Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
304 – One Bite

“I don’t care what it takes. Fucking attack now.” Mahkato’s boots snapped through the corridor of the palace with the assurance of a woman who’d already murdered reason and buried diplomacy six feet under. “Open the gates. Call my personal fleet. Call them all.”

“Mahkato, don’t act impulsively. Solomon said—”

“I don’t give a damn what Solomon said,” she barked, voice sharp enough to flay skin. “I want this world fucking destroyed.”

“He’d kill you,” Alicei snapped. That cut deeper than it should have. Mahkato flinched.

Silence bloomed between them, the kind of silence that didn’t end conversations—just delayed wars.

Then came the soft, terribly misplaced sound of laughter. A conversation. Somewhere just beyond the marble arch. They were nearing the inner garden, a rare quiet corner untouched by the crowd. The ceremony was currently on break—half the guests had meandered off to the public garden for drinks and diplomacy. But this one? This place was inconvenient. Private. The sort of place only two people in love, or in hiding, would choose.

Of course they were here.

On the screen left behind in the banquet hall, the sky, and everywhere else, the final moments of Wintersin’s demise were still playing—soldiers surrendering, cities cracking beneath spellfire, a kingdom brought to its knees in high definition. A war crime double-feature, conveniently timed between toasts.

And yet here, in this secluded little Eden tucked behind hedges and ceremonial stonework, the war heroes were busy being adorable.

“You were that hot?”

“Fine, fine, you were right, I sweat easily… I wanna dip my feet in the pond.”

“Stop. Don’t take off your shoes yet.”

The man, because of course he was strong enough to do this sort of thing casually, lifted the woman up his side, cradled her like she was the last surviving relic of a dying religion, then bent—flawlessly, without a wrinkle in his pristine tuxedo—to collect her heels before letting her feet hover just beneath the pond’s glassy surface.

“No fish here. So it’s fine.”

“Jelly.”

“Yeah, I’m jealous. So what?” The man didn’t let go of her waist. Still held her as if she'd dissolve if he blinked. One hand with her heels, the other a steadfast anchor. “Cooled down?”

“Mm,” the woman replied before kissing his cheek.

Mahkato stood still. Silent. Seething. Her hands clenched so tightly her gloves threatened to rip.

“Mahkato…” Alicei’s voice was soft but strained, gently tugging at her hand. “Let’s just go. We can attack at dawn.”

No response. No movement. Just the kind of stillness you’d find in statues—or bombs, moments before detonation.

“All this,” she hissed, venom threading each syllable, “for that bitch Bilqis.”

Alicei sighed. A long, tired exhale. “Mahkato!”

Across the garden, the man was still in full gallantry mode. Having carried the bride toward a marble bench, he set her heels down with all the care of a man placing relics on an altar. Then he tugged the handkerchief from his tuxedo pocket, laid it out with measured precision, and gently placed her wet feet upon it.

“I could’ve dried it with magic,” the woman murmured.

“Save it for later,” he replied, now removing his cravat to dab the remaining water off her skin. Because nothing said domestic bliss like ruining expensive accessories for a pair of royal ankles.

Alicei, watching Mahkato unravel thread by bitter thread, gave her hand another desperate tug. “Solomon loves you too, okay?”

No reply.

Because the image in front of them was no longer just a garden scene. It was a punch to the ribs. A memory she’d never had. A possibility stolen before it could become real.

Burn and Morgan.

Solomon and Bilqis.

What a lovely, poisonous dream they made.

Mahkato stared.

She was going to destroy them.

All of them.

“Dawn,” Mahkato said, her voice scraped clean of rage, polished down to something colder. She turned from the garden without another glance. “We don’t kill them.”

Alicei blinked. Almost surprised.

She continued, tone like glass under pressure. “But we remind them.”

A pause. She didn’t need to look back. Her voice did the work.

“That just because they slapped the first wave off their doorstep three years ago, doesn’t mean they get to crown themselves gods and piss roses.”

She flexed her fingers once—just once—before curling them neatly behind her back. “Let’s let their perfect little kingdom remember what fear tastes like. We’ll serve it with breakfast.”

***

“So it’s at dawn tomorrow, huh? How did you know?” Morgan asked, already suspicious.

Burn laughed—no, cackled—a low and shameless kekekekek bubbling up from somewhere that clearly hadn’t known shame in years.

“How do you rate my mind-reading ability?” he asked, full smug.

Morgan blinked. “No way. You didn’t.”

The realization hit her mid-gasp. “You did it to Cynric Von Winter?!”

Burn, enjoying himself far too much, raised his chin with the self-satisfaction of a man who not only got away with private midnight war declaration, but won a medal for style.

He had been lucky. That night, he’d walked into the old man’s chamber, found him dead asleep—dreaming of some betrayals or soup, probably—and without preamble, Burn had gripped his face and pressed down, old back of the head over pillow. Woke him up by stealing the inside of his brain.

Cynric had flinched, glared, snarled some curses—but none of it mattered. Burn had already sunk his will in deep, extracted what he came for, said he’d come flipping the capital upside down tomorrow and walked out before the man’s heartbeat recovered.

It helped that the old bastard didn’t know Burn had manifested his Vision. Small detail. Ruinous oversight.

“My husband…” Morgan’s eyes sparkled, that dangerous sparkle that usually preceded either flirtation or state collapse, “...is so talented.”

Burn smiled, basking in it, already halfway convinced he was the cleverest man to ever lace boots, as he crouched to help her back into her heels.

Then she gripped his arm—not gently—and wore a look far too complicated for someone who just complimented his espionage.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, scanning her expression.

“But I thought tonight we could…”

He tilted his head. “We could…?”

“You know…”

“I know…?”

She bit her lip, suppressing a smile that was far more teasy than innocent. He blinked. Vision wavered. Brain started stalling.

This was it.

This was his life now.

This was his life now.

“Who said we couldn’t?” His voice dropped an octave. His face darkened, his eyes lit up, and the temperature in the garden spiked several degrees.

“We can now.”

Morgan gave his chest a feeble push—one of those ornamental gestures designed more to encourage than deter. “Don’t ruin your own wedding reception,” she whispered, scandalized in the most performative way possible. “The entertainment’s about to end. We have to go back…”

“Screw the reception,” Burn growled, already halfway feral. “Just let me have one thrust.”

“Nooo…” Her voice wasn’t exactly firm.

“Just the tip.”

“Caliburn…”

She said it like it was both a curse and a prayer.

He grinned, absolutely irredeemable.

And this was still technically the sacred garden. He was Eve and she was the apple. Nonononono, we all know his dick was the apple and she was Eve.

One bite wouldn’t hurt.

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:)