Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

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 orc and goblin populations that had taken to plaguing the nearby villages.

He had just made his grand entrance, but it took him mere moments to see his father’s concealed weakness—an astute observation, really, considering the old man wore the mask of a hero while clearly crumbling beneath 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 inevitability. “I’m about to die.”

Burn froze, caught like a deer in the proverbial headlights. His entire life, his father had been the sturdy oak in a storm, and here he was, withering like a fall leaf, all while displaying 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 clung 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 approaching him.

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

Well, considering the shocking revelation of impending mortality, Arthur thought, it’s hard to blame 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 balcony.

As they looked across the land, 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 confessed his favoritism. It was just that his younger son possessed such staggering talent that Arthur was compelled to shower him with accolades—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 own defeat, allowed Burn to ascend as Crown Prince.

From that moment, Burn’s feats multiplied as if by magic—each accomplishment carving out his inevitable reign more deeply. Arthur had shuffled the pieces on the chessboard, but it turned out Burn was not only the best player; 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 late for regrets,” Arthur mused, half-smirking, as he observed the kingdom filled with the brilliant glow of his least favored son’s future plans. “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 crown prince soaring ever higher, leaving behind traces of what could have been, all wrapped in a delightful package of adulting irony.

“I mean, I understand,” Burn said, a sneer carving lines into his expression. “Even if I can’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 wraps.”

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

“This is precisely why I hesitate to crown you,” Arthur replied, his voice laced with a weariness that belied the indignation he intended. “Your arrogance is as galling as it is predictable.” But deep down, he knew this 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 suffocating it must be to share air with such mediocrity.”

Arthur, grappling with his own inner conflict, felt the tension stretch taut between them. His lingering affection for the older son was a shadow that darkened every interaction 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 cling to that grudge?” Burn sneered, now finding amusement in the situation.

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

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

“Perhaps this explains why I favored Clarent 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 done to you,” Arthur added, his anger barely concealing his vulnerabilities.

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

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

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

Burn met 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 relationship a bit longer.”

Arthur scoffed. “You realize you’re the crown prince now? My demise merely clears your path to the throne.”

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

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

“At least let me assess your body’s condition,” Burn suddenly declared.

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

“You needn’t decode my intentions. 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 not exactly destined for the role of savior.”

“I can,” Burn was in denial, clinging desperately to the notion of his father’s invincibility. The revelation 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 destined to 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 distance to preserve the delicate balance of their family drama. Was he withholding affection to spare his older brother from deeper wounds? 

If only Burn had shown him just a bit more genuine emotion, perhaps he instead would become Arthur’s favorite, and Clarent would…

Was his younger son’s yearning for connection had been hindered by his and Clarent’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 proclaimed coldly, as if the weight of the kingdom had always rested solely on his broad shoulders.

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

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

And yet, beneath the worry lay 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 later, Arthur suddenly fell gravely ill.

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Come 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.