"You seem... upset."

Hendrix’s voice was slow, hesitant—so unlike the smug, teasing prince Florian had come to expect.

It was awkward in a way that made Florian blink.

’What a sudden change to how he usually acts.’

But then again... in the original timeline, Hendrix was shy. Awkward. Kind.

The sort of boy who blushed when the original Florian smiled at him.

So maybe this—this quieter, gentler version—was closer to the real him.

"Well... more upset than the other night we spoke," Hendrix added cautiously.

Florian stiffened.

Right.

That night.

The night in the gardens.

Before Charles appeared.

Before the blood and the blades.

And just after Heinz confessed.

He had spoken to Hendrix then. He’d been emotional, desperate, unguarded.

Florian did not want to remember that.

Not now, at least.

"I’m not upset," Florian said flatly, yanking his arm free. "And please forget about that night."

Hendrix frowned. "But you seemed to want to talk about something, and—"

"Whatever we need to talk about," Florian cut in sharply, "we’ll talk about it during the outing."

Because right now?

He was exhausted.

Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

He didn’t want to peel open another wound.

And he certainly didn’t want to risk Heinz appearing again.

"We don’t know who could suddenly show up," Florian continued. "We’re not sure how long we can speak without Heinz suddenly appearing."

Hendrix opened his mouth—as if he wanted to argue, or ask something, or say something too honest—but Florian raised a hand.

"Please," he said quietly. Tiredly. "I want to go back to my room. I only called you to tell you about Celestial Peak."

Hendrix’s expression softened. He stepped back, nodding once.

"Alright," he murmured. "My apologies. Then... I’ll speak with you when the time comes."

"Yes. And let’s avoid meeting until then."

Florian turned.

He waited for Hendrix to call out to him—Hendrix always called out, always pushed boundaries, always insisted on the last word.

But this time?

Silence.

Hendrix didn’t chase him.

Didn’t tease him.

Didn’t say anything more.

And somehow... Florian felt a small flicker of relief bloom in his chest.

’At least someone respects my boundaries.’

It was pathetic that such a simple thing could feel like a luxury, but it did.

And beneath that relief...a pricking sting of guilt settled in.

Because Hendrix—despite how cryptic, stubborn, and suspicious he could be—

...was the only person whose feelings toward the original Florian had been genuinely kind from the start.

Though, weird and sudden.

It was also...

Pure.

Uncomplicated.

Unselfish.

And Florian knew it.

He knew Hendrix wasn’t pretending.

He knew Hendrix wasn’t planning to use him as leverage.

He knew Hendrix wasn’t lying to him "for his own good."

For a moment, the knowledge made his chest tighten painfully.

But he didn’t let himself linger on it.

He kept walking.

Step after step down the dim corridor, each footfall making a quiet tap against the polished marble.

His heartbeat steadied. His breathing evened. The palace lanterns flickered overhead, their warm glow brushing his skin with a softness he didn’t feel inside.

Because the truth was simple:

Florian wasn’t Hendrix’s Florian.

He wasn’t the prince Hendrix remembered, the prince Hendrix fell in love with.

But he could help fix what had been broken.

He could help bring the original Florian back.

He could help Hendrix finally get the person he had held onto for so long.

’That’s for another day,’ Florian reminded himself, forcing his mind forward. ’When we get to Celestial Peak. One thing at a time, idiot.’

Right now, Heinz had to figure out how to secure all the royals, handle the aftermath, and make sure the dukes could return home safely.

But even then...

Florian already had a sinking feeling that Charles—and that so-called "savior"—didn’t care about the guests at all.

They were pawns. Collateral. Bait.

Their real targets had always been Heinz and Florian.

Florian clenched his jaw.

’I don’t want to think about that. Not now.’

Not when his head still throbbed from crying.

Not when his chest still felt scraped raw.

Not when his body felt heavy with too many revelations and not enough answers.

So Florian inhaled deeply...

...turned down the last hallway...

...and headed straight to his room, desperate for even a moment of solitude before the next storm hit.

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

’Finally... I can rest and ignore people again.’1

Florian dragged a tired breath through his chest as he neared the familiar hallway.

His room was still next to Heinz’s—something that normally would’ve annoyed him, but right now it was the least of his problems.

Heinz wouldn’t dare approach him. Not after everything that happened. Not after the argument.

Not after Florian spat the truth at him and walked out.

Honestly, Florian was still furious.

Angry in that deep, exhausted way that didn’t burn—it ached.

After everything—the emotional landmine of meeting the original Florian’s family, the painful hope of maybe, maybe finding a way out...

...now that path was gone.

Blocked. Ripped away.

And all because of Heinz.

And Asher.

’To think Asher hated his own son enough that he’d strike a deal with Heinz just to keep him here...’

Florian’s stomach twisted.

It wasn’t the normal irritation he felt toward Asher—it was something thicker. Heavier.

Betrayal.

Did Kazaria know?

Did the queen know?

’Most likely not.’

Those two adored the original Florian more than their lives.

Would they be devastated if they learned?

Would they blame Heinz?

Would they blame Asher?

’Should I even tell them? What would happen if I did? Would it change anything?’

A headache began to bloom behind his eyes, blurring the edges of his thoughts.

He turned the final corner toward his room, shoulders sinking with a weary slump.

’I’ll think about it after a nap,’ he told himself.

A nap—just one—felt like the only mercy this cursed palace could offer him.

Just a few minutes alone.

Just a few minutes without anyone demanding answers, apologies, explanations—

Just silence.

Florian reached his door.

And someone cleared their throat.

Florian froze mid-step.

The sound was soft... but familiar.

Too familiar.

A cold prickle crawled up his spine.

"Florian, my darling boy. I have been waiting for you."

’Asher?’

His heart lurched so violently he almost stumbled. Something like fear—no, not just his fear, the original Florian’s fear—burst sharp and sudden in his chest.

Florian slowly lifted his gaze.

And there he was.

Asher Thornfield, standing casually in front of Florian’s door like he owned the hallway. Like this was normal. Like he had every right to be there.

Florian’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like the floor vanished beneath him.

’What is he doing here...? Why is he outside my room? Heinz wouldn’t—did he let him? How could Asher know where my room was?’

Asher tilted his head, studying him with the same unsettling fondness he had shown earlier in Heinz’s office.

"Mhm? Why does it look like you’ve seen a ghost, my dear?"

That smile on his lips wasn’t a smile.

It was a smirk—sharp, knowing, twisted with something Florian didn’t want to name.

Slowly—deliberately—Asher opened his arms as though welcoming a child running home.

"Come to Daddy—"