Arthur crouched beside him, reaching out and yanking his head up by his hair. Florian grit his teeth against the burst of pain, glaring up at him through blurred vision.
Arthur smirked, his golden eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. "You’re pathetic, you know that?" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Just lay down and die already."
Florian spat blood at him.
Arthur snarled, his grip tightening. "You little—"
Before he could finish, a boot connected with Florian’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side. Pain exploded through his torso, his breath stolen by the brutal impact. He curled in on himself instinctively, gasping, choking, his vision flashing white from the sheer agony.
More kicks followed, merciless and unrelenting. His body jerked with every impact, his mind growing hazy.
His thoughts flickered, disjointed and fading.
’Not like this...’
Florian’s entire body trembled, every inch of him slick with blood, sweat, and dirt. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each one sending fresh pain stabbing through his ribs like shards of glass.
His limbs were numb, shaking from exertion, but he forced himself to move—dragging himself forward by sheer will alone. His fingers dug into the cold, unyielding forest floor, nails scraping against rough stone and tangled roots, leaving behind streaks of blood as he clawed his way through the damp earth.
A desperate, feeble escape.
Laughter rang behind him, cruel and mocking.
"Still trying, little prince?" Charles’s voice cut through the night like a blade. "How cute."
The crunch of boots grew closer, and dread curled around Florian’s gut like a vice.
"Let me help you with that."
Before he could react, Arthur’s hand clamped onto his ankle. A sharp yank sent Florian’s body skidding backward, his chest scraping against jagged stones and twisted roots. He choked on a cry as pain flared through his battered body. His nails cracked as he clawed at the dirt, but it was futile. Arthur’s grip was ironclad.
Arthur’s laughter was sick with amusement. "Time to put on a show, boys."
The other rogues gathered, a pack of hungry wolves circling their wounded prey. Their eyes glowed with sick anticipation as Arthur hauled Florian back toward the group.
"I think it’s time we break our little prince."
Florian thrashed, weak but unyielding. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, but he spat out through gritted teeth, "Get... off..." Blood dribbled down his lips, staining his chin.
Arthur crouched, his breath hot and rancid against Florian’s ear. "Oh, I intend to get a lot more than that."
Florian’s stomach turned, nausea clawing up his throat. But through the haze of pain and exhaustion, his lips curled into a hoarse, bloody smirk. His laughter was bitter, wheezing, but filled with venom. "Even now, you’re still thinking about sex? You’re disgusting, Arthur. Despicable."
Arthur’s grin twitched, a flicker of irritation breaking through his amusement. Before he could respond, a brutal slap cracked across Florian’s face, snapping his head to the side. Stars burst in his vision, his cheek flaring with raw, stinging heat.
Charles loomed above him, his expression twisted in fury. "You nobles think you’re untouchable, don’t you?" he spat. "You get money, power—everything handed to you while we rot in the gutters! The king has abandoned his people, and you—" He jabbed a finger at Florian’s chest. "The least you can do is sit there and let us do our job."
Florian blinked through the haze of pain, his thoughts sluggish, but his defiance burned like fire. "Your job?" he rasped, coughing blood onto the ground. "Your job is to assault me? That’s rich coming from a bunch of idiots who got tricked into thinking the king would actually pay to save me."
Silence fell for a brief moment, his words sinking in.
The rogues exchanged uneasy glances, doubt flickering in their eyes. But Charles’s fury only deepened. His lips curled in a snarl. "Hold him down."
Hands seized him—too many hands. Fingers dug into his arms, his shoulders, his legs, pinning him against the cold, unrelenting ground. Panic slammed into him like a tidal wave. The weight crushed him, suffocated him. He struggled, limbs straining against their iron grips, but it was useless.
No. No. No.
The memory came back in a rush—the nightmare of the original Florian, held down, broken, helpless.
’Not again. Please, not again.’
Charles loomed over him, triumphant, eyes gleaming with vicious satisfaction. "Time to teach you a lesson, little prince."
Florian squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching as he braced himself for the inevitable. His mind screamed, his body trembled, but his resolve was unbroken.
’I won’t break. I won’t—’
A sickening gurgle.
A wet splatter of thick, warm liquid against his skin.
Florian’s eyes snapped open.
Charles stood frozen, his face contorted in shock. His mouth opened and closed as if trying to speak, but no words came—only the sick, choking gurgle of blood bubbling from his lips. His hands clutched at the blade piercing straight through his torso, the gleaming steel slick with crimson.
The sword. That sword.
Florian’s breath hitched. He knew that sword.
Panic erupted around them. "WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!" someone screamed.
The rogues scattered, their laughter turning to panicked cries. Arthur stumbled back, his face twisted in horror as he turned toward the source of the chaos.
Charles crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, blood pooling beneath him.
Florian’s heart thundered in his chest as he struggled to lift his gaze, his vision blurred and swimming. His body was broken, trembling, but his mind clung to that flicker of hope.
Through the haze, he saw him.
The figure stood tall and commanding, his armor gleaming even in the dim light of the forest. Blood dripped from his sword, his expression as cold and merciless as death itself. He was a beacon in the darkness, a force of sheer, unyielding power.
A voice rang out, firm and unwavering. "Your Highness!"
Florian’s breath caught in his throat. He almost wanted to cry.
It was Lancelot.