"You called for me, Your Majesty?"

Lancelot stepped inside the office with rigid posture and a perfectly neutral face.

But truthfully? He didn't want to be here.

Ever since Florian's birthday ball—and everything that followed—Heinz had been… terrifying.

More terrifying than usual.

And Lancelot could handle terrifying.

He could handle blood on his hands, orders that made his stomach churn, the king's infamous temper that sent even generals trembling.

He could handle cruelty.

But he couldn't handle this.

CRACK.

A glass shot across the room, shattering against the wall so close to Lancelot's head that shards rained down at his feet like glittering dust.

Lancelot didn't even blink.

He only stared at Heinz—who was gripping another bottle, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes wild.

Heinz Obsidian was drinking.

'This is new.' Lancelot thought, unable to hide his surprise.

"What… is wrong with him?" Heinz snarled, but the snarl wavered—cracked at the edges. "I'm trying… my best."

It wasn't anger.

Not the usual kind, at least.

It was frustration. Desperation. Something messy and painful.

And the "him" in question… well, that was obvious.

Florian.

This—this was exactly what Lancelot couldn't deal with.

The feared tyrant of Concordia, a man whose smile made nobles wet themselves—Heinz Obsidian was standing here like a man in mourning.

"I've already apologized enough." Heinz looked up at him, eyes bloodshot and unbearably earnest. "What more can I do?"

Lancelot actually flinched.

Because this wasn't a king speaking.

It was a man whose heart had seemingly been ripped out.

"Your Majesty," Lancelot said carefully, letting out a resigned sigh, "I am… assuming you got into an argument with His Highness?"

'Lucius should be the one handling this mess.'

But even Lucius would be horrified to witness this.

"I don't understand him. I can't understand him." Heinz's voice cracked—just barely—as he clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened. "I wanted to. I tried to. I know I had my mistakes, but—"

He cut himself off with a sharp inhale.

For a moment, the despair twisting his expression shifted… tightened… then vanished behind cold composure.

Heinz cleared his throat, straightened his back, and forced the drunken haze out of his tone.

"Never mind that, Lancelot."

Lancelot bowed immediately. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Heinz didn't say anything else.

He only leaned back in his chair, head hitting the headrest with a dull thud. His gaze drifted upward, unfocused, empty, fixed on the ceiling as though searching for answers carved into the stone.

Silence swelled between them—heavy, suffocating, absurdly awkward.

Lancelot stood there stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, pretending this wasn't the most miserable he had ever seen the king.

Because really, what was he supposed to do?

He was summoned—dragged away from actual work—because Heinz wanted to… complain? Ramble? Break glassware and then stare blankly at the ceiling?

But he didn't dare speak.

He didn't dare move.

Because Heinz Obsidian was unpredictable on a good day—and today, with heartbreak dripping from every word, he was a landmine.

A landmine that had summoned Lancelot here for absolutely nothing.

Lancelot internally sighed. 'Perhaps I'm being too critical.' he admitted to himself.

After all, Heinz had clearly been going through hell—and Lancelot, unfortunately, understood all too well what it meant to be in love with the enigmatic, stubborn, impossible prince named Florian.

Florian was… feisty. Sharp-tongued. Soft-hearted in the worst possible ways.

He saw the world differently, thought differently, felt differently.

He was unpredictable yet painfully sincere.

And Heinz?

Heinz was quite possibly Florian's exact opposite.

A rigid man of power, raised in cruelty, built from iron and wrath.

So maybe the pairing made no sense.

And at the same time, maybe it made too much sense.

It had shocked Lancelot the first time he realized Heinz had fallen for Florian—but thinking about it now, it wasn't that strange.

Anyone who spent even a moment with Florian could fall for him.

Anyone.

Florian had this strange way of getting under your skin—whether you wanted him there or not.

And more importantly…

Florian was the only person brave—or foolish—enough to look Heinz Obsidian in the eye and tell him off.

To argue with him. To challenge him. To shove the truth in his face without fear.

It was obvious why Heinz was going insane.

And considering everything Lancelot had seen and overheard… it seemed Florian had rejected him.

'He actually rejected him,' Lancelot thought, still trying to accept the reality.

It was surprising—but also not surprising at all.

Because Florian was, undeniably, still in love with Heinz.

But Florian also carried anger. Deep, buried, unspoken anger.

A quiet fury that Lancelot had seen flicker in his eyes—the kind of fury that came from betrayal, not indifference.

'It's no surprise that—'

"Florian rejected me, but I'm sure you're smart enough to have figured it out."

Heinz's voice cut through the silence—flat, hollow, aimed straight at the ceiling as if he were speaking to the gods themselves rather than the knight standing before him.

Lancelot flinched. Just a little. Enough to betray that he had indeed figured it out.

"Pardon?" he asked, though it came out weak—more reflex than denial.

Heinz didn't even look at him. "You don't need Lucius' abilities to know. You have impeccable observation skills. I'm sure you've already pieced together what happened between me and Florian."

"Ah."

That was all Lancelot could muster.

He didn't want to acknowledge the truth out loud.

He didn't want to see the way Heinz's face might crumble.

"I didn't mean to…figure it out, Your Majesty," Lancelot said gently. "It's just…"

He hesitated—not out of fear, but because this felt like a trap.

A conversation he wasn't meant to be part of, but was already knee-deep in.

'And it was too obvious.'

Heinz's next words were low, bitter, and so painfully vulnerable Lancelot felt them in his chest.

"If a person is trying their best to change… shouldn't one give them a chance? And instead of saying they'll give them a chance to change, only to grow cold and indifferent again…"

Heinz's jaw clenched, his voice tightening.

"…shouldn't they at least act like they are willing?"

Lancelot's eyes widened slightly.

Oh.

So that was what happened.

Lancelot cleared his throat softly. It felt strange—offering advice to Heinz, of all people—but watching the king unravel like this was even stranger.

"Your Majesty," he began carefully, "may I speak… frankly? Not as your aide. Perhaps more as an acquaintance. Or… a friend."

Heinz flicked his gaze toward him at last—just a quick, tired glance—before staring back up at the ceiling as though it were the only thing capable of holding him together.

"Proceed."

Lancelot nodded once, exhaling. His heart thudded; this could get him decapitated, but someone needed to say it.

"Your Majesty," he said slowly, choosing each word as though walking across thin ice, "sometimes whether you are forgiven or given another chance depends on what kind of mistake was committed…"

He paused, watching Heinz's jaw tighten.

"And how deeply the other person was damaged because of that mistake."

The air felt heavier.

Heinz didn't move, but something in him seemed to freeze—like Lancelot had struck a place he hadn't expected anyone to touch.

Lancelot continued gently, even though his pulse quickened.

"People like His Highness…"

He swallowed.

"…they don't break loudly. They break quietly. Slowly. And sometimes, by the time you see the damage… it's already been done."