Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
239 – Baby Ducks

“It’s strange,” Landevale muttered, arms crossed. “His Majesty always calls for us when something happens. And now he’s just telling us to rest?”

She exhaled, glancing at Galahad. “Our work back home is far from finished. The ministers and nobles are scrambling to make sense of this chaos. Do you think our subordinates can keep them in check?”

Galahad let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “An emperor who insists on personally leading the front lines—turns out, that’s not always a good thing.”

He paused, “Then again, I’d still rather face him on the battlefield than in court. At least there, you can see the blade coming. In court, you never know whose head will roll next.”

“Judging by the timing, that version of His Majesty should be returning soon, right?” Landevale remarked, tilting her head toward the darkening sky. “We only have Wintersin left.” A cheerful excitement crossed her face as she pointed upwards. “And after that? Those damn Outsiders.”

Galahad hummed in amusement, reaching out to catch her waist mid-motion, steadying her bouncy enthusiasm. Without much ceremony, he pulled her close and brushed a light kiss against her cheek. She laughed, her giggles caught between amusement and the ticklish scratch of his stubble.

“Well,” he murmured, tone deceptively thoughtful, “since we’ve been granted the rare luxury of rest… shouldn’t we make the most of it?”

Landevale blinked, suddenly wary. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Galahad’s lips quirked up. “We should get to know each other better.”

A pause. Then—

“W-w-what do you mean by that?!” Landevale stammered, her confidence cracking just slightly, face red and warm.

He smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Come now. Even Gawain is married. That said, I have it on good authority that the bastard hasn’t so much as touched his wife yet.” A slow, almost mocking sigh left him. “But, I don’t intend to lose to him.”

Landevale’s face turned several shades redder. “Galahad… you can’t just say things like that…”

“I can,” he countered smoothly. “I learn from my lord, after all.”

“Stoooop…”

SLAM!

“SO YOU WERE HAPPY WITHOUT ME, YOU BASTARD!”

Aroche burst into tears.

…

…

“You—”

The two froze mid-flirt, expressions locked in wide-eyed horror. It was as if they had just witnessed a ghost. Well… honestly, considering who this was, they weren’t entirely wrong.

“B-Brother…?” Landevale’s face drained of color so fast it could put a corpse to shame.

“Your Grace…” Galahad clutched his chest like he’d just been personally struck by divine judgment. This man—!

Aroche, still a complete spectacle of grief and righteous fury, jabbed a trembling finger at Galahad. “And what exactly were you doing to my sister, huh?!” His voice cracked between his sniffles. “You traitor!”

As if in perfect sync, both Landevale’s and Galahad’s expressions dropped into the abyss.

“Forget resurrection! Burn! Just kill me aga—!”

He didn’t even get to finish the dramatic exit line before being tackled to the ground.

“Brother!”

“Your Grace!”

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Both bodies latched onto him like drowning men clinging to driftwood, their grip tight, desperate, their faces buried in his chest as if to prove—through touch alone—that he was real. Tears soaked through the fabric of his tunic, warm and relentless.

Forget the logistics. Forget the blasphemous defiance of nature and whatever eldritch nightmare made this possible. None of it mattered. This—this—was why they had been called.

Because they knew.

They didn’t need explanations, proof, or some grand metaphysical revelation. They knew it was him. His voice, his words, the sheer level of dramatic nonsense pouring from his mouth—this was Aroche Leodegrance, in all his infuriating, beloved glory.

Something in his hardened expression cracked, the weight of cynicism giving way to something softer, something unspoken. A breath of laughter escaped him—short, hoarse, breaking on its way out. And then, against his better judgment, he let his arms wrap around them both, his grip hesitant at first, then firm, steady.

Their tears pooled against his skin, hot and undeniable.

This was why he came back.

Not for unfinished business. Not for vengeance, or redemption, or whatever poetic nonsense the universe might assign to his return.

But for this.

For them.

For the idiots who would tackle him to the ground and cry their eyes out because—against all odds, against all reason—he had come back home.

And if he were to suffer the sheer absurdity of resurrection, at least it was for something worth suffering for.

“Your Grace!”

The call came from down the corridor, urgent, breathless. Another pair of boots pounded against the floor, closing in fast. Before Aroche could even brace himself, arms locked around his neck, yanking him down just as he was trying to rise.

It was Gawain.

And Gawain, in the truest Gawain fashion deep beneath his mad dog persona, immediately burst into tears.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—you guys, stop it!” Aroche was completely overwhelmed. He barely had time to breathe before the weight of them pressed in around him, clinging as if he might disappear again if they let go.

And in that moment—half laughing, half crying—he remembered it so vividly. The three of them, much younger, trailing behind him like a trio of baby ducks, peeking into Burn’s private training chamber as if they could steal some of his secrets just by watching.

