"Judging by your expression," Heinz said, turning slightly to the side, "it seems you truly thought I was just mad because you told me to spare Lucius and Lancelot."
His voice was calm, but there was a thread of quiet disbelief running through it, almost like the edge of a blade.
"Florian," he continued, glancing at him with that sharp, unreadable gaze, "I am the king. If I didn't want to spare them... I wouldn't have."
That statement struck Florian harder than he expected. It wasn't arrogance—it was a fact. Cold, clear, irrefutable.
"Then why are you mad, Your Majesty?" Florian asked, his tone no longer defensive, but lost—genuinely trying to understand.
Heinz scoffed softly.
He scoffed.
Florian's eye twitched in irritation. That sound. That condescending sound.
It grated on him.
"You know, Florian..." Heinz suddenly turned and gave a subtle gesture to the knights around them. "Leave us."
The guards hesitated, glancing at one another as if unsure they'd heard right.
