Gawain didn’t rush to respond. He leaned back, letting the pieces of the puzzle clito pce, one by one, until the mention alia" made his expression darken.

  “Your Majesty, I uand why you called me now.”

  The former monarch’s regalia.

  His brow furrowed deeper. “Of course. Because it was the Agravaine family who had the honor—if we call it that—of crafting the st monarch’s regalia. But Sir—”

  “I know,” Burn interrupted, his tone sharp. “After that, they were vetted, locked up in the House of Leodegrance, and ceremoniously handed over to bee the monarch’s regalia.”

  “But the House of Leodegrance had absolutely no reason to harm the king,” Burn’s tone darkened with each word. “Not my brother, not his doting mother’s loyalists, not Aroche.”

  “Sir, I wasn’t implying—” Gawain stumbled, catg himself before he could dig the hole deeper. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I’ve overstepped. I am ashamed for letting my nerves get the better of me. Please, five me.”

  He bowed stiffly, his face a study in guilt—not doing, but of fear. Not fear of reprisal or punishment, but of losing the trust of his king.

  Burhe silence linger like a bde just above the neck before finally a thin, knowing smile. “I do not doubt you.”

  Gawain exhaled sharply, his eyes briefly closing in relief—though dread soon followed as the question still loomed: if not the House of Leodegrance, and not the House of Agravaihen who?

  “If that stepmother of mine had been alive when Father’s regalia was ged,” Burn said, his sigh sharp enough to cut through the room, “she’d already be at the top of my list of suspects.”

  But no, the logiraveled itself pinly. His brother’s fa and their supporters relied too heavily on the king’s prote; even the bined might of the kingdom couldn’t ralize Burn’s influen their own. They had no reason to make such a risky move.

  And Aroche… no. Impossible.

  “Alright,” Burn said, voice dropping into something bitter and raw. “Even if it was my brother…” He rubbed his temples with one hand, resting his fa the other as though physically trying to keep himself from falling apart.

  “You’re not the king’s son! I, t, am his only son!”

  His mind echoed with a voice that wasn’t there.

  “No. It couldn’t be,” Burn’s lips twisted into a grimace at the memory.

  “Caliburn,” Man’s voice cut through, soft but firm. She rose from her seat beside Yvain and k before him, her fingers brushing his cheek to ground him. “Let it rest. We’ve uncovered the Demon Lord’s identity. That’s enough for one day.”

  Burn slowly closed his eyes, leaning intan’s touch.

  “Gawai me a full list of my brother’s supporters, my stepmother’s backers, and aied to Aroche. Track down any e they might have to Lankor. That’s all.” Burn rose from his seat, gently pulling Man to stand beside him.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you for trusting me again,” Gawain said, a flicker of relief in his voice.

  Bur out a tired sigh. “Didn’t you already pour your Forto a cup for me?”

  Gawain smiled faintly, ining his head. “Even so, I am far from worthy.”

  Burn’s gaze shifted toward Yvain, who sat silently, the weight of Burn’s unspoken burdens written across his face. Whatever betrayals Yvain had endured paled pared to the byrinth of treachery Burn navigated daily.

  “Go to sleep,” Burn ordered simply. “Tomorrow, you’ll watd learn from your master how to create an anic vessel for your new sister. Help her while you’re at it.”

  “Wait. What?!” Yvain shot up from his seat, his expression somewhere between disbelief aential dread. “Your Majesty, those words in that order don't make sense!”

  “You help after school,” Man added sweetly, as if that made it better.

  “After school? Help?! You’re making my sister?!”

  Finn and Gawain exged a gnce, both equally lost.

  Though, to his credit, Finn had started to adapt to the chaos these three casually jured. With a shrug, he muttered, “This reminds me of that tabletop game with the most ridiculous campaigns my men and I sometimes py… utter nonsense.”

  That caught Burn’s attentiouro Finn, his sharp golden eyes lighting up with what could only be described as excitement.

  “Finn, prepare a campaign,” Burn decred, his tone as decisive as if he’d just ordered a siege.

  “I want in too!” Man chimed, g her hands together like a delighted child.

  “Why me?!” Finn shouted, his posure crumbling uhe sheer absurdity of the situation. Wasn't he already burdened enough with Inkia’s invasion? And now he had to prepare his boss’ eai?

  “Speaking of rolepy,” Burn turned his sharp gaze back to Gawain, his tone dripping with irony. “Don’t you he highest authority to dig up all that information?”

  Man, ever prepared, handed Gawain a pair s.

  “Find yourself a woman to pose as my wife ao the imperial winter retreat vil in the South,” Burn instructed, as if this were the most logiext step. “Show up there, dig around, and iigate closer to the source.”

  After all, the House of Leodegrance had once been the mightiest of the Soulnaught Southern nobility.

  Gawain stared bnkly at the rings—Gahad and Landevale’s disguises when they once impersonated Burn and Mahe fact he just learned from their short expnation.

  But well…

  “Sir… I have… no suan,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

  “ht,” Man interjected, her tone light as air. “That Marissa Lirl does look somewhat like me.”

  Burn’s brow arched skeptically. “Who?”

  Man’s sly smile only widened as Burn’s memory sluggishly turs gears. And then it hit him—the blonde, blue-eyed thief who’d oolen his locket. His expression twisted with irritation.

  “What simir? Donkey-and-ali simir?” he snapped, clearly unimpressed. The only reason Marissa Lombardi had any cim tan-like resembnce was thanks to a painting he’d painstakingly made while searg the world for her. And this thief had the audacity to subtly suggest to the world that she was his future empress?

  Man gave him a pyful nudge, her grin b on wicked. “Make her pose as me. She’ll behave if she’s eveely intelligent.”

  “Oh, you’re teasing me,” Burn deadpanned as the realization finally dawned, while Man promptly threw her head bad ughed without mercy.

  “Fine, fine,” Bured, letting her amusement run its course. Turning back to Gawain, he said, “Take Marissa Lombardi with you to the South and make her pose as my wife. Your job is to ensure no one finds out that I’m not where I said I would be—aainly not here with my actual wife.”

  Man tried her best to hold her ughs but failed miserably.

  Gawain blinked as the memory of Marissa Lombardi resurfaced, particurly the chaos at the victory ba after Burn had been stabbed. Still, orders were orders.

  “As you and, Your Majesty,” he said, though his torayed just how much he dreaded this assig.

  As Burn silently retreated for the night with Man by his side, Gawain’s gaze lingered on his back, growing darker with each passing sed.

  Betrayal.

  There was nothing Gawain loathed more—except perhaps the memory of that particur traitor. The one who had shattered everything, leaviru in their wake and f half of Burn’s infamous reputation as a vilin.

  His jaw tightened, and his fists ched at his sides.

  With a voice barely louder than a breath, Gawain murmured, “Long live Caliburn Pendragon.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel, heading toward the mission that awaited him.