Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

As dawn cracked its lazy eyes over Edensor, the fusion-powered chariot of His Majesty Burn roared into view, its engines humming a tune that probably said, “Move aside, I own the place.”

The chariot, glinting with the promise of high-tech and high drama, careened through the palace gates, which opened as if in awe (or perhaps in fear of being vaporized).

There, lined up like a band of ruffled pigeons, were Burn’s men. Despite looking like they’d just rolled out of a hedge backwards, they managed to muster what could pass for royal decorum in the face of sleep deprivation and existential dread.

Among them stood Galahad, fresh from the Elysian battlefield, sporting the latest in ‘sweat-and-blood’ chic.

As the chariot pulled up—a spectacle of screeching brakes and sighing hydraulics—the assembly of weary warriors perked up. 

Here was their leader, presumably back with tales of heroic deeds or at least a new war strategy scribbled on a napkin.

The chariot halted with all the dramatic flair of a season finale cliffhanger, right at the front entrance stairs, where the red carpet lay in wait, wondering if it was meant to be an accessory to grandeur or just a glorified doormat—

FSSSSHHHH!

“Mmmh!”

The men flinched.

They had poised themselves for Burn’s usual grand, menacing exit.

Instead, the chariot doors swung open with a bit of a puffing smoke and out tumbled not the feared monarch, but an ethereally beautiful woman, looking like she’d just survived a cyclone at a fashion show.

With long, blonde hair cascading around her like a dramatic golden curtain that had lost its stage, she was a vision of disheveled grace.

Her hair, though tangled and wild, shimmered even in its unkempt state, giving the sun a run for its money with its natural sheen.

Her clothes, though wrinkled and dirt-smudged, clung to her in a manner that suggested they were designed for a goddess who enjoyed a bit of earthly turmoil now and then.

She hit the carpet with the poise of a melodrama queen, groaning not so much in pain but as if lamenting the tragic cancellation of her grand entrance, if she even cared at all.

The tremble in her limbs was less about weakness and more like the delicate shudder of a leaf on a breezy day, theatrically emphasizing her vulnerability.

Despite the chaos of her appearance, she radiated a sort of beauty that was both infuriating and captivating—infuriating because no one should look that good in such a state, and captivating because, well, everyone loves a stunning plot twist. 

As she tumbled on the carpet, the crowd couldn’t help but marvel: if this was what disarray looked like, perhaps they all needed a bit less order in their lives—OKAY, WHAT HAPPENED?

Her presence almost made them forget about a CERTAIN MAN.

Darkness.

It was darkness emanating from the inside of the chariot!

Just as the crowd was about to rename themselves the Official Admiration Society for the Disheveled Blonde Goddess, a reminder that this wasn't merely a one-person show emerged from the chariot.

With a presence that could only be described as 'eternal void', Burn made his entrance. Unlike the ethereal tumble of his predecessor, he stepped out with the grace of a storm cloud on a mission.

There was no trembling here; just the weary irritation of a man who might have been more comfortable emerging from a black hole than a high-tech chariot.

The bloody chariot!

His hair and clothes rivaled the woman’s in terms of dishevelment, suggesting perhaps they had both attended the same battle but only he had decided to fight a tornado along the way.

His expression carried a touch of tired anger—probably at having his thunder stolen by the blonde, or maybe just at his stylist for suggesting that 'just rolled out of bed after a skirmish' was this season’s look.

As he stood there, the crowd did a mental recalibration. Yes, the woman was a scene-stealer with her dramatic hair and pain-filled performance, but Burn, oh Burn, brought the kind of dark allure that made one think, “Well, maybe severe disarray is the new black after all.”

OKAY, WHAT HAPPENED?

Pull yourselves together, men! This was your emperor! And a woman…?

AND A WOMAN!

“Throw away… this damn chariot,” the emperor growled, declaring war on the vehicle that had dared to cramp his style—literally and figuratively.

Galahad, still as a statue carved in the image of shock and awe, barely blinked, much like every other man gathered, now audience to this spectacular, historical meltdown of royal proportions.

Burn ascended the stairs with the heaviness of a man who had not only fought ‘battles’ but also possibly the entire concept of gravity.

YET his march was interrupted ONCE AGAIN by a feeble, shaking tug at his pants. It seemed desperation had a new synonym, and it was clutching at his leg.

Turning with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d just been asked to donate his crown to charity, Burn faced the woman sprawled elegantly in distress on the ground.

Through her tears and the near-death by cramp, she gasped, “I… can’t walk… c-cramps… I can’t climb the… stairs…”

“I’VE GIVEN YOU ENOUGH FORCE ALONG THE WAY!” Burn barked back, as if his support during their chariot ride had included a complimentary leg massage.

“I’m serious about not being able to even stand!” the woman contorted her face in a serious grimace. “Ugh—this is embarrassing, I wanna die…”

Like the embodiment of chivalry in a bygone era, the aides and subordinates turned their faces away. One might wonder if they were giving her privacy, or simply couldn’t bear to watch without bursting into tears—or laughter of horror.

“Fine! I’ll wait here. I’m not going to be able to move anyway!” she declared, settling into her new role as the damsel-in-distress-turned-statue.

“Just bring my dear Yvain here,” she demanded, as though summoning a knight with a horse rather than a servant with a wheelchair.

Burn sighed, the sound so profound it seemed to suck the color from the faces of those nearby. He reluctantly kneeled in front of her, his movements heavy with the weight of resignation. 

Gathering her into his arms with all the enthusiasm of a man picking up a sack of particularly petulant potatoes, he carried her up the stairs.

“This weak, uselessly faced, bi—witch,” he grumbled under his breath, the words barely audible over the creak of each step under the burden of the uselessly beautiful goddess he bore.

There they were, the grumbles of a man who’d rather face dragons than whatever this was.

But then…

“HE’S NOT HERE?!”

Morgan Le Fay turned sharply toward Burn, who immediately stiffened.

He forgot he assigned the boy to the front lines.

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