Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
302 – Two Empires

As the final rites of the ceremony drew near, the pageantry refused to wind down quietly. No, it escalated, as it should, with ritual, symbolism, and just… a faint undercurrent of slapstick.

Vlad, the ever-serene Cardinal of Morgan’s court, appeared with a long silk cradle folded over his arms. Without a word, he wrapped it around Burn and Morgan’s backs, tugging gently, though unmistakably, until their shoulders collided with the gentle force of tradition made literal.

Then, with all the dignity of an old vampire who’d seen far too many centuries and weddings, he led them forward toward the throne.

Once there, Vlad did not stand aside. No, tradition insisted on one more test of equilibrium, one last absurdity veiled in reverence.

He sat down first.

Then he pulled both Burn and Morgan down into his lap—one on each knee.

The court burst into raucous laughter.

And then came the ancient, sacred question, shouted from the peanut gallery of nobles, priests, and overly invested commoners:

“Father, which is heavier?!”

With a booming laugh, Vlad answered without hesitation: “The same!”

Applause. Cheers. A ceremonial moment which, at its heart, simply declared that both bride and groom bore equal weight. Literally, metaphorically, spiritually, politically. Equal in marriage. Equal in burden. Equal in the eyes of the throne, and perhaps most importantly, on the knees of the man who had fought alongside one and watched the other conquer the planet.

They stood, bowed to Vlad with synchronized grace, and allowed him to descend the throne with all the quiet pride of a man who had just weighed the future of the world on his lap and found it balanced.

Burn and Morgan took the throne.

Finally.

But no rest for the newly enthroned. No sooner had they sat than a horde of well-meaning courtiers began rushing forward with platters, eager to offer the first dishes that the couple would eat together. Symbolic food. Ritual food. Food that had been plated so delicately that no one could tell if it was meant to be eaten or worshipped.

Meanwhile, Burn attempted a bit of subtlety.

He discreetly tried to pass Morgan the wedding coin—a secret gesture, a small, symbolic moment of shared fortune.

Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived long around children.

“Ah! He passed it! I saw it!” Blair shrieked, practically vibrating with triumph. She had been planted there for this very reason and was fulfilling her duty with merciless accuracy.

Yvain joined her. Then Nemo. Then Nahwu. Matthew. Alan. Several Elysian cousins emerged from nowhere, all united by a single, sacred cause: Catch the Emperor red-handed.

“Ah! Your Majesty, you got caught! Give us the wedding tax!”

Burn, surrounded by small, high-pitched accusations, narrowed his eyes in the unmistakable way of a man weighing whether parenthood had truly been worth it. He exhaled, long-suffering.

“Wedding tax! Wedding tax! Wedding tax!” the children cried, chanted, lining up with hands outstretched and zero shame. “Pay up!”

Morgan, composed on the outside, nearly folded from the effort of not laughing aloud.

So Burn surrendered to fate.

Each child received nine gold coins. No more, no less, their little pockets heavy with victory and their laughter echoing through the hall.

Finally, the last rite came.

The bride and groom turned toward each other.

One dish, shared. Hands feeding hands. The quiet, mutual declaration that war had ended, the feast had begun, and that from this point forward, they would feed each other.

And thus, the wedding ended. Not with fireworks. Not with thunder. But with laughter, scandal, and a meal shared between equals—conqueror and witch, emperor and bride, husband and wife.

***

Mahkato had not expected to be seated in the garden, under open sky and diplomatic condescension. Ninth Overlord of the Alliance, shuffled off to the guest rows, elbow to elbow with minor nobles and flower-fed local aristocracy.

Not even inside the palace, where the ceremony itself was being held. No private box. No projection seat. Just a chair. And a view of the magically suspended sky-screen, same as the common folk.

Next to her, Alicei lounged like an heir too pretty for prison, gold-threaded sleeves folded over crossed arms. His golden hair caught light with irritating drama. His lips curled, all fang and disdain.

“You’ve seen his ego firsthand,” he said, words transmitted silently through the Alliance brainchip network, “and you’re still capable of surprise?”

Mahkato didn’t reply at first. She stared at the screen. The Empress hadn’t spoken yet. The Emperor hadn’t moved. But the atmosphere was too calm, too curated. The peace was insulting.

“What about the attack?” she finally asked, cold and clinical through the chip.

“Dawn. When their guard drops. Right after the chaos of tonight,” Alicei responded. “We’re ready—”

“Apologies for the lack of entertainment thus far,” said the Emperor.

The air changed.

No spell. No siren. Just a voice—deep, unmistakable, cut from silver and fire.

Burn’s voice did not echo. It inhabited. It didn’t request attention—it claimed it.

The wedding procession had reached its finale. The final rites had ended. The couple now stood hand in hand atop the palace steps, preparing for the ceremonial dance. Across the floating screen, their images were pristine: an emperor, an empress, the perfect picture of triumphant love. But then the emperor paused.

The smile that curved his lips did not soften. It sharpened.

“With the couple dance, let us also watch the destruction of Wintersin’s Capital on screen,” he said. “Enjoy our chosen accompanying show.”

The world blinked. Then the screen shifted.

No warning. No transition. Just two realities stitched together into one broadcast.

In the foreground, the newlyweds descended the throne, hand in hand, glowing, immaculate. They stepped in rhythm. The music began—elegant, ancient, full of promise and pride. The Emperor’s hand cupped his bride’s waist with devoted ease. Their feet moved in slow harmony, rulers at peace.

In the background?

Fire.

Wintersin burned. Screaming rooftops. Blackened sky. A full overlay of military artistry: twenty newly minted Mecha Suits of Velaryon, cutting through infrastructure with surgical efficiency. Storm Anvil’s Dwarves marched in flawless formation, each impact seismic. The Elves of the Great Forest loosed storm-tier spells with flippant cruelty. Beastkin from the Great Jungle tore through barricades with grins of ancestral payback. And behind them all, the Luminus Holy Army, bathed in righteous gold, ensuring no survivors left enough to remember mercy.

This was not war.

This was performance. Wedding entertainment. Accompanying show, they said.

The wedding song swelled—violins, choirs, the delicate promise of forever. Burn twirled Morgan in his arms, his touch reverent, his gaze soft. The way he looked at her could melt battlegrounds.

And behind their steps, the battlegrounds actually melted.

Two empires fell that night.

One to the altar. The other to fire.

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See you thursday!