Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 335: ’There’s No Queen.’

And so, Florian and Heinz stepped through the towering double doors of the council chamber.

The air inside was cold—not from temperature, but from tradition. It was custom that no one else, not even a single knight or attendant, be present for these meetings. Only the highest powers of the realm—the dukes, the king... and his representative—were permitted.

As the heavy doors creaked shut behind them, Florian could hear the low murmur of conversation from within. But the moment the two entered, the room fell into an expectant silence.

All eyes turned toward them.

"Took them long enough," Alaric grumbled under his breath, though his voice carried easily in the silence. The other nobles stood, their silks and armor rustling faintly as they bowed in unison.

Heinz walked with the slow, commanding grace of a monarch born and raised. "Good morning, lords and lady," he greeted smoothly. "Apologies for the delay—we had to tie up a few loose ends."

The chamber was imposing. A grand, circular table dominated the center, surrounded by five chairs—one for each of the four ducal houses and the high priestess of the church. At the head of the room stood a regal throne carved from obsidian and trimmed in gold. Beside it, just slightly smaller but no less ornate, stood the seat reserved for the queen.

Florian followed Heinz’s lead, bowing lightly. "Good morning, Lords and Lady," he said as steadily as he could, though his eyes remained fixed just past Heinz’s shoulder. His spine was straight, his posture perfect, but inside, he was unraveling.

’Ah. I need to breathe... just breathe...’

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Elara said with an affable smile. "I trust everything is in order now? And good morning to you as well, Prince Florian."

"What a wonderful morning indeed, Your Majesty. Your Highness," Cedric said with velvety politeness. But Florian could feel it—those cool, hawk-like eyes trained on him, evaluating.

The rest said nothing. Their silence was heavier than words.

Heinz walked forward and took his seat on the throne, regal and unbothered by the quiet tension settling into the room like fog.

"You may all be seated," he said.

Chairs scraped against marble as the dukes returned to their places around the round table. Florian lingered behind Heinz, unsure. There were only five seats, and all of them were taken. There were no extras. No chair for a mere "representative."

He stood awkwardly, uncertain of what to do.

But then—

"Florian, take a seat here," Heinz said casually, gesturing to the queen’s throne beside him.

Florian froze.

His eyes widened.

So did theirs.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Roland leaned back in his seat, a thin smile playing at his lips. "Your Majesty, that is... the queen’s seat, no?"

"That’s right," Alexandrius added with a faint sneer. "Should your representative really sit there? It’s unbecoming."

’Coming from you, asshole.’ Florian bit the inside of his cheek, annoyance starting to edge out his nerves. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about sitting in that throne either, but something about Alexandrius’s tone made him want to do it just to spite him.

Still, the unease lingered.

"Is there a queen?" Heinz asked coldly, eyes narrowing.

The question was sharp. Dangerous.

All of the dukes, except for Elara—who remained serene—shook their heads.

"No," Roland said, reluctant.

"And do you see any other seats?"

"N-No, but—" Roland began, only for Heinz to raise a hand.

The gesture was commanding, enough to stop Roland mid-sentence.

"I recall you all allowed my father’s concubine to sit on that very throne," Heinz said, voice dripping with condescension, "even though there was a queen at the time."

The words landed like a slap. Even Florian flinched.

’There he is...’ Florian thought. ’The Heinz I know.’

The one who wielded power like a blade, the one who didn’t beg for respect—he demanded it. Cocky. Sharp. Calculated.

No one spoke after that. Not a word.

The atmosphere shifted. Thickened. They were no longer just lords gathered for a meeting—they were subjects reminded of who wore the crown.

Then Heinz turned to Florian.

"Sit."

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Florian gave a short nod, every muscle in his body tense as he moved toward the queen’s throne. He stopped in front of it, staring at the seat he’d never imagined himself in—not even in the wildest dreams or darkest nightmares.

’This feels wrong.’

He hesitated for half a second, but the weight of eyes watching him kept him from standing there too long. He took a slow breath, then turned.

Each of the dukes was watching him closely—some with disdain, some with blank expressions too carefully composed to be genuine.

His heart pounded violently as he lowered himself onto the throne. The velvet was cool against his legs, the carved wood firm beneath his fingers.

