Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
279 – Sugar Over Steel

“Tell me—why the hesitation about having a boy?”

“Because a boy has to become a man one day,” Burn said, grim. “Do you want a life of suffering and crushing responsibility for your child?”

“Suffering? Are you cursing my son?” Morgan narrowed her eyes.

“Well, he’s my son too,” Burn countered smoothly. “And because he’s my son—”

“Look at Yvain,” she cut in. “He’s your son too and he’ll be fine.”

“...”

“Are you cursing Ain now?”

Burn visibly clenched. “Just… I don’t mind having a boy. But raising one is...”

“Awwww, Caliburn, you’re so thoughtful,” Morgan gushed, suddenly melting against his arm like warm sugar over steel. “So noble. So righteous. So unfairly handsome. So ruinously responsible...”

Burn actually laughed—quiet, rare.

“Mordred is such a lucky little guy,” she added, absolutely glowing as she slurped roasted marrow like it was the elixir of life. “A dad like you, a big brother like Ain? He’s got icons in the house.”

Burn’s eyes softened, almost against his will. “You really think so?”

“Mm,” she nodded, sincere and smug in equal measure. “Cool uncles like Aroche, Isaiah, Galahad... a Round Table to babysit. Grandpa Vlad. And if he gets siblings, he’ll be their role model too.”

Burn’s lips twitched with the threat of a smile. “I’ll never let my kids marry an Elle.”

Morgan suddenly laughed at that, nearly choking. “Because I might be reborn and marry you again~?”

The man gave her a look so sharp it could etch diamonds, but it was half-hearted at best. She immediately wrapped both arms around his and cooed like he hadn’t just had a full mythological crisis trauma over hypothetical incest.

“When are you going to formally adopt Yvain?”

“After the wedding.”

“Okay.”

“Eat. Stop being ridiculous.”

“Hehe…”

What would you do if you saw a heart-meltingly gorgeous woman shamelessly flirting with a terrifyingly menacing man in public? Exactly what the restaurant staff did: pretend not to see, fail miserably, and eavesdrop like your soul depended on it.

“A girl is better. Let’s just give birth to a girl,” Burn declared, as if it were that simple.

Morgan narrowed her eyes like a prosecutor catching a lie. “You’ll just spoil her to death.”

“Absolutely not,” Burn countered with noble indignation. “I’ll raise her with discipline. You’re the one who’s going to spoil her rotten, I’m sure.”

Morgan said nothing. Because unfortunately, he was right.

She returned to her food in defeated silence, chewing with the resignation of someone who'd just lost a future parenting argument in advance.

Still, Burn wasn’t entirely off the hook either. Now that he thought about it, raising a girl might be just as terrifying. Equal-opportunity headaches, it seemed. Yet somehow, the thought made his chest feel warm.

He glanced at Morgan—the proud arch of her back, that aristocratic grace woven into her every gesture, and her inherent tendency to be too beautiful for the world’s peace of mind—and sighed internally.

What kind of trials would their poor daughter face with that face?

Didn’t matter. He’d raise them both—Mordred and Moroie—with every ounce of his soul and then some.

Wait.

Moroie?

…Had he just named their fictional daughter too?

Of course he had.

Well, naturally, their nicknames would be Dread and Riot.

These two little fuckers were going to be the highlight of his existence.

Momo. Ain. Nemo. Dread. Riot.

His family.

His everything—

CRASH!

“Oh no! I’m sorry, sir! Forgive me…”

Morgan raised her face from her food, and Burn from her, to observe the latest public catastrophe: a young, elegant man now marinated in red wine across the restaurant. A waitress hovered beside him, doing her best to blot out the damage with nothing but napkins and good intentions, surrounded by the glittering remains of a shattered glass.

The man smiled—because of course he did. With his straight, golden hair flowing like virtue itself and rose-gold eyes that screamed merciful heir of a tragic house, he replied with infuriating grace, “It’s okay. Be careful not to cut yourself, miss.”

The restaurant manager swooped in like a diplomacy-trained hawk, wearing a smile so composed it deserved a medal. “Sir, let us offer you a change of clothes. Please forgive us for the inconvenience.”

“Oh my, thank you,” the man replied with all the warmth of a springtime saint, rising to his feet and gliding after the manager. Naturally, he had to pass right by Burn and Morgan’s table on his path to a cleaner wardrobe.

Morgan resumed eating with the same enthusiasm as before—which was to say, ravenous indifference. Burn did the same, unbothered.

