Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
298 – An Empire Prepares

“Do you think His Majesty went to the moon to honor the tradition?” Bella asked, then added in a syrupy tone, “He did, didn’t he?”

“What tradition?” Morgan blinked at her through the mirror.

“She means the whole ‘groom shouldn’t see the bride too close to the wedding’ thing,” Tashr clarified while wrangling the white dress to better fit Morgan’s stubbornly narrow waist.

Landevale scoffed. “With all due respect, but that man is the last soul in existence who’d bother with that sort of tradition.”

Morgan grinned at Tashr and nodded. “Landevale’s right. Besides, it’s not like we’ve been saints about it. That tradition only really counts when the bride and groom haven’t already gotten very familiar with each other.”

Bella and Landevale turned a delightful shade of tomato while Tashr nearly choked on air.

Morgan, testing the dress’s mobility like she was prepping for battle, noticed Selen, Shorof, Nahwu, Blair, and Nemo parading in with armfuls of white flowers.

“Your Holiness, here are the flower choices. Which one do you want for the wedding?” Selen beamed, fangs and all.

Morgan stepped off the dress pedestal with the solemnity of a queen deliberating foreign policy. “I have no idea what flower Caliburn actually likes… I should’ve asked.”

The women chuckled.

“Your Holiness, this is your wedding too.”

“I doubt His Majesty will lose sleep over flower petals. Just pick your favorite.”

“He’ll adore whatever you pick.”

But Morgan turned to Landevale instead. “What do you think he likes?”

Landevale—formerly his fiancée and currently a deer in headlights—froze. “W-what?”

Morgan smiled sweetly. “Has he ever said anything?”

“N-no, Your Majesty…” Landevale stammered, looking like she desperately wanted the floor to swallow her.

Morgan calmly sat beside her. “You’re one of his childhood best friends. You, Aroche, Galahad, Gawain—his holy quartet. I’d trust your answer over the rest.”

Having the most stunning woman in the room stare you down with quiet, hopeful eyes could be medically classified as a near-death experience, and Landevale just about flatlined.

She was seconds away from throwing herself on the floor sobbing, ‘I don’t knooow! Sob, sob, he stares at flowers the way he stares at gravel—’ but she didn’t have the guts to say that to a radiant saint.

“Umm… I think the only flowers I’ve ever seen him acknowledge are… water lilies?” she offered, every word a step deeper into potential regret.

Morgan’s expression shifted instantly. “Water lilies?”

The room took a collective pause. The smiles vanished like a spell was broken.

Morgan’s smile softened, the corners of her mouth curving with something quieter, heavier. She reached out and took Landevale’s hand with a gentleness that could level kingdoms. Her fingers wrapped around hers not like a queen to a subject, but like a woman who understood too much.

“Thank you,” Morgan said, voice low, almost reverent.

Then she turned to the others—Selen’s grin now uncertain, Shorof and Nahwu holding their bouquets a little too carefully, Blair watching with parted lips, and Nemo blinking up with innocent curiosity, still clutching a bundle half her size.

Morgan’s gaze swept over them all, her tone dipping into something final. “No water lilies,” she said. “None of them should be seen at the wedding.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decree—the kind wrapped in silk but forged from iron. And just like that, lilies weren’t just a flower anymore.

***

“No mistakes!” Aroche barked, his voice slicing through the commotion as two squires nearly tripped over an archway of fake clouds while hauling boxes of vintage wine. Even the Knights of the Round Table weren’t exempt from this chaos—titles and glory meant nothing against the tyrannical force that was wedding preparation.

Galahad and Gawain, practically extensions of Burn himself, were neck-deep in floral logistics. One was measuring aisle length; the other was arguing with ribbon. Percival perched on the edge of a platform, flipping through catalogues like a scholar preparing for war, lips silently mouthing checklist items.

And all of them—all of these legendary men—were following the women’s orders with military precision. Not a hair out of line. Every path, pew, stage, flower arch, lantern angle, and seating alignment was dictated down to the millimeter. Dissent was not an option. Deviations were not tolerated. It was divine law, and they obeyed.

Vlad sat alone on one of the pristine pews, his black robe bleeding contrast into the sea of white florals. His presence was impossible to ignore, yet he sat still, a monument of calm in a world of ribbon-induced panic.

Aroche approached, bowing in acknowledgment. “I’ll be finished with today’s tasks soon. We can begin the treatment after that.”

Vlad didn’t even shift. “I’m not going anywhere. The vampire church already knows—I won’t return until the wedding’s over.”

Aroche’s head dipped slightly. “Thank you.”

And in that brief pause, amidst the controlled madness, there was a strange sort of reverence—not just for the wedding, but for what it meant. Even monsters waited.

“Ah, I heard from Bella that you and His Majesty were dealing with spies back at Camlann?” Vlad asked, voice smooth beneath the murmur of white linens and distant hammering.

Aroche didn’t flinch. “It doesn’t have to be fully resolved. Whatever information they got—it’s useless now. We already know exactly what they came to find out.”

Vlad tilted his veiled head. “And what was that?”

“The extent of our power,” Aroche replied, tone casual, but there was iron beneath it.

The Alliance had personnel, sure. But they had no real idea what Nethermere had tucked behind the curtain. Even if they knew the names of the key players, there was no way to grasp just what those names meant. Not in motion. Not in a war.

And then there was Burn.

That man losing wasn’t just unlikely—it bordered on mythological nonsense.

“Did you get anything out of them?” Vlad asked.

Aroche gave a vague shrug. “Only that they’re leaning hard on tech. But frankly, I doubt the Overlords ever needed gadgets to wipe a planet clean.”

“I see,” Vlad said, nodding, every movement a quiet ritual. Then came the curveball: “And how far along are you with my daughter?”

“We kissed and held hands—what? Huh? Cough, excuse me—what?”

The dignified war hero, decorated commander of Soulnaught, Duke Leodegrance, just tripped over his own dignity and choked on his sentence.

“Y-you read my mind every day, w-why still ask, F-f-father-in-law?” Aroche stammered, dropping to both knees like a knight begging for mercy instead of divine smiting.

“At least the words coming out of your mouth are still yours,” Vlad replied, voice low and dust-dry, a faint red glow flickering behind the black veil. “Don’t shove her into the bed again like you did yesterday. I may be ancient, but I can still rip your heart out and eat it. I’ll repent later—God’s used to me by now.”

“Yes, Father,” Aroche said quickly, the words practically kneeling alongside him.

Vlad didn’t move. “And why are the two of you still parading those ridiculous heart eyes around? I know it’s faded down to the size of a pinhead, but surely by now you’ve figured out how not to broadcast your entire emotional state in public?”

“Her Majesty Empress Morgan said the heart eyes are semi-permanent, sir,” Aroche mumbled, forehead nearly to the ground. “Something about… high compatibility under the effects of the love potion.”

“Hmph,” Vlad exhaled, somewhere between judgment and resignation. “Go find her. I want her help with your treatment today.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rose like a soldier with a death wish, then practically fled before more marital commentary was offered with the promise of holy violence.

That was when suddenly, Aroche felt something familiar—“Ah, f—”