Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
274 – Five Seconds of Peace

“Where is this?”

“My hideout.”

Hidden deep within the heart of Burn’s former principality was a mountain, draped in ancient forest and tall, indifferent trees. The kind of beauty that had never been asked for, and never once asked anything in return.

In the middle of it, a small cabin sat—plain, unassuming, almost shy.

“I built it myself. Brick by brick. Block by block.” Burn’s voice curled into a smile, soft, almost wistful. “Later I layered it with Wintersin’s eternal ice crystal. The rare medicines I brought needed to last.”

He led her by the hand up the uneven path toward the front. The way he walked, the way he talked—it was almost tender.

“I stored what was left of the unicorn and merfolk I consumed, over the years,” he explained casually, like one might describe a spice rack. “They didn’t rot as quickly, even without the eternal ice. I rarely had to check on them.”

Until, of course, the Outsiders’ technology arrived. Then came the refrigerators. Painless, effortless. Progress had no taste for mythic flesh. And this cabin gradually lost its purpose, piece by piece.

“Here,” he pointed to a bare patch of earth, “I’ll build you a chicken coop.”

It was absurd. It was sincere.

“I chop wood at the back. Want to see?”

He brought her around to the rear, where a large tree stump served as his chopping block. Firewood was stacked neatly under a wooden canopy—forgotten, seasoned by time and rain. A quiet monument to a life he never got to live.

“You can plant vegetables here,” he said.

Morgan looked up at him. His voice carried a kind of peace. Not the kind one stumbles into, but the kind one carves out of grief.

“That picket fence behind Wilderwood Mansion looked nice,” he added lightly. “I’ll build you one here. Just tell me how big the yard should be.”

He sounded like a man making a home. But also a man preparing for exile.

She nodded and smiled, still trying to match the gentle cadence of his mood.

“Want to see inside?”

“Okay.”

“It’s empty,” he warned. “I’ll get someone to furnish it.”

And indeed, it was bare. Not even the memory of occupation lingered. No cabinets. No boxes. Just a table, a few chairs, a carpet, a couch that faced a fireplace like it remembered warmth but never earned it.

He led her deeper. A bathroom, functional but stark. Two empty rooms. A bedroom with a small cabinet, a bed, and a window that stared quietly into the woods.

“We should renovate the bathroom. Add modern amenities,” he said as if it were a priority. “Floor heating. Insulation. It'll take time.”

They circled back into the living room.

“That corner’s good for a stove,” he added, nodding. “And maybe a small kitchen, just enough for you.”

He gestured toward a window. “You can place a lazy chair there and knit. You’ll hear me chopping wood outside.”

The image was gentle. Deliberate. Cruel.

Morgan looked at him again. He was smiling. But the longer she stood in his shadow, the more she felt the sorrow stretching underneath it.

Peace.

It clung to him like a foreign skin—unnatural, reluctant. This man, who never knew peace, and would never—could never—choose it on purpose.

He was not made for cabins or knitting. He was not shaped for stillness. He was war bound in human flesh. A god of law forced into human love. He was the world’s unyielding order.

And here he stood, talking about fences.

“I’ll build a shed over there,” he murmured. “To clean the game I hunt. Let’s sell it to make a living—”

“Caliburn…” her voice cracked. The moment he said make a living, something inside her collapsed. Her hands trembled as she reached for him. “What are you saying, my love?”

Emperor Caliburn Pendragon.

And he was talking like a man who no longer planned to wear his name.

“Please,” she clung to him, her arms around his waist, “just tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.”

She tried to steady her breath, tried to calm her panic. “If you can’t talk… let me read your mind, hm?”

He smiled, reaching up to brush away the fine baby hair that clung to her forehead like a question. “Didn’t you say once—this is the life you wanted?”

“I do,” Morgan snapped, her voice cracking against the glass of her heart. Her eyes—too vivid for sorrow, too bright to be breaking—pierced him like a thousand truths. “But that’s just a dream, Caliburn.”

He kissed her forehead. “Once we deal with the Outsiders, we stay here. The cabin will be finished. Let others rule. Let others run. We’ll come out when there’s a war to end—and then come home.”

Simple. As if he were offering her a holiday, not an elegy.

“Caliburn, please, what is going on, baby?” Her voice was a prayer twisted by fear. She clutched his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her the way she always looked at him—fully, as if the world could be saved if only he let her read him.

He kissed her.

It was not a kiss of reassurance. It was not of love, or even of goodbye. It was a distraction. A drowning. He pressed into her like he was searching for somewhere to hide.

And when she pulled away, it was with the same grace she always gave him: searching, patient, terrified.

“You always said it,” she whispered. “That you’d take everything. The world. The Outsiders. The stars themselves—you said the universe was yours to conquer.”

He looked down at her, voice like a quiet rebellion. “I never built an altar, Morgan. Not for God, and not for the world. So you should’ve known—it was never about conquest.”

He exhaled, slow and shattering.

“I fight because it’s easier than… everything else.”

His first honest confession.

It had never been about power. Not truly. Power was just the mask he wore to survive a world that had tried to unmake him from the moment he was born.

“I fight for you. For my people. And… hah.” He almost laughed, but it died in his throat. “For me.”

For the blood, old and new. For the guilt buried in every battlefield. For the children orphaned by his orders, the enemies crushed under his will. For the ashes of Wintersin, still echoing with the scream she made when she found him there—her throat torn raw by her own hands, her magic unraveling time itself just to reach him.

That was the last time he remembered peace.

Five seconds in that bluest of blue. That’s all it lasted.

And now, years later, he tasted peace again—and it was bitter, laced with sin.

Because this time, it was sin that gave it to him.

Not glory. Not justice. Not even war.

Sin.

The one thing he never meant to commit. The only line he hadn’t meant to cross. One amongst all he chose to.

And now, to keep her—to keep this sin—he had to let everything else go.

“I’ll abdicate the throne.”

Just like that. The words fell with no ceremony—only the silence of something monumental breaking.

The man who had carried the weight of a world didn’t crumble. He let it go. Not out of weakness, but with the terrifying clarity of someone who had finally found the one thing heavier than duty.

Gone was the ambition to unify and control. Gone was the righteous fury that once drove him to destroy every invasion, every creeping corruption.

Gone was the vision of a sovereign so powerful he dared to aim his sword at the stars themselves, ready to bring down alien gods and interdimensional kings for daring to threaten his world.

The man who once dreamed of reshaping the universe now sat her down like she was the only thing left that mattered.

And then—he knelt.

A man who had never bent to kings, to gods, to fate itself—lowered himself at her feet.

“Morgan,” he began, voice deep and stripped bare, “I am… the son of Merlin.”

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