So neither of them bothered to look up when that drenched elegant creature cast a lingering gaze in their direction.

“Mmmh, so good,” Morgan sighed, post-devouring her plate like a queen who happened to be born with perfect table manners. “We should take Ain here sometime. He loves food the most.”

“Okay. Next time, we’ll just summon the cook to the palace,” Burn replied flatly, already gesturing to a waitress for the next course like he was ordering war logistics. “My old principality’s palace isn’t far anyway.”

“You seem to like this region a lot,” Morgan said with a smile that was half-innocent, half-interrogation.

“I do. This place was my first training ground for governance. I was twelve.”

“Twelve? Was it fun?”

“Fun,” he echoed, just as the next wave of dishes began to arrive—an army of hot, thick soups. Of course. This region sat snugly near the northern border of Soulnaught, practically breathing on Wintersin’s doorstep. Cold enough to justify soups. Cold enough to forge emperors.

Yes. His father had flung him here like a particularly bitter chess piece, far from the capital, under the guise of “education.”

“Should we visit and spend the night there?” Morgan asked, eyes gleaming with a curiosity that, frankly, spelled trouble.

“Finish the soup and we’re going,” Burn said without missing a beat.

She obeyed—sort of. She ate with an obedient smile, but there was enough sass behind it to cause property damage. And of course, Burn remembered she was menstruating. He could only clench his jaw and accept his fate.

Before they finished, the elegantly soggy man from earlier passed them again, now cleaned up and presumably back to pretending he hadn’t just survived a wine baptism. He returned to his table like nothing happened.

Morgan downed her last bite and drink, and Burn stood with her, ever the image of silent coordination. He left a single cufflink behind—a small thing etched with the flame of Soulnaught—so the manager would know where to send the bill.

That was when the staff realized exactly who they’d been serving.

Not just the staff. The truth spread like spilled wine through the rest of the restaurant.

Including to one long-haired, rose gold-eyed, recently baptized man.

Burn and Morgan hadn’t brought carriages or money. Not because they couldn’t afford it—please—but because they weren’t the sort of dainty aristocrats who’d faint at the idea of walking. Hailing a carriage like some fluttering debutante wasn’t on the menu, and besides, Morgan wanted to walk.

The palace was just two or three blocks away. Practically next door.

Post-dinner, she had a bit of energy, thanks to a brief reprieve from the clutches of her uterus. She still had to stop once or twice along the way when cramps decided to remind her who was boss, but compared to the horror show that was last night—the first day—it wasn’t bad. Manageable. Survivable.

They chatted as they walked, looking for all the world like an old married couple in the making—one casually divine, the other casually terrifying. Unsurprisingly, their stroll turned a few heads.

A goddess on a moonlit walk, trailed by an emperor carved from granite. Of course people stared.

Even at this late hour, carriages rolled up and down the road. One particularly luxurious monstrosity passed them, headed in the same direction. Morgan noticed it—it was hard not to—but Burn, ever the embodiment of zero external concern, barely blinked.

“Who’s in charge of your palace now?” she asked.

“Some servants,” he replied.

“These ‘some servants’—what titles do they hold?”

“Count.”

Morgan nodded. Reasonable. Nobles babysitting a palace. Makes sense.

Her composure, however, faltered the moment the vast expanse of the palace’s front yard came into view. “Oh, why is the front yard so vast?”

Burn laughed. Fully, richly. The sort of rare laugh that came when her hormonal mood finally punched through her composure. She had walked all the way here from the city without a word, but the instant she saw that ridiculously long stretch between the gate and the palace itself—a stretch that even carriages needed a full two minutes to cross—she lost all motivation.

While she stewed and he chuckled, neither of them noticed that the luxurious carriage from before had already parked at the grand palace gate.

Inside it sat the same radiant man, apparently incapable of minding his own business. Once again, his rose-gold eyes lingered with interest—now co—

CRASH! GRASP!

“KUGH!”

Before the golden boy could say anything, a thick wall of carriage splinters and shock was all that greeted him.

An arm—imperial, muscular, and utterly done with decorum—smashed through the carriage wall, clutched his neck, and dragged him out like bad laundry, destroying an entire side of the opulent vehicle.

And there he was. Emperor Burn Pendragon. Standing. Looming. Glowering.

“Whose rat are you,” he said, voice like the edge of a guillotine, “glancing openly at my wife?”

…

…

I was glancing at you, though…?