Seven years ago, when Burn was still a sprightly 20, he recalled returning from an expedition on the kingdom’s fringes, where he heroically exterminated ord goblin poputions that had taken to pguing the nearby vilges.

  He had just made his grarance, but it took him mere moments to see his father’s cealed weakness—an astute observation, really, sidering the old man wore the mask of a hero while clearly crumblih it.

  At the time, his brother was also present, blissfully unaware of the ailment his father had before him, likely preoccupied with something far less pressing, unclear what.

  Discreetly, after night deepened, Burn approached his father and inquired about the curious state of his body. The old man’s shocked expression was a fitting response.

  “I see. You saw what others couldn’t,” he said, the air thick with iability. “I’m about to die.”

  Burn froze, caught like a deer in the proverbial headlights. His entire life, his father had beeurdy oak in a storm, and here he was, withering like a fall leaf, all while dispying the stubbornness of a mule.

  “What kind of illness do you have, Father? I’ll find you the cure.”

  Because obviously, no ailment could withstand the sheer will of a son, especially when his father had once been the paragon of strength—until now, it seemed.

  Nothing in the world had no cure. This was a truth Burn g to. His father, a strong Force master, should have been impervious to the whims of fate. The idea that there was nothing Burn could do was ludicrous—absurd, really.

  If his father had been anyone else, maybe he could accept this grim fate. But Arthur was once a Force master of such caliber that even the fiercest storms would hesitate before approag him.

  “It’s been long since you called me Father,” Arthur replied, wearing a smile tinged with irony. “Why? Did I frighten you?”

  Well, sidering the shog revetion of impending mortality, Arthur thought, it’s hard to bme him for feeling a tingle of fear.

  “No matter what, you are still my Father,” Burn stated, squeezing those precious words out between the sarcasm and despair. He closed his eyes and stood beside Arthur, surveying the kingdom from the baly.

  As they looked across the nd, Burn thought how this was the moment that should be filled with triumph, not poetic tragedy. After years of struggle, they had just entered an era of stability. The irony of it all—saving kingdom while losing the very heart of his own.

  “Are you resentful?” Arthur asked. “All I did was stifling your ambition to grasp the throne all because I favored your brother over you.”

  He had never openly fessed his favoritism. It was just that his younger son possessed such staggering talent that Arthur was pelled to shower him with accodes—who wouldn’t want to reward brilliance, after all?

  Yet, despite the unmistakable glow of his younger son's achievements, Arthur quietly nudged his elder boy toward the throne.

  Until, of course, Burn, in all his audacious wisdom, took matters into his own hands, charming the court with his ambitions. They, in turn, decided that the throne was better suited for him—not his older brother, ever the backdrop to Burn's blinding stage.

  Arthur, resigned and somewhat amused by his ow, allowed Burn to asd as Prince.

  From that moment, Burn’s feats multiplied as if by magic—each aplishment carving out his iable reign more deeply. Arthur had shuffled the pieces on the chessboard, but it turned out Burn was not only the best pyer; he was the board itself.

  Nothing could halt Burn now, a juggernaut of talent and ambition, leaving his elder sibling in a haze of unfulfilled promise.

  “Guess it’s too te frets,” Arthur mused, half-smirking, as he observed the kingdom filled with the brilliant glow of his least favored son’s future pns. “After all, one must cherish the very ambition that outstrips the son one raised.”

  And there he stood, a father cheering from the sidelines of a game he unknowingly lost—his prince s ever higher, leaving behind traces of what could have been, all ed in a delightful package of adulting irony.

  “I mean, I uand,” Burn said, a sneer carving lines into his expression. “Even if I ’t quite fathom why, you’ve always had a soft spot for him over me. Lucky for you, my achievements have kept your favoritism under s.”

  “Brother must’ve been feeling a bit stifled with my preseoo,” Burn added, a victorious glint flickering in his eyes.

  “This is precisely why I hesitate to you,” Arthur replied, his voice ced with a wearihat belied the indignatioended. “Your arrogance is as galling as it is predictable.” But deep down, he khis rationale was merely a mask; denying his preference for his elder son was a futile exercise.

