CHAPTER 483: ’CONTINUOUS ERASING.’

"Your Majesty... you bedded him again?" Delilah’s voice was quiet, yet heavy with concern.

Heinz froze, his gaze snapping up to her. "Again?" His voice was low, confused. He had summoned her here because there was no one else he could trust with this—no one who could understand.

But the truth sat bitter in his chest. He had gotten drunk. He had slept with Florian. And in the blur between wine and skin, he had almost—almost—admitted to himself that he might love him.

Delilah’s hands fidgeted at her sides, her composure visibly cracking. "Your Majesty, listen to me. This... this has happened before."

"What?" His brows drew together, his tone sharp. "I... do not understand, Delilah."

She took a step closer, eyes locking on him. "You’re frustrated, aren’t you? You know he loves you, and you... like it. You believe you’ve been bewitched, that your heart aches for him. You think—" her voice lowered "—you may even love him. But you can’t allow yourself to. Not after what happened to your mother and father. Not with the weight of a crown on your head."

Her words hit him like a blade sliding beneath the ribs.

’She’s right. She’s exactly right.’

"How... did you—"

"Two weeks ago, Your Majesty. You got drunk and bedded Prince Florian. You came to me just like this, asking how to get rid of it. I didn’t expect it to happen again so soon."

He stared at her, the edges of his thoughts fraying. "Was I successful? Did I... get rid of it?"

"You don’t remember it now," she said, her eyes dropping to the floor. "So yes, it worked. But..."

"But I still ended up here again." His voice cracked on the words. He raked his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. "Fuck. Fuck, how could this happen? Are you sure he hasn’t bewitched me? That he’s not some witch hiding behind a smile? How much do we really know about Floramatria?"

Delilah’s sigh was long, almost pained. "I can dig for more information. But for now—do you want me to fetch the book?"

"The book?"

"The book that helped erase your memories last time."

Heinz blinked as the memory dissolved into darkness.

’I kept... erasing my memories?’

The thought rattled through him like a tremor. But the answer was there, bitter and undeniable—he kept coming back to Florian.

Was that it?

Every time he erased Florian from his mind, something deeper—his heart, his body—still remembered. Still reached for him in the quiet. Still found him, no matter how the past was stripped away.

And every time, without fail, he went to him again.

Every. Single. Time.

Like now. At the end of everything, despite every reason to stay away... Heinz had fallen for Florian.

Maybe not the original Florian from before his regression. But still—Florian.

"Your Majesty, are you sure you want to keep going? You’re... really starting to look unwell," Lysander said carefully.

"Then just keep healing me and replenishing my energy," Heinz replied, tone clipped.

Lysander’s eyes darted to Afton. The two exchanged a look, unspoken worry passing between them, before Afton stepped back.

Heinz’s gaze sharpened instantly. "What are you doing?"

"I—I want to speak to you, Your Majesty." Afton’s hands rose slightly in a placating gesture. "As your... well, technically, as your psychologist."

"I don’t need to talk," Heinz said coldly. "I need you to keep pulling more of my memories."

"That’s exactly what I need to speak to you about," Afton insisted, though his voice softened. "I can tell this is important to you—extremely important. But as a doctor, I have to ask why you have so many lost memories... and why you seem so intent on seeing them now."

He took a small breath, studying Heinz as if trying to read the pulse beneath his skin. "I know everyone agrees—this is unlike you. I won’t stop pulling them, but I need to understand. As your psychologist, yes. But also because..." His gaze deepened with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Because I’m worried for you as a king... and intrigued as a researcher."

Heinz was silent.

The weight of Afton’s words pressed against his ribs, heavy and unwelcome.

He was... considering it.

Honestly, he didn’t even know what past him

had been thinking. Or what current him truly wanted to do. The two selves felt like strangers—overlapping, bleeding into each other in ways that made it hard to breathe.

He knew he was... broken, somehow.

Who wouldn’t be, after everything?

But admitting that—even to himself—was dangerous. Dangerous because it meant peeling back the walls he had spent years fortifying. Dangerous because it meant letting someone else see the chaos underneath.

And still...

That would mean telling Afton. Or, at the very least, letting him know about the regression.

Afton was a professional. Measured. He had been trustworthy thus far, loyal in both word and action.

’But trust is how it starts, isn’t it? You let someone close, and they pry the truth out of you until you can’t tell where your will ends and theirs begins.’

Heinz’s mind turned it over, again and again, weighing the pros and the cons like a man gambling with his last coin. On one side—relief, maybe clarity.

On the other—exposure, vulnerability, and the possibility of losing control entirely.

"Alright." Heinz exhaled slowly, his gaze settling on Lysander with a weight that brooked no argument. "Lysander, go out. Do not return until I call for you. If Lucius arrives, tell him to wait as well."

Lysander’s eyes flickered toward Afton—brief, questioning—before he bowed. "As you wish, Your Majesty." Without another word, he turned and slipped out, the door closing with a soft but final thud.

Silence settled, heavy and deliberate. Only Heinz and Afton remained.

The moment Lysander’s footsteps faded, Heinz’s head turned toward Afton. His movements were deliberate, his eyes sharp and unyielding.

A flicker of surprise crossed Afton’s face—quickly replaced by alarm as the air between them shifted, crackling with raw magic.

It pressed down on him like an invisible hand at his throat. Afton stumbled back, the heat of power crawling across his skin.

"Whatever I say here," Heinz’s voice was low, cold, and unshakably certain, "does not leave this room. If even the smallest fragment of information escapes..." His eyes narrowed, the magic thickening like smoke. "...I will make you beg me to kill you long before I grant you that mercy."

’I need him to understand—this isn’t a game. This isn’t a confession. This is a blade pressed against both our throats.’

Afton’s hands twitched at his sides. His breathing was uneven, the fear in his eyes plain, but he forced himself to nod. "Y-Yes... yes, of course, Your Majesty."

Heinz studied him for a long, unbearable moment—searching for even the slightest hint of defiance. There was none. Only a man pinned in place by fear and duty.

Finally, Heinz’s magic receded, the suffocating pressure lifting. "Good." His voice softened, but only just. "Then I will tell you..." His gaze locked onto Afton’s, unblinking. "...everything."