Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
258 – Missed Opportunity

The second day of the mythical assembly passed in a blur of irrelevance—for anyone not privileged enough to be inside the grand hall of decision-makers. For the rest of the world, it was business as usual. Birds chirped, carriages clattered, and a twelve-year-old monarch reluctantly dragged himself to class.

Yes, Yvain—also known to the Saint Lucia Academy as Evan di Sator, also known to the political world as the Little Merlin, also known to the magically literate as “please don’t kill me”—was back in school. 

Because that was apparently why he was late yesterday. Not because he was helping dismantle a kingdom or delivering divine judgment or anything—no, just late because of yesterday’s school. Naturally.

And God help them, he was angry.

Not loud, storm-the-kingdom angry. No. Yvain sat at his desk like a contained nuclear core: silent, simmering, and radiating a murderous aura that could probably curdle milk. Or melt bone. Possibly both.

Matthew and Alan, his unfortunate desk neighbors (and unwitting background characters to most major world events), were practically bathing in sweat.

If this kid—who casually decided the fates of nations between homework assignments—was sitting in silence with a furrowed brow and enough killing intent to choke a basilisk, then something had gone terribly, cosmically wrong.

Naturally, neither of them dared to ask. Matthew gave Alan a subtle nudge. Alan, in turn, shoved him back like absolutely not, I’m not dying today.

Then, the teacher—bless his doomed soul—decided to call on the black hole of doom himself.

“—so, Evan di Sator, do you know the answer?”

Ah, optimism. So sweet. So naïve.

The teacher’s hopeful eyes landed on Yvain and were promptly obliterated by the soul-piercing death glare radiating from what looked more like a demonic fog machine than a child.

The poor man nearly peed himself on the spot.

“Me! I know the answer, sir! Choose me!” Matthew yelped, leaping into the academic line of fire like a true hero—one willing to sacrifice his GPA to save lives.

“Right, Matthew! Excellent initiative! Go on, enlighten us,” the teacher said, desperately latching onto the escape route like a drowning man grabbing a lifeboat.

Matthew, who absolutely did not know the answer, marched to the front anyway and mumbled out something vaguely related to the lesson. The teacher nodded sagely, pretending it was a stroke of genius. Meanwhile, the rest of the class was either confused or pretended not to be watching the world’s most terrifying twelve-year-old have a minor emotional breakdown.

After the recent coup, the Headmaster had issued a friendly little memo to all staff: “If you mess with Evan di Sator, you die.” Simple. Direct. Effective.

So when he looked like that? You just…didn’t.

Eventually, Alan—possessed by either courage or stupidity—leaned over, whispering like he was defusing a bomb. “Hey, Your Majesty, why are you in such a bad mood? Is this about Blair?”

For a second, Yvain’s gaze moved. Alan braced for the sweet release of death.

But no, the fog thinned.

Yvain sighed, the weight of royal disappointment oozing from every syllable. “No. Papa gave Inkia to Sir Aroche instead of me. I was late to the assembly because of school.”

Ah.

Just that.

A nation. An entire kingdom. Given away like someone swiped the last cookie and now Yvain was left with a salad.

Yep. Another Tuesday. Another world-shattering truth.

And once again, Alan pretended nothing had happened. Because really, what could you say to that?

“Sorry about the geopolitical snub, bro?”

No. You just kept your head down, prayed he passed his pop quiz, and hoped the black fog didn't return.

And then—crack. The teacher snapped like a dry twig in winter.

“Good job! No, actually, you’re wrong about this question,” he chirped, a little too high-pitched to be casual. “You know what? Let’s do self-study today, haha. Or—or do you want to leave school early? Sure, sure, sure! I’ll just, uh, let the other class know…”

Oh.

The teacher buckled first.

The man had faced rebellious students, midterm grading, and the horror of parent-teacher conferences—but none of that had prepared him for this. For Evan’s Glare of Existential Damnation™.

His professional pride? His dignity? Shattered on the linoleum floor alongside his will to live.

Well, that’s convenient.

The class collectively blinked as their very real, very scheduled school day was reduced to glorified nap time because the crown prince of magical apocalypse was having a minor temper tantrum.

Truly, this was the kind of privilege that no amount of academic excellence could buy.

Yvain didn’t even look impressed. Just vaguely betrayed by the universe. Possibly making a mental list of territories to demand from his Papa out of spite.

Today’s assembly stretched on like a particularly tedious epic fantasy series that just wouldn’t end, covering everything from world governance to corruption control and those charming chaos-bringers known as the Outsiders.

