The next day, Burn decided Morgan ought to see the estate—not just the curated, princely parts, but the whole thing. The gardens, the halls, the libraries, the chambers—
They ended up in a hall entirely too eager to show off its collection of musical instrunts.
“You used to sing to cast spells,” Burn remarked, glancing at Morgan as she laughed at the sheer overkill of the room. “I thought Vision Mages were done with that kind of thing.”
“They are,” Morgan replied, amused. “But they don’t anymore now that more thods have been found. This singing thod works too well for . Rember I didn’t have Nemo with back when we fought together?”
“So you replaced your catalyst with your throat?” he asked, half-impressed, half-curious.
“Exactly. Noise. Vibration. Vocal cords beco the spell dium,” she said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a literal act of bodily magic.
Without warning, Burn tugged her to a piano seat and claid a nearby guitar. “You have a beautiful voice,” he said.
“I do?” Morgan blinked, then smirked.
“Mhm,” Burn replied, busy checking the strings. Then he began to play—and sing.
[Azorath, vaelothor, kel’duran! Vor’shak, shendren, k’larathem, venor!]
Morgan’s mouth fell open. Of course he knew that song. Everyone with a half-decent martial education did. It was an old war chant, belted by soldiers on their way to die for their lords.
He played it fast, with the righteous tempo of soone who’d definitely marched into hell and left it embarrassed.
[Zyth’garoth, feran’dor, kel’duran! Vor’shak, shendren, k’larathem, venor!]
“Ah!” Morgan gasped, fully swept away. That was the song. The one she sang for him when he fought the second White Dwarf.
[Kel’syth doranak valen’ytheth, vernothrax doranak ael’vun’dor—]
“Kel’syth doranak valen’ytheth, vernothrax doranak ael’vun’dor—” she joined in, flawlessly.
[Ael’drakul! Ael’drakul!]
“Mmmh! Yeees!”
“No—Pfft—” Burn cracked, fingers slipping. “Why would you moan in the middle of a battle chant?”
“Because,” she sniffed, “it’s a very erotic song.”
[Vor’eth, naluk’ethar doran’eth elrok? Vora’rok!]
She kept going—unapologetically—and honestly, he had to admit it. That line did sound suspiciously heated. The literal translation didn’t help either: Mother, shall I send them back to you? Open up (your hole)! Yeah. Real subtle.
Burn laughed and surrendered to the absurdity.
[Zyra’shak noraku’eth vora’yth! Dor’thaloth shendren vael!]
“Aang!”
“BHAHAHAHA—!”
[Azorath! Vaelothor! Kel’duran! Vor’shak! Shendren! K’larathem! Venor!]
“Yah!”
[Eyliya’doroth resh’naeranye na’llethan, feral’dorak ardor’eth ael’kraethan, morathyr’sylph! Qithil’dor ael’sharath!]
“Yah~”
“Morgan, for the love of—sssh!”
“Pfffttt…”
“How did this turn from a battlefield hymn into that?” Burn finally stopped strumming, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“You didn’t know?” she asked, blinking at him. “This whole song was originally written by a notorious bard. So six hundred years ago—it was a love song, actually. A dirty one.”
She started humming it again, this ti slow, sultry, the lody dripping in suggestion.
“Alright, stop, Madam,” Burn said, laughing, catching her jaw with his hand. “Tell again—how were you still a virgin the first ti I slept with you?”
“I’m a saint,” she declared through her own laughter. “But unfortunately, sainthood doesn’t shield you from the occasional obscenity.”
Burn gave her a long look. “And where, exactly, did a saint hear this kind of filth?”
“At the brothel,” she said lightly.
He blinked.
He had never been to one, and his smile froze. First—because he was raised royal. Won ca without needing to seek them. Second… because he simply couldn’t. Not there. Not like that.
“…Why were you at a brothel?” he asked, more softly this ti.
“I was born in one,” Morgan replied. Her voice was gentle, her smile poised. “A few tis, actually.”
She tilted her head. “Did I just break your heart, Caliburn?”
He didn’t answer. Just quietly put the guitar aside and pulled her into his arms, holding her close.
“Morgan…”
She exhaled, still smiling, eyes gleaming with the kind of elegant mischief that never quite left her—even in monts like this. Her voice dropped to a soft murmur, loving and light.
“My na belongs to your tongue, Caliburn. Sounds too sweet.”
She stood up, pulled him to the center of the hall, and began to hum. On cue, her mana awakened the instrunts around them—they stirred like loyal familiars, playing to her rhythm without protest.
Burn allowed her to twirl around him once—graciously—before abruptly narrowing his eyes and delivering a sharp slap to her ass. “En garde!” he declared.
“Kya—hahahah!” she squealed, delighted.
He snatched a violin’s bow, brandishing it like a duelist’s blade. His footwork matched hers—not quite a dance, but a swordplay ritual, proud and precise, as if he were warding off a demoness instead of entertaining one. She squealed again, all mock fear and real thrill, while spinning gracefully on her toes like a ballerina.
