37 - Burn’s Chariot

Physical recovery training was a nightmare, and doing it while trekking across the continent? Even worse.

Burn couldn't help but watch as Momo, day after day, wrestled with her own limbs like they were rebellious teenagers, all while being miserly with the precious Force energy he graciously shared with her.

Speaking of sharing, let's talk about their method—kissing. Yes, the life-saving magic of a smooch. It was their only option for now, apparently.

Forget about magic wands or enchanted potions; it was all about the power of a good pucker. Besides the obvious physical buzz and the cocktail of hormones zipping around, there was nothing else to write home about. 

Morgan, or 'Momo' as she preferred, seemed unaffected by any deep psychological changes from this.

No sudden revelations about life, no existential crises following their lip-locked moments. Nope, just straightforward, no-strings-attached, energy-transferring kisses. 

In essence, the whole thing was as transactional as buying bread from a store—except maybe a tad more intimate and with slightly higher stakes.

But Burn… well.

He was tired of it.

Not only did he have to portion out his Force to give her, he had to be that intimate with the woman who had ruined his life. If only she wasn't as irritatingly beautiful.

"From here, we'll switch to my chariot."

After they passed the border of Wintersin, it would be easier for them to ride the chariot since they didn't need to be too conspicuous.

Momo was standing with her knees trembling when she waited alone at the edge of the road for Burn to pick her up. He said it wouldn't take long.

He didn't take long indeed.

WHIIRRR!

"Woah."

Burn's chariot wasn't just a ride; it was a rolling paradox from the future, courtesy of the outsiders. Now, in the spirit of "if you can't beat them, join them," they offered up this custom high-tech hot rod as a peace offering.

Picture this: the chariot itself, forged from an alloy that probably had a name longer than a royal wedding guest list.

This wasn't just any metal; it shimmered with a pretentious iridescence that screamed, "Look at me, I'm not from around here."

Traditional wheels? Please. That's so last millennium. Instead, this toy floated on anti-gravity modules that hummed like an overcaffeinated bee, subtly reminding everyone just how advanced they were.

At the front, instead of the classic, reliable horse, were two mechanical griffins, because why use living creatures when you can have cold, hard steel mimicking life?

These griffins looked like they'd been designed by someone who had only had mythical creatures described to them in a fever dream. The energy conduits inside them glowed with a power that was probably capable of jump-starting a dead planet.

Inside, the chariot was as minimal as a hipster's loft. One seat, because who needs friends when you have fusion power? This seat was the kind of thing that would make ergonomic chairs weep in inadequacy.

The controls were also an impressive series of holograms that responded to hand waves like an overly eager stage magician. No reins, because we're too cool for old school.

Kinda.

"I slept for three years, huh?" Momo muttered.

"Come on in."

"Where can I sit?"

"Here," Burn pointed at his lap after he spread his legs. There was a bit of space there.

"My butt is not that small!" an angry vein popped in Momo's forehead.

"I know," Burn said flatly. "So just put it between my lap. There's still space for the rest of your body."

Silence.

The two looked at each other, both annoyed.

"I know you didn't want this either. Excuse me, then," Momo acknowledged, aware that her selfishness to find Yvain immediately had left Burn without the opportunity to arrange a more suitable vehicle for their journey.

It's important to remember that they were traveling under the radar and as swiftly as possible.

Had stealth not been necessary, Burn might have opted for a larger chariot, not this one he already had. Similarly, if speed hadn't been a priority, he could have included her in the merchant-slash-spy caravan he also used on his infiltration into Wintersin.

He was able to move fast despite using the spice merchant caravan before because he was alone. But now, he had a heavy baggage.

PLOP.

Huh. She's not that heavy, actually.

She was tall. Around 5'8. But this… "100 lbs…"

"Will you be able to survive…?"

"Why? I've put up more weight since I woke up a couple of days ago."

"You'd die if this thing stumbled on a pebble."

"I'm not that fragile."

"Where's all that Force I gave you? Are you actually wasting it?"

POOF!

They quarreled so much that it made them move too much—and now, a certain part of a certain person's body was squashing on the other person's personal space.

"So it went here," Burn muttered irritatedly as his cheek was smothered by the woman's breast. "The Force has been strong with this one. Ah, I mean these two."

Surely, after that, Momo was seen giving him a disgusted look all the way.

Thankfully, they only need 24 hours in that chariot before arriving at Edensor.

***

On the outskirts of the clamor and clang of a battlefield that looked like a medieval rendition of a bad day at the stock exchange, stood the boy king Yvain.

Perched atop his war chariot like a falcon ready to dive, he was surrounded by a flock of generals and aides, each decked out in enough armor to sink a small ship.

With war machines whirring around him, and protection spells and technologies surrounding him, not to mention being merely 12, Yvain had the demeanor of someone who had binge-watched the entirety of human history, giving off an air of premature world-weariness.

As the front lines engaged in their chaotic dance of steel, lasers and shouts—a performance that might have been choreographed by a drunkard swinging at bees—Yvain was engrossed in a report.

His eyes darted across the parchment. His brow, barely enough years on it to be furrowed, was knit tighter than a miser's purse strings.

Finally, he lowered the report, and the look on his face could curdle milk. It was too grim an expression for such a young monarch.

With a sigh that suggested he was carrying the weight of the world rather than just his feather-light crown, he asked the people around him, "Has His Majesty Burn not sent any word yet?"

"No, Your Majesty." 

Yvain lifted his gaze toward the battlefield ahead. With a deliberate motion, he handed the reports back to one of his aides and instructed, "Return these and ensure they are given to His Majesty upon his return."

"At your command, Sir."

"My master… Burn has been gone this long without sending a message. Perhaps he has not yet found her." 

Yvain mentioned several locations his master often visited, primarily in the northern hemisphere, suggesting that Burn might still be searching there. 

The boy king narrowed his eyes toward the direction of Elysian's Capital. 

"For now, then, I must manage this myself."