"Why are you looking at like that?" Momo, planted before Burn, couldn't help but notice his eyes on her more frequently of late.
"Desensitization. I need to get used to your face already," ca Burn's reply. It was as emotionless as a voice-mail greeting, but it did the job.
"Ah! Good job," winked Momo, flashing him a thumbs-up. It was a gesture as innocent as a Sunday school teacher, but with her doing it, even the birds in the sky might fall to the ground from a montary loss of focus.
There she was, the celestial beauty, able to distract and disorientate with a re thumbs-up. It was as if she had a secret code to the universe's laws of gravity. And Burn blurred his vision on purpose, focusing it on the object behind her.
“Oh, your eyes look empty again,” Momo waved her hand in front of his expressionless face, noticing that would sotis happen when he stared at her.
“If you hate my face so much, should I cover it with a veil? I usually did anyway. I still have the dress and hood Vlad gave along with the veil and everything,” Momo said.
"You sweat easily, aren't you?" Burn recalled. "Those clothes were fashioned for the frosty north, not for our balmy climate. Perhaps it's ti you tell Galahad to whip up sothing more weather-appropriate. You wouldn't want to lt now, would you?"
“It’s because your body temperature is high and that cursed chariot of yours—”
“The chariot is gone. And it wasn’t designed for two people anyway.”
“That’s what I said!”
What was he thinking earlier?
He forgot.
Well, no matter. He was back ho now, after what felt like a lifeti. He would co back to it later.
***
In the afternoon, Yvain arrived. Edensor's unfinished affairs had him trailing behind Burn and Morgan, but now he was here, sauntering down the grand hallways of the Soulnaught palace for the first ti.
He had Galahad trailing behind him like a faithful shadow, the picture of royal loyalty.
"A victory welco party?" Yvain asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like to attend?" Galahad offered, like he was proposing a casual tea party with a bunch of gossiping housewives, instead of a grand, all-out victory bash.
"But aren't I kinda a nuisance? I'm just a kid too," ca Yvain's response, a genuine question stemming from his past experiences of being the youngest attendee at grown-up parties.
"Orange juice and mocktails are popular here, sir," Galahad replied, a chuckle escaping his lips. "We, the knights and generals, have been waiting to spend more ti with you too."
It kinda felt like he'd just invited Yvain to a sleepover.
Yvain blinked at him, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Okay, if you insist."
"Thank you, sir," Galahad responded, probably ntally adding 'party planning' to his knightly duties.
anwhile, the palace of Soulnaught was a hive of aristocratic bees buzzing with activity. It was as if soone had switched on their turbo mode.
A victory party was on the horizon, and the palace was being spruced up like a debutante for her first ball. The kitchens resembled a whirlwind of culinary chaos, with white-hatted chefs churning out dishes so divine, they could make Zeus himself swoon.
The banquet hall was being transford into an opulent wonderland, draped in the most luxurious silks and glimring chandeliers, ready to play host to the empire's upper crust.
The knights were busy buffing their armors to mirror-like perfection, eager to parade around like proud roosters in a henhouse.
Down in the city, the air was similarly electrified with anticipation. The common folk were just as eager to let their hair down and bask in the glow of victory.
The cobblers were nding shoes for a night of dancing, the tailors were asuring for suits and gowns, and the taverns were stocking up on ale and cider for a night of rry toasting.
They were ready to laugh, cry, and celebrate the dual emotions of survival and loss. The soldiers, from high-ranking generals to the greenest of grunts, were all prepared to let loose, to swap their swords for goblets, and their battle cries for hearty laughter.
In both the palace and the city, the atmosphere was thick with a heady mix of relief and celebration. Victory was in the air, and it was infectious.
From the haughtiest noble to the humblest commoner, everyone shared the sa goal: to throw caution to the wind and celebrate like there was no tomorrow.
Because for so, there almost wasn't.
The fallen foe might be mourned, but tonight, life was to be celebrated. Because, as they say, laughter is the best dicine, especially when served with a side of victorious revelry.
"Don't forget, okay?"
"I won't."
Two figures swathed in the shadows, dressed in the most unremarkable of attire, the kind that would make a wallflower feel like a tropical bird, lurked in a neglected corner of the palace.
They exchanged an object, their hands moving with the speed of a pickpocket on a caffeine high. What the item was, remained as mysterious as the dark side of the moon. A jewel, a scroll, a vial of unicorn tears? Well, your guess is as good as mine.
In the gilded world of the palace, where every corner was aglow with celebration, this dim pocket was like a secret chapter in an otherwise open book.
The atmosphere was as tense as a tightrope walker with vertigo. The energy was palpable, a stark contrast to the bubbly rrint that frothed in the other parts of the palace.
The two figures seed to be orchestrating sothing as dangerous as juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle. From their shadowy hideout, they could hear the distant laughter and clinking of glasses, the sounds of a kingdom celebrating victory.
But here, in this clandestine corner, they were plotting a different kind of victory. Or defeat, depending on which side of the chessboard you were on.
“Go.”
One of them offered a curt nod, the universal language for a deal sealed. As smooth as practiced dancers, they drifted apart, each taking a different path, the shadows swallowing them whole. No backward glances, no lingering goodbyes.
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