As the instrunts obeyed her will and the tempo slowed into sothing rich, sultry, and sacrilegiously erotic—a twisted echo of the battle hymn they’d once sung together—her hips began to roll with intent.
Burn smiled, tossed the violin bow onto a cushion, and ran both hands through his hair, brushing it back with slow movents.
[Azorath, vaelothor, kel’duran… Vor’shak, shendren, k’larathem, venor…!]
“Charge, push, forward… Thrust, halt, storm, co…!”
[Zyth’garoth, feran’dor, kel’duran… Vor’shak, shendren, k’larathem, venor…!]
“To war, to death, forward… Thrust, halt, storm, co…!”
[Kel’syth doranak valen’ytheth, vernothrax doranak ael’vun’dor—]
“Show your heart bare, let claw it (off your chest)—”
[Ael’drakul…! Ael’drakul…!]
“For (/my glory)...! For (/my glory)...!”
“Mother, shall I send them back to you? Open up (your hole)!”
“I will never forget (those scars)! Of how hot those flas and bodies!”
“Aang!”
“Charge, push, forward… Thrust, halt, storm, co!”
“Yyah!”
“Those last screams and those dull eyes… That’s what I’m looking for!”
When the cymbals began to tease—tapping out a rhythm like a secret whispered far too close to the ear to be polite—the trumpets followed, wailing like drunk prophets yelling, “The end is nigh!” at a party no one invited them to.
The drum, ever loyal (and apparently the only one not suffering from delusions of grandeur), kept ti with the pulse thudding beneath their ribs. It was the only thing that didn’t lie. Unlike their mouths. Or their eyes.
They collided in a mock tango that devolved—no, evolved—into sothing far more carnal.
Morgan’s eyes flickered—amused, surprised. Burn matched her steps: Latin, lawless, and borderline illegal in three kingdoms. Their feet tangled like dueling swords more than dancers.
She squealed, hand grazing his hip. “Ah! Caliburn! Who taught you that?!”
He bit back a grin. “I was the Crown Prince of Soulnaught. Who taught you?”
“I was the Princess of Elysian!”
To an outsider, it might’ve looked like a brawl in formalwear. To anyone who knew them—it absolutely was. Just one with better rhythm, fewer bruises, and significantly more eye contact.
Their hips locked, broke apart, then returned—like a bad habit with suspiciously good rhythm. She giggled, blushed, swayed. He doubled down, showing off—lower… lower… lower…
Shaless. And effective.
“This is NOT a dance the Crown Prince of Soulnaught should learn!”
“Neither should the Princess of Elysian, you witc—”
“Oh?” Morgan glared.
What remained was pure instinct—reckless, radiant, and writhing with the kind of unspoken jokes that made their grins flash too wide and their eyes narrow like swords.
They bared teeth and souls, mocking each other with every sway, letting the music strip off myths and pretenses until all that was left was him and her—crashing against each other like twin storms with a grudge and excellent codic timing.
“Oi!” Burn yelped, caught between excitent and sheer panic as she ground against him from behind. She burst out laughing at his face. The fucking trumpet was definitely in on it.
His thigh slid between hers, hers between his—a rhythm locked tighter than their usual argunts. They spun. And spun. And spun.
Gravity, clearly taking the night off, let their hips flirt side to side in a language sowhere between seduction and playful jab—spoken in the grind and pull of flesh against silk, and pulse against bone, with just enough exaggeration to make each other snort.
And when the final note dared to flirt with silence, she arched—spine bending like a bow drawn tight, dramatic as hell—and he caught her with ease and zero surprise. One hand at her waist, the other at the back of her neck.
Suspended in his grip, she wasn’t a witch, and he wasn’t a king. Just a woman daring gravity to drop her with a smirk. And a man who never would.
“Owowowowow—” Morgan grimaced, clutching her abdon as another ruthless wave of cramps rolled through her.
Burn didn’t hesitate—he gently laid her down on the cold marble floor, using himself as a cushion.
“Hngggg…” she endured for another five seconds, while he attempted—unsuccessfully—to ease the ache in her waist and lower back.
“Whoever told you you have no Force talent is either blind or stupid. Not even the Force Masters I know can dance like that,” Burn muttered.
“It’s just a dance,” Morgan shot back.
“Who? Who told you that?” Burn pressed, unwilling to let it go.
“Augh, stop wasting breath on petty things,” she snapped, stealing a quick peck on his lips. “Everyone told . Why single them out now?”
Burn frowned, and she leaned in with a teasing smirk. “Who told you you were soulless? A monster? Who dared?”
Everyone.
Their problems were opposite poles, yet oddly complentary.
Morgan chuckled softly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down closer. “After my period ends, let’s…”
“Mm.”
***
Standing at the slightly ajar hall door was Aroche, finally deciding not to interrupt.
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I'm graduating! :'vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
Finally, I'm freeeeeeeeee
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