Yvain didn’t mind not being in it. No, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he wasn’t trusted enough to be in it.

Burn’s grand masterplan of “go to school and be normal” was driving him insane. You don’t raise a kid on a diet of world-saving, statecraft, and magical crisis management, then bench him like he’s just some hobbyist mage with delusions of grandeur.

So when the school bell finally rang, mercifully ending the day's glorified babysitting, Yvain stomped out of the campus with the aura of a prince whose throne had been unfairly usurped—by a desk and mandatory attendance.

Matthew and Alan, loyal ride-or-die idiots that they were, walked alongside him.

“Mom said you’d move to the palace eventually. Is that true?” Matthew asked, all innocent curiosity.

“Dunno,” Yvain shrugged. “Papa said Mama wants him to repair the damage first. Anyway, if I want to keep my identity low, I’d most likely stay at Uncle Finn’s place.”

“And Sir Aroche will be the one moving into the palace when it’s ready,” he added, like it wasn’t a totally world-realigning casual drop.

“You hadn’t told us about this Sir Aroche,” Alan said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Who’s he?”

“Yeah, he sounds important,” Matthew chimed in, which was code for: does he also have a scary title like the Dragon of the East and the Vampire of the West?

“He’s Papa’s brother,” Yvain said, totally unfazed. “Covenant brother.”

“Damn,” they both muttered at the same time, which was honestly the only acceptable response.

“That’s cool as f—” Alan caught himself mid-swear as a group of girls walked by, promptly turning red like he’d just channeled forbidden magic.

The other two didn’t let that slide, of course. They snickered like wolves scenting blood.

Because while Yvain might be an overworked little monarch with existential issues, some things—like bullying your friend for nearly swearing in front of girls—were sacred traditions.

“Hey, let’s race back to my place with our Force. Let the Wilderwood servants deal with the horses.”

“Sure!” Matthew grinned, already crouching like he was preparing for lift-off.

“I’m not gonna lose, okay?” Yvain warned.

“Pfft—as long as you don’t use your Vision, Little Merlin,” Alan teased, giving Yvain a side-eye like he wasn’t about to get dusted in three seconds anyway.

Challenge accepted.

In the next breath, all three of them launched into the air, leaping onto the rooftops like gravity was just a light suggestion. They twisted, vaulted, and yeeted themselves across the uneven terrain of the capital like a trio of overpowered pigeons on espresso, laughing all the while.

It was less a race and more a chaotic parkour montage—slates cracked, chimneys screamed, someone probably lost laundry—but eventually, through some miracle or complete disregard for building codes, they crash-landed (gracefully, of course) at the Wilderwood Capital Mansion.

No horses. No rules. Just slightly bruised egos and a trail of very confused pedestrians.

“I win!” Matthew whooped like he’d just claimed the throne instead of barely edging out two future war gods.

“We almost tied,” Alan muttered as he fist-bumped Yvain. “That was close, Evan.”

Yvain gave them both the side-eye before thwacking them on the back of their shoulders like a disappointed gym coach. “You guys are supposed to be my seniors in Force. What are you even doing? Even we almost caught up to Matthew.”

“Shut up!” Alan snapped. “We weren’t trained by the Force Vision Masters and Caliburn freaking Pendragon!”

“Yeah, we didn’t get a cheat code in our bloodline,” Matthew added, still catching his breath. “This is just stupid. Crazy. Like, offensive levels of crazy.”

“Hey, when do you plan on breaking through to second star?” Alan asked out of nowhere, casually dropping a bomb in the middle of their cool-down walk.

“Papa said not to rush it,” Yvain shrugged. “He thinks it’ll mess up my foundations or something. I think he has a point. I don’t wanna explode or anything.”

Matthew’s eyes sparkled. “Can you tell us everything His Majesty taught you?”

“Yeah,” Alan nodded, his eyes doing the same sparkly thing. “Please, Your Majesty?”

Yvain sighed, smiling. “We can ask Uncle Isaiah and Grandpa Vlad when they’re free too. Sir Aroche could help. And there’s still Galahad, Landevale, Percival... Yvolt and Tristan—”

“Alright, stop bragging.”

“Kek—”

“Your Majesty!” came a voice that immediately killed the joke. Finn Wilderwood—yes, the Finn Wilderwood, whose mansion had basically become world politics HQ—came running up, urgency in every step.

Yvain’s expression dropped its playful sheen like a mask, the king slipping into place beneath the skin of the twelve-year-old boy. “What’s wrong, Uncle?”

Finn drew a sharp breath, face tight. “Her Highness Princess Blair... she’s awake.”