It wouldn’t be a formal event.

  Burn had about as much fondness for formal soirees as a cat has for water. It didn’t have much use with the way he ruled the empire anyway.

  While the empire's glitterati tio swan around in their paces and mansions, pying the game of pleasantries and formalities, Burn swam against the tide, much like a salmon with an attitude problem.

  The parties he hosted were less champagne and caviar, and more ale and bawdy singalongs. They were mainly for his men. They were grand, no doubt. The kind of grahat doesn't need a three-piece suit or a string of pearls to validate it. More... well, let's call it 'liberated casual'.

  And there he was, Burn himself, sauntering into the ba hall in his dark, opulent silk house robe, the embodiment of devil-may-care insouce. He robably the only oh the audacity (or the authority) to ajamas in a pace ba.

  Yet, despite Burn's disdain for formality, the hall was still filled to the brim with the empire's traditional nobility. They were like a flock of peacocks in a barnyard, each with their own hidden agendas tucked ly uheir ornate robes.

  No sooner had Bur foot in the ba hall than he was swarmed by an eager gaggle of opportunists. They buzzed around him like flies to a honey pot, eae vying for his attention.

  The topics were as diverse as a rainbow – from the predictability of the weather to the uability of their family’s daughters.

  Politics, eics, social affairs, the discourse swung bad forth like a pendulum on caffeine. And finance, oh dear, so much fi could make a banker blush. Was there a veiled hint of an e offer thrown in there? Who knows?

  Burn, however, was as unresponsive as a statue in a park. He gave them a curshat could freeze va, and flicked them off like annoying flies.

  "Send your requests to the imperial court," he intoned, his voice as cold as his gaze. It was as if he was a cup of coffee, not brushing off the cream of the empire's nobility.

  Because, surely, in this time of war, his courtiers could hahese trivial matters, couldn't they? They were, after all, well versed i of bureaucracy, a talent as useful as a chocote teapot in a war.

  But then, who was Burn to deny them their moment of glory? And so, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he left the opportunists to their own devices, their mouths agape like fish out of water.

  Burn cimed his spot in a er, a vantage point from where he could survey the entire hall. It was a swirling kaleidoscope of eainers, the eained, and those who seemed to be on a mission to eain. It was like watg a live performance of a social epiplete with all the trimmings.

  But, oh yes, amidst this riot of colors and sounds, there were clear demarcation lines, as obvious as chalk lines on a bckboard. It's almost as if an invisible wall separated the socializing crowd from the celebrating masses.

  On one side, you had the social butterflies, fluttering from one versation to aheir ughter as light as champagne bubbles. Oher, the reveling throng, people who were there to soak up the festive spirit, their joy as iious as a viral dance craze.

  The emperor sat like an artist, his creation, sipping his wine, aing the evening unfold at its own pace. It was his party, after all.

  Burn had barely raised his hand to pour himself a goblet of wine when two fluttering noblewomen swooped in like hawks to a mouse, relieving him of the arduous task. Then came two more.

  Ah, there they were.

  The empire's surplus of unmarried noble daughters was legendary, but only those delicately banced on the social dder – high enough for prestige but not so high to be above wine-p duties – would flit to his side like moths to a fme.

  Burhem. Why not? It was ve.

  Their presence was as helpful as a pocket on a shirt. Not that they'd dare to start anything untoward. Their role rimarily to keep him eained and prevent the dreaded boredom from setting in.

  They chattered around him like birds on a wire, discussing the test happenings in the empire. It was like listening to a live radio broadcast, plete with the occasional ughter and the stant hum of chatter.

  Burn, however, had a knack for selective hearing. His brain would sift through the chatter like a gold miner panning fold, separating the rumors from the truth, the gossip from the facts.

  Listening to the dies' talk leasant distra, a soothing background hat was as rexing as a babbling brook. Burn would tune in and out of the versation as he pleased, participating when the mood struck him, or simply enjoying the ambient noise when it didn't.

  It was like having his own personal soundtrack, curated to his tastes.

  Yes.

  He khese women curated themselves. Like algorithms matched for his i. How talented.

  "My, so you do know how to enjoy yourself."

  Burn's eyes flickered at the sound of the enting voice, his gaze naturally trailing towards its source.

  "Hi, Your Majesty!" Yvain chimed, appearing at his master's side. "This seat is vat, Master. I'll fetch you a drink."

  "Oh, sweet Yvain, why don't you head off with Gahad and have a good time," the master, Man, suggested as she gracefully sank into the offered seat. Her face, hidden behind a veil, tilted upward, a nod of reassurance.

  "Alright then. Master, Your Majesty, please savor the evening!" Yvain didn't hesitate to rush off.

  Man's soft chuckle rippled through the air, and Burn finally uood. The woman who had cimed the empty seat, a stohrow away yet within their shared seating space, was wearing a veil.

  No wohere was no uproar, ented stares and bstful otions followionight.

  a modest blue dress, she was no less resplehaher noble dies. However, the dress, with its careful tail, atuated her figure in such a way that she looked deliciously tempting, despite its servative cut.

  Simply scrumptious.

  Her veil, a opy of ce, stretched from her forehead to her chest, a strict barrier to her face. Her hair, styled in a bun, added to her allure, and the pale white ears peeking from behind the veil were the only hint of her hiddey.

  What did she say the st time they talked? Ah, yes.

  "I'll certainly find a way to break the curse. It's more like an unfinished spell than an imperfee... but my soul energy hasn't fully recovered yet. It will soon, but for now, I'm managing. I won't be threatening you with my life."

  Fair.

  If it weren't for the loops, he might have faced death once. Well, not really.

  The crux of the matter was that even without the spell, he wouldn't die. The spell itself had created the sario for his demise. So, in a twisted way, the spell was still a problem.

  "But after the white dwarf, wouldn't it be wise to keep the curse for now?"

  "Why are you w so much? Who do you think I am?"

  Burn had retorted. But even so, the spell was somewhat ve for him to keep.

  It allowed him to push his limits without the fear of death looming over him, like a safety hat made the high-wire act less daunting—

  K!

  "I'm truly sorry, but His Majesty has prohibited anyone from partaking wine from the same bottle as him."

  One of the women around him had swiftly snatched the witle Man reached out to, and poured more for Burn’s gss. Man’s hand was still floating in the air wheilted her head.

  “Sorry, Your Majesty,” she calmly said.

  Putting the witle back to its spot, the woman said in a sweet, soothing, annoyingly curated voice, “Please five her, Your Majesty.”