Florian’s thoughts churned in chaos, his mind unable to settle.
’Is this... alright? This is alright, right? To talk to him.’ His gaze flicked to Lancelot, whose neutral expression gave away nothing. Unlike Lucius, who was too embittered by his personal grievances against women to care about the princesses, Lancelot was different. Neutral. Calculated, but with a strong sense of justice. Florian could respect that.
’It wouldn’t hurt to confide in him. Just a little.’
Taking a deep breath, Florian lowered his gaze to the ground. The soft rustle of grass caught his attention, swaying with the breeze that brushed against his hair. "Am I wrong?" His voice was low, hesitant. "For feeling like... something else could’ve been done? Mentally torturing the princesses for the sake of a test—it’s too much, isn’t it?"
Lancelot said nothing, letting the words linger in the air. Encouraged by his silence, Florian pressed on.
"I know it’s because of what happened to the former queen. She went through something like this... and His Majesty believes the next queen should be prepared for anything. I understand his reasoning," he said, his tone growing bitter, "but I can’t help feeling guilty for them."
"Why?" Lancelot finally asked, his sharp gaze fixed on Florian. "You were never close with them until now. Even now, you’re not close. They’re grateful to you—most of them, anyway—but you haven’t exactly built relationships with them."
Florian faltered. Lancelot was right. Even he didn’t fully understand why he felt so strongly about this.
’Why do I care? They’re strangers to me, barely more than pawns in this whole charade. So why does it feel so... wrong?’
His hands curled into fists at his sides as the answer evaded him. "It’s unfair," he muttered, his voice tense. "They’re supposed to be queens, Heinz’s bride, and yet they’re treated no better than criminals. Subjected to whatever cruelty he deems fit."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. And then, like a sudden crack of lightning, a thought struck Florian, making his eyes widen.
’Wait.’ His mind raced, pieces of an unseen puzzle clicking into place.
’Heinz told me how he died... but it doesn’t make sense. If he was murdered, why hasn’t he done more to find his killer? Why is he prioritizing these trials over that? Unless...’
His heart began to pound as a realization crept in. ’Could it be... that he doesn’t know who killed him? Which means... he wasn’t stabbed or attacked outright. He couldn’t fight back. Could it have been poison? Is that why he’s so focused on preparing his future queen? Is he trying to protect her from the same fate?’
Florian’s thoughts spiraled, a mix of shock and dread blooming in his chest. It made too much sense to ignore. Heinz loved his wine—something anyone could have tampered with. He hadn’t questioned it before, but now... now he couldn’t stop.
A sudden sound jolted him from his thoughts.
"Pfft."
Florian snapped his head up, only to find Lancelot laughing—openly laughing—beside him. The sight was jarring, and Florian’s brow furrowed in confusion and irritation.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Your face, Your Highness," Lancelot said between chuckles, his usual composure broken by genuine amusement. "It went through so many emotions. It’s as if you had a full-blown argument with yourself in your head."
Florian blinked, heat rising to his cheeks. "I-I did not!" he sputtered, frowning.
"Oh, you did." Lancelot’s grin widened as his laughter slowly subsided. "Has no one ever told you how expressive your face is when you think?"
"No!" Florian huffed, crossing his arms defensively. "No one has ever said that!"
"Well, it is," Lancelot teased, his tone light. "It’s like watching someone hold court with their own thoughts. Quite fascinating, really."
Florian turned away, flustered and annoyed. "You’re insufferable," he muttered under his breath, refusing to meet Lancelot’s gaze. ’What a jerk.’
"My apologies, Your Highness." Lancelot’s voice softened, though there was still a trace of humor in it. "I didn’t mean to tease."
"No," Florian shot back, his tone petulant. "You were supposed to help."
"I did try to help," Lancelot countered, amusement lacing his words. "But it seems you’ve already helped yourself."
Florian glared at him, his face burning with embarrassment. "You’re annoying."
Lancelot raised a brow, stepping closer with an easy grace. "Come now. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it."
"I’m not talking to you anymore. Go away," Florian huffed, still turned away.
"Oh, don’t be like that," Lancelot said, the teasing note returning to his voice. "My prince."
The words stopped Florian cold. His breath caught, and his eyes widened slightly. ’My prince? That’s... that’s what he called Florian in the novel. But that was—’
Before Florian could fully process the thought, he felt Lancelot’s hand on his cheek—cool against his flushed skin. His heart slammed against his ribs as he instinctively looked up, only to find Lancelot standing far too close.
"You’re interesting, you know that?" Lancelot whispered, his tone low and uncharacteristically tender. A smile, soft but edged with something unreadable, played on his lips. "If I’m being honest, I thought you were just some spoiled, pompous prince desperate for His Majesty’s attention."
Florian’s breath hitched, the world around him narrowing until only Lancelot’s piercing gaze and dangerously close presence remained. His mind spun wildly, fragments of visions and memories clashing with the reality unfolding before him.
’No, no. These lines. I knew it—I knew it the moment I got the vision last night. The way he’s acting now... it’s exactly like the novel!’
"I’ve wanted to say this since you recovered," Lancelot murmured, his voice low and intimate, sending shivers down Florian’s spine. He leaned in just slightly, but enough to make Florian feel trapped by the intensity of his presence. The knight’s smile deepened, and it was as though he could see straight through to Florian’s rattled thoughts.
"But risking your life to save the princesses," Lancelot continued, his tone soft yet cutting in its precision, "and even scolding me for being late when I’d half expected you to break down into tears..."
Florian’s eyes widened further, his heart pounding so hard he was certain Lancelot could hear it.
’This can’t be happening.’ His mind raced to make sense of the sudden shift, but all he could think was: ’He fell for Florian because he was weak—because he needed Lancelot, relied on him. That’s why he...’
Lancelot’s voice dropped even lower, his words brushing against Florian’s frayed nerves like a gentle but deliberate caress. "You’re fascinating, Prince Florian. Far more than I imagined."
Florian’s breath hitched again, his muscles stiff as stone. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to pull away, to say something, but his body refused to obey. He could only stare up at the knight, wide-eyed and paralyzed, his cheeks burning with heat.
’He’s... he’s acting like...’
"Very interesting, indeed," Lancelot whispered, his lips curving into a smile that felt too knowing, too intimate.
Florian’s thoughts exploded into chaos. ’...the third male lead!’
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning, and yet his feet stayed planted, his voice caught in his throat. Lancelot’s presence loomed impossibly close, his hand lingering at his side as though he was holding back from reaching for Florian entirely.
Florian’s face burned brighter, his wide eyes darting to the ground, the air, anywhere but Lancelot’s smirking face. ’Even after changing everything it seems like he still likes me! How could this have happened?!’