Help! Get Me Out of My Sister's Novel-Chapter 567: ’Florian’s Corpse.’

"Your Majesty... what are you doing here?" Lucius’s voice cracked, formal but trembling.

The torchlight flickered, soft and gold, spilling shadows across the room that smelled of iron and wildflowers.

Lucius turned first, startled, then Lancelot followed, both men exchanging a quick, nervous glance before stepping closer together—instinctively trying to block whatever, whoever, lay on the table behind them.

Heinz’s steps echoed softly as he approached, slow, deliberate, his face unreadable. His eyes were fixed on the thing they were hiding. His voice came out flat, hollow—like something scraped raw of emotion.

"That’s... Florian."

He said the name as if it burned to say it aloud.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Lucius swallowed hard, his eyes flickering toward Lancelot before he continued, hesitant. "I know your orders were to burn his body... but we couldn’t. We wanted to give him a proper burial. Please understand—"

He didn’t finish.

Heinz shoved them both aside, the movement so sudden and brutal that it sent them stumbling across the floor. Lucius fell to his knees but still reached out, desperate, grasping Heinz’s boot like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

"Y-Your Majesty—please forgive my impertinence, but please don’t—"

"Let go," Heinz said quietly, dangerously calm, "or I’ll cut your head off myself."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The words carried a finality sharper than any blade.

He never once looked at Lucius. His eyes were already fixed on the table.

Florian lay there, dressed in soft, light-purple fabric—his color even in death. His hands were folded neatly on his stomach.

Someone had tried to make him look peaceful. But no amount of care could disguise what had been done to him. The stitches at his neck were crude, dark threads biting into pale skin where his head had been reattached.

Flowers and grass surrounded him, tucked lovingly around his still body. Under the warm light, it almost looked like he was lying in a meadow—if you could ignore the smell of decay beneath the perfume of blossoms.

Lucius’s voice wavered from the floor. "Your Majesty, we promise... we won’t bury his body anywhere near the palace. We just—"

"He’s mine."

The words came out low, rough, like a wound reopening.

Heinz tore his foot away from Lucius’s grip and took a step closer to the table.

"He was never yours. He was never Hendrix’s." His voice cracked as he reached out, brushing a trembling hand across the prince’s cold cheek. "He was mine."

Lancelot’s breath caught.

Heinz’s gaze softened—just barely—as he continued, voice breaking apart mid-sentence. "I loved him. I love him."

"What?" Lucius whispered, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"Then... why...?" Lancelot murmured, the question hanging like a ghost in the air.

Heinz didn’t answer.

He simply gathered Florian into his arms, lifting him gently as if afraid to break him all over again. The body was light—too light—and Heinz’s throat tightened at the weight of that realization.

"I’ll bury him myself," he said softly, cradling the corpse against his chest like something sacred. When he turned, his eyes were red, but his expression was stone.

Lancelot and Lucius stared at him—horrified, wordless—and did what soldiers were trained to do in the face of power: they bowed.

But Lucius couldn’t stop himself.

As Heinz walked past, the knight raised his head, voice shaking with grief and fury.

"Why did you kill him if you loved him, Your Majesty?"

"Lucius!" Lancelot hissed, grabbing his arm. "Do you want to die?"

Lucius shook him off. "No! You want to know too, don’t you?" His voice broke, raw. "We keep bowing our heads. We keep pretending we don’t see it, but we’re mourning him too! Why did you kill him, Your Majesty? He—he loved you. Until the very end, all I ever saw in his eyes was love for you!"

Heinz stopped walking.

The words didn’t make him angry—they hollowed him out. He stood there, staring at the floor, at the body in his arms, at the silence pressing against his chest. He felt the weight of Lucius’s accusation settle like a stone in his gut.

He felt nothing else.

He was empty.

Cold.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was almost too quiet to hear.

"I don’t know."

Lucius blinked, disbelief turning quickly into rage. "How could you not know?!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the walls.