’Gods, my heart won’t stop.’

Heinz glanced at him, and their eyes briefly met. It wasn’t a glare or a smirk—just a look. A quiet acknowledgement.

Then, the king turned his gaze to the table.

"Now that we’re all seated," Heinz said, his voice smooth and razor-sharp, "shall we begin this meeting?"

It was silent for a beat.

Tense. Heavy.

The kind of silence that crept under the skin and made the air feel thick.

Then finally, Cedric cleared his throat. "Right... we can start."

From what Florian had gathered during his nights of poring over old books and letters in the flickering light of a candle, the Sovereign Summit traditionally began with each duke presenting the biggest issue plaguing their territory.

They would outline the situation and request the king’s guidance—perhaps even his approval for a solution already in the works.

But things were different now.

Because Heinz, for the past three years, hadn’t once held a Sovereign Summit.

Instead, the dukes had taken to sending him letters—detailed reports and desperate pleas that had gone largely unanswered. Or so they’d believed.

What they didn’t know was that Heinz had read every single one.

Or rather... he’d let Florian read them.

So Florian wasn’t walking into this blind. He wasn’t here to simply nod and listen like a decorative consort.

He was here with facts, figures, and a whole collection of carefully crafted, thought-out solutions that could not only stabilize the current unrest—but prevent future collapse. His mission wasn’t just to stop villages from turning rogue.

It was to fix everything Heinz had left crumbling.

"I’m sure you already know all our problems," Alaric spoke first, voice laced with dry disdain, "or maybe not—depending on whether or not you read the three years’ worth of letters we kept sending."

The words cut sharp, but the smugness in his tone made them sharper.

Florian clenched his hands behind the folds of his robe.

’He’s not wrong, but he’s still a bastard about it.’

"Duke Alaric," Elara chided gently, her brows pinching together in clear disapproval.

But Alaric only shrugged, unrepentant. "What? Am I wrong? We all know the rules—within this chamber, we are permitted to speak freely. Especially if it’s in service of the kingdom."

Florian bit down a sharp retort, his jaw tightening.

’And yet you’re more interested in serving your own pride than anything.’

Still, the man wasn’t technically incorrect. The Sovereign Summit prided itself on unfiltered discourse among its leaders.

And unfortunately, Alaric was very good at hiding barbed attacks behind ’concern for the kingdom.’

"What he means to say, Your Majesty," Cedric interjected smoothly, ever the mediator, "is that we’re quite curious to hear how you and the prince plan to go about this. Some of us have read the initial outlines—but to address three years worth of damage?"

Cedric leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the edges of his cool expression. "Surely, Your Majesty, you’re familiar with the rogue issue? I’ve personally seen your Commander of Knights in Frostpire."

Florian stilled for half a second.

Frostpire—Cedric’s territory. A cold, unyielding region where rogues had taken root like stubborn weeds. The fact that Lancelot had been there...

’So they already knew. Damn it.’

"And another thing," Alexandrius’s voice cut in sharply, gaze cold as steel, "why is it your prince delivering solutions, Your Majesty? Shouldn’t they be coming from you? Why must we listen to someone from a different kingdom altogether?"

The scorn in his voice didn’t need to be subtle—it was direct and aimed like a blade.

Florian’s fingers curled into his sleeves. He could feel every eye in the room burning into him. He turned his gaze toward Heinz, a silent question in his eyes.

Heinz met his look, calm and unreadable... then gave a single, slow nod.

A signal.

Permission granted.

Florian took in a breath, low and controlled—just enough to still the shaking edge in his chest—and then raised his hand.

"May I also speak now, your graces?" he asked, voice steady but soft, polished with careful respect.

The dukes exchanged looks. Alaric’s lips tightened. Alexandrius looked like he was restraining a scoff.

Even though they knew Florian was here to speak, it was clear they still resented it. Roland remained unreadable, his expression blank, as if the entire matter were neither here nor there.

But Elara’s face softened, and Cedric leaned back as if in interest.

"Of course, Your Highness," Elara said with a graceful nod, her voice warm and encouraging. "The floor is yours."

The corner of Florian’s lips twitched into a grateful smile.

’Alright. Here we go...’

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