  “Ah, the burden of my brilliance!” Burn chimed, his sarcasm hanging in the air like a well-timed flourish. “If only you could appreciate how suffog it must be to share air with such mediocrity.”

  Arthur, grappling with his own inner flict, felt the tension stretch taut between them. His lingering affe for the older son was a shadow that darkened every iion with Burn.

  He then asked the young man, “Are you not curious why I favored him over you?”

  “Because I’m a bastard?” Burn replied.

  “Because you’re that woman’s son,” Arthur retorted coldly. “It’s not your fault, I know, but I hold a grudge.”

  “She’s dead; why do you still g to that grudge?” Burn sneered, now finding amusement iuation.

  “Son, how could you not reseoo?” Arthur demanded, fixing his intense gaze on Burn. “Why?”

  “Everyone says she was a good person. She helped tless individuals, and she’s my mother—the one whht me into this world. I ’t imagiing her, even on my worst days,” Burn shot back.

  “Perhaps this expins why I favored t more. He’s capable of hate,” Arthur snapped, his frustration bubbling over. “While you? You seem devoid of both hate and love. Do you even know what it means to be human?”

  “You don’t even hate me for everything I’ve doo you,” Arthur added, his anger barely cealing his vulnerabilities.

  Burn shrugged nontly, “I’m simply detached.”

  Arthur immediately grasped the situation: Burn had extinguished any deep se for others, leading to a profound absence of hatred, too.

  “Then, why did you offer me this versation?” Arthur inquired, shifting his gaze.

  Bur his eyes, his expression somber. “You are a great king. While I could feign indifference about your fate, Father, I still harbored a flicker of hope that we might maintain this farcical retionship a bit longer.”

  Arthur scoffed. “You realize you’re the priny demise merely clears your path to the throne.”

  “Yes,” Burn replied with feigned siy. “What was I thinking? Clearly, I shouldn’t have bothered fronting you or offered to find a cure. Silly me.”

  Arthur erupted in ughter, a sound that filled the air like a dark cloud.

  “At least let me assess your body’s dition,” Burn suddenly decred.

  Arthur narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. “What? You’re truly a riddle ed in a mystery.”

  “You dey iions. Just accept my filial piety in silence,” Burn sighed, grasping Arthur’s wrist, attempting to locate his heartbeat. Raising his gaze, he scrutinized Arthur’s face, his expression sharpening.

  A heavy silence fell before Burn’s eyes faltered.

  “See?” Arthur smirked. “Sadly, boy, you’re ly destined for the role of savior.”

  “I ,” Burn was in denial, ging desperately to the notion of his father’s invincibility. The revetion of his father’s fragility shattered his illusions, sending ripples of disbelief through him.

  “You should refrain from tiring activity from now on. I’ll handle everything.”

  Arthur offered a bitter smile. This son… was it possible he had misread him all along? Had he mistaken his ambition and aloofness for mere arrogance?

  Burn’s talent had overshadowed his older brother since childhood, a bright star destio blind rather than illuminate. His obvious drive for the throne was merely proof of utter disregard for anyone else’s existence. But perhaps this boy…

  He was merely maintaining a healthy distao preserve the delicate bance of their family drama. Was he withholding affe to spare his older brother from deeper wounds?

  If only Burn had shown him just a bit menuiion, perhaps he instead would bee Arthur’s favorite, and t would…

  Was his younger son’s yearning for e had been hindered by his and t’s emotional preservation?

  “I will take over the state matters from tomorrow onwards. You must recuperate from now on and not think about anything else,” Burn procimed coldly, as if the weight of the kingdom had always rested solely on his broad shoulders.

  “I will get physis and doctors privately, so don’t worry about news leaking out.”

  Once Bur his mind to something, it was as if he’d hitched a ride on a runaway carriage—no stopping it now.

  A, beh the worry y a flicker of pride. Perhaps, just perhaps, this audacious boy might surprise him—if only he didn’t trip over his own ambition first.

  And just three days ter, Arthur suddenly fell gravely ill.

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  e to think of it, Arthur's and Belezak's deaths are in the same year. Burn and Yvain lost their fathers almost at the same time.