“Caliburn… earlier, when you spoke with Sir Gawain about your brother, his mother, and Aroche—why are you so certain they couldn’t have been the oo betray your father and cause his death?”

  Burn sighed, pulling her clainst him. Her voice was muffled as she led into the crook of his neck, but he heard every word. He adjusted the b around them, shielding their bare bodies from the chill of the room.

  “I knew you’d ask eventually,” he said, his tone dry, though his hand lingered on her back. “But have you recovered?”

  Man had only just stopped vomiting blood, the all-too-familiar price of aime loop starting.

  “I have,” she assured him, her voice steady now, though her body still felt light from the ordeal. “You tell for yourself, ’t you? My body’s doing just fier all the… attention you just gave me.”

  Burn fought the urge to smile, though a faint blush betrayed him, creeping unbidden onto his cheeks. It was being increasingly difficult to mask—he maddening effect this woman had on him. Mercifully, she didn’t notice, too preoccupied with burying half her fa his neck.

  “I’m curious about everything about you,” she murmured, her words more intimate thaouch of her skin against his.

  Burn closed his eyes, sidering her question. He’d have to choose his words carefully—this wasn’t a tale meant for just anyone. Only the innermost circle of Soulnaught’s nobility khe truth of it.

  “The queen passed away long before the regalia even came ience. My brother… he genuinely loved our father. And Aroche…” he paused, trag slow, deliberate circles on her back, “…he was a good man.”

  His tone was calm, almost unnervingly matter-of-fact.

  Man shifted, leaning away just enough to study his fa the dim light. She locked eyes with him for several long moments before asking softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It’s ly a good bedtime story,” Burn replied with a faint smile—the kind of genuine smile he reserved for these quiet, unguarded nights, when no o her was around to see it.

  Sensing his subtle but clear evasion, she led back against him, letting out a small, tent hum. “Alright. Let’s just sleep, then.”

  He was silent for a moment, his hand resuming its slow path across her back. Then, almost casually, he said, “It’s worse thaing the flesh of two se beings. Still ied?”

  Man didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but her voice was soft and steady as she murmured, “Your past?”

  “Mm,” Burn murmured faintly, his aowledgment so quiet it almost dissolved into the night. “You might not be able to sleep afterward. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  Man tilted her head slightly, her voice sharp with dry humor. “Didn’t I just watch you torture that young fleet admiral by having Bel make duplicates of every body part you cut off—including his head?”

  A low, rumbling ugh escaped him, resonating through his chest and into her body. “Fair point,” he said, his amusement lingering in his tone. “I suppose it’s not my pce to uimate the inal Saint.”

  House Leodegrance was a name woven deeply into the history of the Southern Region of Soulnaught—a Southern Ducal house of immense porestige. It wasn’t just a juggernaut within the kingdom but a anding presence across the ti.

  Geions of loyal, brilliant individuals carried the Leodegraname. Burn had heard the tales: how Urien Soulnaught Pendragon married the Leodegrance princess and made her his queen.

  Man chuckled softly at that, her toeasing. “Oh, they were adorable together, that blockhead…”

  Burn gave her a sharp, mildly annoyed look, the er of his mouth twitg as he recalled something Isaiah had told him. Apparently, Urien had onursed a massive crush on Man. Then again, Isaiah had also cimed no one in their right mind could genuinely love Man—not even Urien.

  Burn shook the thought aressed on with the story. His grandfather, Uther Soulsoar Pendragon, had arranged a betrothal between his father, Arthur Souljust Pendragon, and a dy from the Leodegrance Duchy—Miss Guinevere Leodegrance.

  She had been chosen for her celebrated beauty and intelligehey’d called her the “Lady of Virtue,” though her lineage wasn’t from the main branch of the family. Guinevere was born to the brother of the Leodegrance family head.

