’Fuck my life. Fuck everyone. Fuck everything. Just fucking kill me at this point, God. Gods. Whoever wants me dead because of Heinz just—’

Life was shit.

Everything was shit.

There were countless curse words rattling inside his skull, but none of them even came close to expressing how done he felt.

His head throbbed like it was splitting open, a dull ache spreading behind his eyes until all he could think was fuck and shit on an endless loop.

Because everything—everything—was a fucking pile of shit. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

’Why did I have to end up in this situation? Why me? Why— Why was all I doing proofreading that stupid story I never even wanted to get dragged into—’

"Y-Your... Highness?"

A soft, hesitant voice cut through the chaos.

Florian blinked, the words registering slowly.

"...Are you... why have you been... lying on the ground?"

He shifted his gaze toward the source.

Of course.

Cashew stood a few steps away, hands clutched together, eyes wide with worry.

Florian looked up at him with flat, empty eyes.

Cashew flinched.

"I-I tried not to say anything," the boy said quickly, voice wobbling. "I know you said you wanted some quiet time, but... you’ve just been lying here, on the cold floor, staring at nothing. I—I can’t help but think that you’re not okay."

Florian let out a weak breath.

"That’s right," he whispered.

Barely audible.

"I’m not okay. I’m... not fine at all."

"Oh."

Cashew froze.

The surprise was immediate—visible in the way his shoulders stiffened, in the way he struggled to process the fact that Florian had just said it out loud, without deflection or humor or false reassurance.

Florian didn’t soften his tone.

He couldn’t.

And he knew—some distant part of him knew—that he should apologize for letting a young servant see him like this. Cashew didn’t deserve to witness this mess.

But he was too exhausted to pretend.

He had had a rough night.

A rough week.

Hell—maybe even more than that.

He felt cranky and irritable, anger simmering just beneath his skin. He felt oddly hungry despite having no appetite at all.

He felt so tired—not the simple kind of sleepy fatigue, but the soul-deep weight that pressed down on his chest and made breathing feel like work.

Mentally drained.

Emotionally burned through.

Physically worn out.

All he wanted to do was curl up somewhere dark and disappear until every problem simply... stopped existing.

After his encounter with Asher—that bitter confrontation that left a foul taste in his mouth—Florian had fallen asleep angry.

Sleep was supposed to be peaceful.

Sleep was supposed to be rest.

A pause.

A calm.

Instead—

He dreamed.

Again.

And again.

Not nightmares this time.

Not the memories of Heinz emotionally tormenting the original Florian.

No.

Worse.

These were his memories now.

Of Heinz’s hands.

Heinz’s warmth.

The way his voice dropped closer when he whispered Florian’s name like it mattered.

Their proximity.

Their touches.

The soft, intimate moments that tangled together with everything else until even the good memories hurt.

Florian kept waking up.

Over and over, he jolted upright from half-sleep, breath sharp, hands trembling as he slapped at his own face or pressed his palms into his temples.

"Stop it," he whispered hoarsely to no one. "Just stop dreaming."

’Stop seeing him. Stop remembering.’

But every time he closed his eyes—

Another dream came.

Then he woke.

Then he dreamed again.

Then he woke again.

Again.

Again.

No peace. No escape. Just the same looping torment.

Florian had long since grown used to nightmares—painful flashes of the original Florian’s fear, abandonment, and despair. Those made sense. Those belonged to suffering.

But these?

These weren’t nightmares.

They were too warm.

Too soft.

Too filled with things that had once felt safe.

Heinz smiling at him when no one else was looking.

Heinz touching his hand absentmindedly.

Heinz whispering his name like it was something precious.

’Why does my mind keep replaying the good parts?’

It hurt more than any monster-shaped terror ever could.

Because it reminded him that despite everything, despite knowing how twisted and ruthless Heinz truly was...

There had been moments when Florian genuinely felt loved.

And losing them hurt far worse than never having them at all.

’It’s just another reminder of how everything went wrong,’ he thought bitterly.

But then—

There was that last dream.

The one that made his skin crawl.

Not scary.

Not violent.

Just... unsettling.

It felt different from all the others.

Less like memory...

More like a message.

Like the previous dreams—the ones that had warned him of danger, of being hunted without his knowledge.

Those dream-warnings had always carried a strange weight to them.

And this one felt the same.

Heavy.

Intentional.

Important.

’They always come before something bad happens...’

Which meant...

Before Florian could chase that thought any further—

"U-Um..."

Cashew’s tentative voice broke the trance.

Florian’s gaze drifted toward the sound.

"I’m... I’m not really sure why you’re upset, Your Highness," Cashew admitted quietly, clearly struggling for words. "And... I know you wouldn’t tell me unless you wanted to, but... I brought food."

He gestured toward the nearby table.

It was covered.

Plates neatly arranged. Bowls of soup still steaming. Pieces of bread, fruits, pastries—snacks piled beside warm dishes meant for an actual meal.

All of it prepared with careful thought.

"You always... you seem to feel a little better after eating lately, Your Highness," Cashew said with a shy, hopeful smile. "So... please eat."

Florian stared at the spread.

At the thoughtfulness behind it.

