As dawn cracked its zy eyes over Edensor, the fusion-powered chariot of His Majesty Burn roared into view, its engines humming a tuhat probably said, “Move aside, I own the pce.”
The chariot, glinting with the promise of high-ted high drama, careehrough the pace 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 mee looking like they’d just rolled out of a hedge backwards, they mao muster what could pass for royal de in the face of sleep deprivation aential dread.
Among them stood Gahad, fresh from the Elysian battlefield, sp the test in ‘sweat-and-blood’ chic.
As the chariot pulled up—a spectacle of screeg 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 fir of a season finale cliffhanger, right at the froraairs, where the red carpet y in wait, w 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, menag exit.
Instead, the chariot doors swung open with a bit of a puffing smoke and out tumbled not the feared monarch, but ahereally beautiful woman, looking like she’d just survived a cye at a fashion show.
With long, blonde hair casg 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 u state, giving the sun a run for its money with its natural sheen.
Her clothes, though wrinkled and dirt-smudged, g to her in a mahat suggested they were designed foddess who enjoyed a bit of earthly turmoil now and then.
She hit the carpet with the poise of a melodrama queen, groaning not so mu pain but as if menting the tragiceltion of her grarance, 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 fet about a CERTAIN MAN.
Darkness.
It was darkness emanating from the inside of the chariot!
Just as the crowd was about to rehemselves the Official Admiration Society for the Disheveled Blonde Goddess, a remihat this wasn't merely a one-person show emerged from the chariot.
With a presehat could only be described as 'eternal void', Burn made his entrance. Uhe 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 fortable emerging from a bck 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 attehe 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 thuolen by the blonde, or maybe just at his stylist fgesting that 'just rolled out of bed after a skirmish' was this season’s look.
As he stood there, the crowd did a mental recalibratiohe woman was a se-stealer with her dramatic hair and pain-filled performance, but Burn, oh Burn, brought the kind of dark allure that made ohink, “Well, maybe severe disarray is the new bck 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 emperrowled, deg war on the vehicle that had dared to cramp his style—literally and figuratively.
Gahad, still as a statue carved in the image of shod awe, barely blinked, much like every other man gathered, now audieo this spectacur, historical meltdown of royal proportions.
Burn asded the stairs with the heaviness of a man who had not only fought ‘battles’ but also possibly the entire cept 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 clutg at his leg.
Turning with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d just been asked to donate his to charity, Burn faced the rawled elegantly in distress on the ground.
Through her tears and the near-death by cramp, she gasped, “I… ’t walk… c-cramps… I ’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 plimentary leg massage.
“I’m serious about not being able to even stand!” the woman torted her fa a serious grimace. “Ugh—this is embarrassing, I wanna die…”
Like the embodiment of chivalry in a bygone era, the aides and subordiurheir faces away. One might wonder if they were giving her privacy, or simply couldn’t bear to watch without bursting into tears—hter of horror.
“Fine! I’ll wait here. I’m not going to be able to move anyway!” she decred, settling into her new role as the damsel-in-distress-turatue.
“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 relutly kneeled in front of her, his movements heavy with the weight nation.
Gathering her into his arms with all the enthusiasm of a man pig up a sack of particurly petunt 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 uhe 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?!”
Man Le Fay turned sharply toward Burn, who immediately stiffened.
He fot he assighe boy to the front lines.
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