

For a moment, Gawain hesitated.

It had been a while.

No—longer than that. Since Aroche’s death, perhaps?

Caliburn Pendragon, the man who carried the weight of the world, was smiling.

The same man who had won wars and crushed his enemies. The ruler whose hands were stained with more blood than any man should bear. The warrior who had brought his brother home, who had protected his people, who had saved those lost to corruption.

And yet, here he was, walking beside the woman he loved as if none of that mattered—as if, for just this moment, he was nothing more than a man in love, lost in the quiet magic of her presence.

Gawain didn’t want to intrude.

Didn’t want to shatter this fleeting, beautiful stillness.

But duty would not wait.

He stepped forward.

As soon as Burn noticed him, his expression shifted, hardening like steel reforged in fire. The emperor once more.

Gawain bowed. “Sir.”

Burn met his gaze, his voice steady. “Yes, Gawain. I’ve received your message.”

But even then, as the weight of the world settled back onto his shoulders, his fingers remained loosely entwined with hers—one last defiant thread of peace in a life ruled by war.

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