And something in his chest tightened.

’He’s worried about me...’

The realization hit harder than expected.

Because despite how alone Florian felt in this palace full of danger—

There was still this boy.

Standing here, awkward and gentle, trying the only way he knew how to help.

Florian swallowed thickly.

"...Thank you, Cashew," he murmured.

Florian felt bad now.

Cashew’s quiet concern—the food, the gentle voice, the way he’d stayed instead of turning away—made something twist painfully in Florian’s chest.

’He didn’t deserve to see me like that.’

Slowly, he pushed himself off the cold floor, joints protesting as he sat up.

Cashew was already there, quick to move in front of him.

"Let me help, Your Highness," he said softly.

Before Florian could refuse, Cashew slipped an arm around him—steady, careful—as he guided him fully upright.

Florian tried to smile.

It felt strange.

Almost... painful.

Like his face hadn’t remembered how to do it properly.

But he did it anyway.

"Thank you, Cashew," Florian said quietly once he was standing. His legs wobbled for a moment, but he forced himself to straighten.

When balance returned, Florian reached out and gently cupped Cashew’s face.

He looked so young.

So sincere.

"...Really," Florian murmured, thumb brushing the boy’s cheek, "what would I do without you?"

Cashew blinked, startled, before letting out a shy chuckle. "Well... you’d probably still be stuck on the floor, Your Highness."

That earned Florian a soft laugh.

"That would be unfortunate."

"It truly would be, Your Highness," Cashew replied with mock seriousness.

Florian lightly pinched his cheek. "You’ve gotten cheeky, haven’t you?" he teased. "Since you’ve already brought all this food... why don’t you eat with me?"

Cashew hesitated.

"As much as I’d like to, Your Highness..." he admitted, eyes dropping apologetically, "there’s still so much work left. Managing the guests has been... hectic. A lot of them are becoming agitated."

He looked back up, offering a small, hopeful smile.

"But... I could come again during dinner, if... that’s alright with you?"

Florian studied him for a heartbeat.

’Oh... he’s becoming more vocal about what he wants.’

Cashew was changing—gaining confidence, learning to speak instead of disappearing into obedience.

And Florian found that strangely comforting.

"Of course," Florian said gently. "You’re always welcome here, Cashew. Honestly, you’re... mostly the only one who is."

Cashew’s eyes widened slightly.

"...How about His Majesty?"

The question came carefully, curious without malice.

"You two have grown quite close these past months, Your Highness," Cashew continued. "I heard he’s been... really sad lately. Are you also sad... because you had an argument?"

Florian went still.

The air seemed to thicken around them.

He hadn’t expected that.

Not from Cashew.

Not so directly.

"I, uhm... what makes you think that?" Florian said, letting out an awkward laugh he didn’t quite feel. "His Majesty is just busy, and I’m also busy with..."

Busy with—

With what?

Florian trailed off, the words dying before they could even properly form.

’Busy with what, exactly?’

He hadn’t actually done much of anything.

Sure—he’d glanced over the reports Cashew brought him from Heinz and Lancelot. He’d listened when Lancelot gave updates. He’d nodded when Lucius rambled about logistics.

But that was it.

No real work.

No real contribution.

Mostly, he’d just been preparing himself—mentally, emotionally—for leaving with Elara and completing her task.

’That’s all I’ve been doing... just waiting.’

The excuse suddenly felt hollow even in his own mouth.

Cashew blinked, studying him carefully, as if trying to piece together what Florian wasn’t saying.

"Whatever it is, Your Highness," Cashew said gently, "I think... you and His Majesty should just talk about it."

Florian stiffened.

"How do you even know to say th—"

"At least," Cashew continued quickly, "that’s what I hear Sir Lancelot tell Sir Lucius whenever I visit him in the infirmary."

Ah.

That immediately clicked.

’Of course... Cashew hears it from them.’

Those two were practically drama incarnate—endless lectures about communication and honesty, paired with their own painfully obvious unresolved tension.

Cashew was still a kid, no matter how composed he tried to be lately. Still soaking up advice wherever he heard it, still taking words at face value.

Florian let out a quiet scoff. "Don’t listen to those old men. They don’t know anything," he muttered. "They can barely communicate themselves. They’re obviously a thing and still stuck doing the whole will-they-won’t-they nonsense."

Cashew tilted his head. "...A thing?"

Florian waved it off. "Just... ignore me. The point is—we’re fine, Cashew. Don’t worry."

Cashew didn’t look convinced.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly.

Florian hesitated.

’Why does he seem so concerned about Heinz and me?’

The thought flickered through his mind, unexpected and oddly uncomfortable.

Why did Cashew care so much?

Was it just worry for him... or something more? Concern for the palace? For stability? For gossip?

’No... Cashew’s never cared about those things.’

He was just worried. About him.

Florian inhaled slowly.

"Cashew, why—"

Knock. Knock.

The sound cut through the room like a blade.

Florian froze mid-sentence.

The air shifted instantly.

He felt it.

Whatever softness had existed a heartbeat earlier vanished, replaced by tension.

His gaze snapped toward the door.

The knock came again.

Knock. Knock.