A hush rippled through the surrounding nobles as the argument escalated, drawing more attention than either duke seemed to care about.
Whispers passed between finely dressed aristocrats, their eyes flickering between the dueling fathers and sons, some in fascination, others in unease.
Few dared to intervene, but the sheer audacity of the exchange had all but turned the heated conversation into the evening’s entertainment.
"You are being disrespectful to this event, father."
Alaric sneered, his sharp gaze flickering with contempt. "You speak of disrespect, boy?" he said, his voice dripping with scorn as he turned on Lucius. "You have the gall to lecture me on propriety? After everything you’ve done?"
His fingers twitched, as if itching to grab his son by the collar and shake some sense into him. "You’ve already thrown away your birthright, squandered the prestige of our bloodline, and now you stand here with your head held high, thinking you can shame me?"
Lucius met his father’s glare without flinching, his jaw tight but his expression composed. "I am not the one making a spectacle of himself," he said coolly. "You’re the one raising your voice, in front of all these people. If you still believe yourself above reproach, I suggest you act like it."
Alaric’s lips curled, his rage barely concealed behind a thin veil of civility. "You ungrateful—"
"Oh, do go on," Lancelot cut in, his voice laced with mocking amusement. "Please, continue airing your grievances in the middle of a royal gathering. I’m sure the king will be thrilled to know how deeply you resent him."
Alexandrius snapped his gaze to his son, expression stormy. "Watch your tongue, Lancelot. That is another duke you are speaking to."
"Why should I? You’ve both spent the last few minutes openly criticizing His Majesty, dragging our ’family honor’ through the mud. If anyone should be watching their tongue, it’s you," Lancelot shot back, eyes gleaming with unrestrained defiance. "Or have you forgotten that you are standing in the presence of a prince?"
Florian stiffened as all eyes turned to him.
’Oh, fantastic. Now I’m part of this mess.’
For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Some of the surrounding nobles cast uncertain glances in his direction, as if waiting for his reaction.
Others simply looked intrigued, as though they had just stumbled upon an unexpected plot twist at the height of an opera. Florian could feel his patience slipping, his annoyance simmering beneath his otherwise carefully neutral expression.
The ballroom, once filled with idle chatter and polite laughter, had turned into a silent battlefield. Nobles watched with bated breath, their eyes darting between the dueling dukes and their defiant sons, their expressions a mixture of intrigue, discomfort, and barely restrained curiosity.
Alexandrius scoffed, the sound cutting through the thick tension like the edge of a blade. "Spare me the theatrics. We all know what this is really about."
"Indeed," Alaric said, his gaze snapping back to Lucius, burning with cold fury. "You and that damnable fool of a king—"
’Are they sure they want to insult Heinz so openly?’
Lucius’s shoulders tensed, his icy composure cracking just enough to reveal the barely contained storm beneath. "Watch your words."
But Alaric had never been one to heed warnings, least of all from his own son. "Instead of securing Concordia’s future with a proper noblewoman, he disgraces the throne by collecting foreign princesses and a prince for his so-called harem."
His voice dripped with venom, each syllable laced with the disgust he barely concealed. "And you two support this insult to our traditions?"
A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd, hushed whispers of agreement mixing with hesitant disapproval. The weight of noble expectations loomed over them all, suffocating, inescapable.
Lancelot let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his dark hair before shaking his head. "This again? You act like you actually care about Concordia’s future, when the truth is, you only care about your influence over it." His orange eyes flickered with irritation.
"His Majesty isn’t some mindless puppet to be controlled. He makes his own choices, and whether you like them or not, they’re final."
Lucius’s voice was quieter, yet it carried more weight than the shouts of the most powerful men in the room.
"He honors his mother’s memory. That’s why he chose to do this." His cold, unwavering stare pinned his father in place. "Or have you forgotten? Have you discarded the sister you swore to protect? You side with the child of the woman who caused your sister to despair."
Alaric’s face darkened, his usual composure fraying at the edges. His fingers twitched at his sides, curled into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. It was a rare sight—Duke Alaric Darkthorn, speechless.
Even Alexandrius seemed unsettled by the words, though his reaction was less obvious. His amber eyes burned with frustration, and for the briefest moment, something flickered there—regret, resentment, or perhaps even guilt.
’Damn, Lucius. You really went for the throat.’
Florian, for his part, felt the slow, creeping relief of being forgotten in the chaos. ’Yes, yes, keep fighting amongst yourselves. Leave me out of this, please.’
But that relief was short-lived.
Because then—everything changed.
"My, what a lively conversation."
His voice was smooth, a slow pour of rich wine, indulgent yet laced with something sharper beneath—amusement, perhaps, or something more dangerous.
Florian’s breath caught, his heart stuttering in his chest.
Heinz.
The King of Concordia stood at the entrance, dressed in obsidian and gold, a vision of dark regality. The fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders only added to his already imposing figure, the golden embroidery on his high-collared vest catching the candlelight with every step he took.
Heinz’s red eyes swept over the gathered nobles, lingering on each of them for just a moment—enough to unsettle, enough to remind them who held the power in this room. When his gaze landed on Alaric and Alexandrius, a slow, almost imperceptible smirk curved at the corner of his lips.
He inclined his head, the gesture somehow both respectful and condescending all at once.
"Good evening, Duke Alexandrius. Uncle."
A thick, suffocating silence followed.
’Oh, so now they’re quiet.’
The two once-unshaken dukes—men who had spent the night belittling their sons and the king without hesitation—were suddenly still. Their earlier confidence had withered, replaced with something Florian had never thought he’d see from them.
Caution.
And Heinz, ever the predator, noticed it too.
His smirk widened—just barely, just enough to be felt rather than seen. "Please, don’t stop on my account," he said, voice lilting, teasing. "You were discussing something of great importance, were you not?"
Alaric’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Alexandrius looked no better, his amber eyes burning with suppressed frustration.
Lucius, standing firm despite the tension crackling in the air, met Heinz’s gaze evenly. A silent exchange passed between them—one Florian could not quite decipher.
’Oh, they’re fucked.’ Florian forced himself to remain still, to breathe evenly, but it was no use. The conversation was far from over.
No—this was only the beginning.
✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧
Rare image of Heinz