"Prince Florian died! He died out of love for you—and you killed him! And now you’re just going to take his body and—"

"I said, I DON’T KNOW!—"

Heinz’s eyes snapped open—only to squeeze shut again as a sharp pain lanced through his skull. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping him as he pressed a hand to his temple.

’A... memory...’

The word floated somewhere between thought and realization. Images flickered behind his eyelids—Lucius’s horrified face, the scent of flowers and blood, Florian’s lifeless body cradled in his arms.

’I took Florian’s body? But... where?’

He tried to piece the fragments together, but before the thought could form, a voice pulled him back to the present.

"Your Majesty? Are you feeling alright? You seem to be in pain."

He opened his eyes, blinking against the soft light. The familiar scent of herbs and disinfectant replaced the phantom smell of smoke.

He recognized the room at once—the infirmary. His surroundings slowly sharpened into focus: the white curtains, the faint rustle of parchment, the quiet hum of magic-infused crystals lining the shelves.

And then he remembered.

He had brought Florian here.

Lysander stood at the foot of the room, his tone calm but his expression carefully restrained.

The royal physician’s voice carried the quiet authority of someone who had seen the king break before—and knew better than to comment on it.

"I am fine," Heinz said at last, forcing the words out with the practiced steadiness of a ruler. He straightened, suppressing the tremor in his hand as he pushed himself upright. His gaze drifted immediately to the bed beside him.

Florian lay there—alive, breathing—his face pale against the sheets. The faint rise and fall of his chest felt almost unreal, as though the world itself had decided to give Heinz mercy for once.

"How is he?" Heinz asked quietly.

Lysander hesitated. His eyes flicked between the two of them before he exhaled slowly, setting down the clipboard in his hand. "He was just in shock and fatigued. Nothing fatal. All he needs is rest."

The words were meant to reassure, but Heinz barely heard them. He reached out, his gloved hand trembling slightly as it hovered before settling gently against Florian’s cheek. The skin was warm—alive.

He ran his thumb across Florian’s skin, tracing the faint lines beneath his eyes as if grounding himself in the proof of his existence.

For a long moment, Heinz didn’t speak. His lips parted, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. When he finally did find his voice again, it came out quiet—measured, distant.

"And Lucius?"

Lysander blinked, almost surprised by the question. "He’s stable, Your Majesty," he said after a pause. "He suffered multiple lacerations, but none of them were fatal. He’ll recover fully with rest."

Heinz nodded once, still not looking away from Florian. His thumb lingered along the prince’s cheekbone, gentle but unyielding, as though he feared letting go would make the boy fade again.

Heinz hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring until Lysander quietly cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty," the physician began carefully, breaking the silence that had settled like a blanket over the room. "Sir Lancelot came by earlier. You were asleep at the time, but he asked me to relay a message. He said it was urgent—that he needed to meet with you as soon as you awoke."

Heinz blinked, the words taking a moment to register. His gaze lingered on Florian, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the faint shadow of color slowly returning to his cheeks.

He didn’t want to leave.

Not now.

But duty clawed at him like an old wound refusing to close.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes softening.

’He’d want me to go.’

Florian would tell him to focus—to do his job as king, even if it meant stepping away. That was always the way of it. Florian’s care for others had always outweighed his care for himself.

Heinz’s jaw tightened as he straightened, the motion stiff but controlled. "I understand," he said quietly, his tone clipped but steady. "Tell Lancelot I’ll meet him shortly."

He glanced down once more at the sleeping boy, fingers flexing at his side. Then, softly, he added, "If he wakes before I return—call me immediately. No matter the hour."

Lysander nodded, his expression gentler now. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Heinz hesitated only a moment longer. His gaze swept over Florian’s still form—the tousled violet hair against white sheets, the faint tremor of life in his breathing.

His chest ached, something deep and unspoken twisting beneath his ribs.

Then, with one last look—one that lingered longer than he intended—Heinz turned and left the infirmary.