“Where are the physicians?!”
Galahad and Percival paled, becoming two specters of alarm. Burn’s abrupt demand for every physician in existence felt like calling for the cavalry in an already crowded battlefield.
“Your Highness, His Majesty is a remarkably strong man. Though it appears grim, he’s rely—”
Burn shut his eyes, his fists trembling with a cocktail of fury and worry. Percival wisely fell silent.
“Where is my brother?” Burn demanded, his voice laced with barely concealed urgency.
“He ntioned he was preoccupied with state affairs and couldn’t return just yet, sir. After your return, he imdiately strode back to his principality,” Galahad replied, his tone almost apologetic. “There have been unrelenting storms in his principality.”
“Call him. Make him return, no excuses, Galahad,” Burn insisted, a king amidst chaos. “I’m departing for a day. Percival, you’re in charge of His Majesty.”
The two exchanged glances, engaging in a silent conversation steeped in concern and resignation. His Highness, that stoic sentinel, usually remained a beacon of composure. This mont was an aberration—a rare glimpse into panic overshadowing his usually unflappable deanor.
No, nothing was truly amiss; His Majesty simply had a slight cough—not the kind that warranted a royal summons of every doctor this side of the realm.
Their physicians were already the best, and although they seed puzzled, there must’ve been sothing they could do before sothing fatal actually happened.
That man was Arthur Pendragon, for heavens’ sake!
Yet here they stood, caught in the undertow of Burn’s tempestuous anxiety. Leaving just a cough under Percival's vigilant gaze felt like using a castle door to hold a single ant.
After all, what could possibly go wrong with a bit of illness? Storms, the prince, and a cold—surely, nothing needed imdiate attention, except, it seed, Burn himself.
“Drag my brother ho!” Burn bellowed before soaring into the sky.
Galahad didn’t dare dilly-dally. Just as he was about to dash off, Percival grasped his arm, as if anchoring him. “Sothing’s definitely off, but don’t go playing the martyr just to retrieve His Highness Prince Clarent against His Highness the Crown Prince’s whims.”
With a somber nod, Galahad replied, “I’m quite aware of the Eldest Prince’s temperant. He might detest the notion of being ordered around, but duty calls, doesn’t it?”
“Alright. Perhaps we should summon Young Duke Leodegrance. You secure an audience with him,” Percival suggested.
“Sure, let just speak with Landevale,” Galahad responded.
Burn arrived at his hidden refuge deep in the mountains, opening the door urgently. He scrambled through his storage room, as if searching for the Holy Grail among odds and ends.
Eight years had passed since he first indulged in the peculiar delicacy of rfolk and unicorn at.
The rfolk, alas, offered only a small portion; he feasted only the lower half, the fishy tail, and discarded the humanoid part like a picky diner tossing aside limp greens. The unicorn, however, was a feast fit for a king, with its ample equine body—a more generous offering, if you will.
Of course, even ‘culinary adventurers’ like himself couldn’t devour an entire unicorn and rfolk tail in one sitting.
So, he resorted to a thod straight from a high fantasy handbook: treating the at with blessed salt harvested from the tiny sea washed by both the Luminus Kingdom and Wintersin Empire. Nothing says “gourt” quite like a sprinkle of blessed salt, right?
Maintaining the temperature of his storage room was no small feat, either. He had sourced an eternal ice crystal from Wintersin, a task that required both patience and a small fortune—After all, preserving unusual ats requires a touch of magic.
With the cold emanating from the crystal, his collection remained pristine, reminiscent of a cold-hearted bard preserving the finest ballads.
But leaving that aside, what remained of the rfolk and the unicorn were their bones and distinct body parts: the rfolk’s fins and the unicorn’s horn.
With the utmost care, he packaged them in a box that looked suspiciously like a relic from a long-forgotten garage sale and sealed it shut as if it contained the secrets of the universe—or at least a very niche museum exhibit.
And as if that weren’t enough, he proceeded to gather every dicine and poison ingredient he had hoarded over his lifeti, making it an extravaganza that took over half a day.
Not a single vial was marred; it was as if he were preparing for an elaborate cooking show instead of a morbid collection.
Surely, just one of them could do sothing for his father, right? Preferably sothing to help him get better?
Burn tied it all together as if it were a gift for a particularly dreary holiday and set off in search of a big box and cushions—a truly riveting adventure, indeed.
After a day’s toil, he returned ho, only to find Landevale and Galahad poised at the door, ready to embark on whatever this misadventure might involve.
“Why are you still here?” Burn inquired of Galahad, who promptly bowed deeply, as if the very ground were deserving of his reverence.
“Sir, we’ve just located Sir Leodegrance,” Galahad replied. “Landevale and I will soon persuade His Highness the Eldest Prince to return ho.”
“Yes, Your Highness, I’ll get my brother to summon His Highness Prince Clarent,” Landevale said, bowing with Galahad.
“Why the roundabout route? Just summon Clarent back!” Burn exclaid, nearly losing his grip on the box strapped to his back.
Percival erged from the palace, raising his voice in caution. “Sir, let’s not provoke His Highness Prince Clarent too hastily. After you barged into his principality to confront the cyclopian dungeon break, his mood hasn’t exactly been rose-tinted.”
“What? As if he could handle it alone!” Burn retorted sharply. “Is this truly the mont for sensitivities? Tell him Father is unwell—”
“Caliburn!” bood a voice that reverberated through the air, slicing through Burn's irritation like a sword. A figure erged from the palace, and every inch of Arthur radiated authority, a stark contrast to his bedridden state.
Burn’s frown deepened when he saw Arthur out of his sickbed, a sight so rare it might have warranted an entry in the kingdom’s history books. “You raise quite the ruckus for an old man like … cough, cough!”
“Why can’t I?! I am the Crown Prince of the Great Soulnaught, and I will stir chaos whenever it pleases !” Burn shot back, the defiance echoing in the marble corridors. “Return to your chamber, Father. This is my final request. After this, I’ll assu command and decree your house arrest.”
“Presumptuous bastard!” Arthur thundered.
“Yes, I am!” Burn challenged, locking eyes with his father, bloodshot. “I am your bastard. Return to your chamber.”
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