  “In short,” Burn said, his voice steady, “my brother’s mother was Aroche Leodegrance’s aunt. So, my brother and Aroche weren’t just close friends—they were cousins.”

  Aroche, unlike Guinevere, came from the direct line of succession. Talented, loyal, and a natural leader, he wielded far more influeha, the first prince. He had asded to the role of duke at a remarkably young age and excelled in it—earning the kind of reputation that others could only dream of.

  “You did mention ohat they betrothed you to Dame Landevale?” Man asked, her tone curious yet edged with a knowing smirk.

  Landevale, the current third-ranking knight of the Round Table, had once been Burn’s fiahat was, until she decided her true calling y in being a knight. Ten years ago, they’d mutually agreed to sever the e.

  And Landevale? She was a Leodegrance.

  Not just any Leodegrance, but one from the main branch—Aroche’s full-blooded younger sister. If Guinevere bore the title of “Lady of Virtue,” Landevale carried an even heavier burden of responsibility as a member of the direct succession line.

  Which begged the question: why would she be betrothed to Burn, the bastard prince of Soulnaught?

  Sure, Burn was aowledged by the . And yes, his talent was undeniable—a brilliahe world had never seen before. But rather than pairing him with someone who might support his ambition for the throne, his father and Guinevere had spired to bind him to House Leodegrance.

  Shag him with marriage.

  Marrying into the main branch of the most iial ducal house wasn’t necessarily a boon for a prince. If anything, it olitical trap. A match like that could leave a prince vulnerable, swayed by the is of his in-ws, making the throne an even more distant dream.

  Especially when that very house—the house Burn would have married into—was also the one propping up Guinevere and her son, t.

  And as for bloodlines? Burn had no blood retion to the Leodegrances. Which, of course, made it a “perfect” mat the eyes of his father and Guinevere—a way to tether Burn without risking any awkward questions about shared blood.

  That was the nature of the bowee, Burn, and Aroche: a weaker, legitimate son; a monstrously talented bastard; and their cousin, caught somewhere in the crossfire.

  Strangely, Aroche had never been a b politi.

  As t’s cousin and Burn’s would-be brother-in-w, he ook sides—ruly aligned himself with either of them. Instead, Aroche stood firmly on his own ground, deftly avoidiy with both.

  He’d started off close to t, of course. They’d been childhood friends, bound by family ties and the kind of camaraderie only cousins could share. But as they grew older, Aroche found himself gravitating toward Burn.

  By the end, their bond was strohan anything Aroche shared with t.

  Burn had noticed this pattern before—people like Gahad, Percival, Gawain, Landevale, and… Aroche. People who looked beyond. Beyond the bels others spped onto him, the bastard prih his sights set ohrohey looked at his iions.

  Yes, he was ambitious—btantly so. But the question they asked wasn’t what he wanted, but why. For whom?

  Why would someone like Burn willingly choose to py the role of the vilin?

  Out of everyone, Aroche uood him best. Better even than Gahad or the others. Aroche saw the truth: that Burn, for all his unwanted existence, was the glue holding the kingdom together. Silently or brashly, he carried that weight.

  He uood him. Beyond loyalty. Beyond blood.

  Perhaps, Aroche was his only real brother. His only real family.

  Aroche had always been there. Like the time Bure t’s refusal for help, broke into his principality to exterminate wave after wave of Cyclopes and save the people. Aroche covered for him without hesitation.

  Or the time Burn decided to annouhe breaking off of his e with Landevale by sending her on a perilous mission while throwing a wild, sdalous party with half the noblewomen of the realm.

  Aroche had ughed that night, calling it “Peak eai!”

  Of course, the m, he’d shown up a Burn’s hungover ass into the ground. But that was beside the point.

  Aroche was the only one who truly saw Burn for what he was—his i, not his methods. And Burn knew, in his heart, that kind of uanding was a rare, fleeting thing.

  He was there even whe wasn’t—when his father passed away.

  He was there for him until the end of his life.