“What is this, a reunion special? Not even Burn hugs me like this when I—”

“YOU should hug him!”

That shut him up.

A pause. Then, quieter—

“Right. His Majesty suffers the most…”

“Your Grace… urk… kugh… we missed you…”

Aroche’s breath caught in his throat.

He smiled—genuine, quiet, a softness settling over his sharp features. “I know,” he murmured. “He told me.”

Burn told him.

So he did the only thing that made sense.

He hugged them back—tighter, this time, as if he could press every piece of himself into their grasp, reassure them in ways words never could.

“And he brought me back.”

This—this—was what he left behind.

This was home.

Not just a place, not just a kingdom, but the people—his people. The ones who had once followed him without question, who had laughed with him, fought alongside him, grieved for him. The ones who missed him, who had suffered for his absence, who had never truly let go even when he had.

And he—what had he done? Let himself believe, even for a moment, that he shouldn’t return? That he had no place here anymore?

How dare he?

How dare he even think of leaving them behind?

Aroche clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around them as if to ground himself in this reality. He had spent too long trapped in something less than this—something empty, weightless, wrong.

But this—this was real. Their warmth. Their grief. Their love.

And no matter how much he had convinced himself otherwise…

This was where he belonged.

***

"Whoever you are—which, I must say, no one around here seems willing to clarify—you’d do well to keep your hands off my sister," Locan said coldly.

Yvain merely smiled, withdrawing his hand without a hint of urgency. He rose from the bedside, standing tall before Locan. Instantly, the prince recognized that this boy, whoever he truly was, carried a presence that was anything but lesser than his own.

"Sit down, Prince Locan," Yvain said, gesturing toward the chamber’s sofa with an air of casual authority. He seated himself first, deliberately choosing the main chair.

Locan followed, though his wariness remained. To him, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy was still Evan di Sator—the merchant’s son who, somehow, had found himself at the very center of the chaos unraveling in Inkia.

"Where is your mother? I believe the request was quite simple—both of you were to remain where you were told and not go sneaking about," Yvain said, narrowing his eyes.

Locan stiffened at the mention of his mother. "I assume you already know," he replied, defensive.

Yvain chuckled, as if entertained by the predictability of it all. "Yes. She’s attempting to sneak into the dungeon to visit your father, isn’t she?"

That she had managed to leave the estate so easily was already telling. No one had stopped her. Because no one had needed to.

"Then why bother asking me?" Locan shot back. "Is this some kind of threat?"

"Yes," Yvain answered without hesitation. "We still don’t know how you’ll react to Soulnaught’s dominion, after all."

Locan’s expression hardened. "Who are you, really?"

"We," Yvain said smoothly, "are the ones who saved your sister." He leaned back slightly, studying the prince. "You were told she had been cursed by the Demon Lord, weren’t you? It happened in our mansion. And it was in our mansion that we preserved her life—her mind, her body, her soul."

Locan’s fingers twitched. He could argue all he wanted, but the truth remained.

Compared to himself—a prince who had been kidnapped, whose family had fallen into ruin—this boy before him had far more claim to Blair than he did.

Compared to himself—who had no knowledge of just how deep the Demon Lord’s corruption ran, how it had seeped into both his kingdom and his sister’s fragile existence—this child had every right to sit by her bedside.

He could not afford to oppose Evan di Sator. Not now. Not when his own standing was built on nothing but dust.

"I’ll decide the fate of you and your mother after she returns," Yvain said at last, rising with an almost languid ease. "In the meantime, you’ll be returning to house arrest."

With that, he strode toward the door and summoned an attendant, who in turn called for Finn Wilderwood. Locan, still reeling from the weight of Yvain’s words, barely registered the arrival of the Marquis—the commander of thousands.

"Sir, is there an issue?" Finn asked.

The title alone made Locan pause. He had known, of course, that Evan di Sator was influential. But for Finn Wilderwood—one of the three leading figures behind the coup in Inkia—to address him as sir? That was something else entirely.

"Escort Locan Inkor back to his house arrest," Yvain instructed, his tone unchanged. "And inform me when his mother returns. I’ll grant them an audience then."

"Yes, Sir," Finn replied without question. He turned to Locan. "Your Highness, if you would."

Locan followed, though his mind was elsewhere. Just before the door shut, he caught one last glimpse of the chamber. Yvain had already returned to Blair’s bedside, once more unbothered as he reached out and brushed her cheek with quiet tenderness.

The room was dim, his expression unreadable. But somehow, Locan understood.

Yvain was the same as him.

He, too, was drawn to Blair’s soul.

As they walked through the corridors, Locan broke the silence. "Who is Evan di Sator, Lord Wilderwood?"

Finn didn’t look at him. "Did he tell you?"

"No."

"Then it’s not important for you to know."

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Don't be tricked by Aroche's wholesome side. He's a dumbass incarnate.