CHAPTER 521: ’EXCUSING THE BIRTHDAY PRINCE.’

Not long after, the music swelled—violins and lutes weaving a melody that filled the gilded hall. The polished marble floor soon came alive with movement as nobles swept into dance, gowns flaring and jewels flashing beneath the chandeliers.

Laughter rippled through the air, the clinking of glasses and polite conversation blending into the rhythm of the night.

Florian tried to keep pace, moving beside Heinz as they wove through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with Concordia’s nobles.

His posture was straight, his smile practiced, though his mind remained scattered. He mirrored Heinz’s words, bowed when expected, smiled when appropriate. ’Just follow his lead, Florian. Don’t think too much. Don’t slip.’

But Heinz, as always, wasn’t behaving his best.

"You look absolutely divine today, Your Highness," came a voice like a purr.

A marquess stepped forward, his hand resting on a jewel-tipped cane, his eyes sweeping shamelessly over Florian from head to toe. Florian recognized him instantly—Marquess John Von Dykes. "The Obsidian colors suit you... and that outfit..."

Florian’s skin prickled under the weight of that stare. He forced a polite smile, his voice strained but civil. "Thank yo—"

Before he could finish, a hand curled firmly around his waist. Heinz.

Florian stiffened as the king tugged him closer, the scent of wine and steel clinging to him. Crimson eyes narrowed like blades at the marquess.

"Marquess John," Heinz drawled, his tone deceptively smooth. "How is your wife? I don’t think I see her."

The question landed like a stone in a still pond. John’s confident smirk faltered. His eyes widened, darting nervously between them. "S-She’s... ah, she’s at home. We—we just had a baby, so she had to stay home with the child." He let out an awkward laugh that grated against the polished calm of the ballroom.

Florian’s brows twitched. ’His wife just gave birth and he’s here? Are you serious?’

Heinz’s smile thinned into something sharper, colder. "Your wife just had a baby, and yet you’re here?" His voice dropped, quiet but cutting. "That’s quite reckless, don’t you think?"

The marquess flinched as though struck. His hand trembled on his goblet, spilling a drop of wine down his cuff before he gulped the rest in a rush. "Haha—q-quite right, Your Majesty. I—ah—it seems I must..."

He sputtered, bowed his head with a jerky motion, and all but fled, disappearing into the crowd with the grace of a rat abandoning ship.

Florian blinked, watching his retreating back. "He just walked away." He muttered under his breath, incredulous. ’In front of the king. He just walked away.’

Heinz chuckled, amused, his hand still at Florian’s waist as though he had no intention of letting go. "Figures. He’s always been known as cowardly. And I’ve heard he’s had five wives. The one he mentioned? His fifth."

Heinz’s tone dripped with disdain. "I doubt he cared enough for her to even stay home."

Florian’s jaw went slack. "Seriously? How does one even get so many wives? And with that face?" His disbelief bled into his voice as they moved on, the king guiding him effortlessly toward another group of nobles.

Heinz tilted his head, smirking. "My, Florian, are you really judging someone based on their looks?"

Florian rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. "If he acts like that, then yes."

Heinz laughed—a deep, rich sound that rumbled low in his chest, carrying enough force that nearby nobles glanced their way, startled by the uncharacteristic warmth in it.

Florian felt the heat creep into his cheeks, annoyed at himself. ’Why does he have to laugh like that? People are staring.’

Florian’s face felt warm.

Too warm.

Heinz’s laugh still echoed in his ears, low and rich, rolling through the ballroom like it belonged there.

Worse still, nobles nearby had turned, their jeweled eyes gleaming with interest, their whispers sharp enough to pierce through the hum of violins and chatter.

Their gazes darted between king and prince—watching, assessing, whispering.

’They’re staring. They’re all staring. Stop. Please, stop staring...’

The heat in Florian’s cheeks deepened when Heinz’s hand remained at his waist, possessive, steady, and his crimson gaze softened into something—unnervingly sweet. Almost tender.

"Why are you so quiet now?" Heinz bent closer, his voice low, silken, meant only for him. "Don’t tell me I embarrassed you."

Florian’s breath hitched. His instinct screamed to retort, to shove the man’s hand away, to free himself from that unbearable closeness. But the weight of those eyes, those whispers, chained him in place.

’Is this a set-up? Is he planning something? Acting sweet so people think—what, that we’re close? That he’s... fond of me?’

He bit back the storm in his chest, forcing a stiff, practiced smile. The crowd pressed on.

One after another, Concordia’s nobles descended like waves on the shore.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness," a baron greeted, bowing until his polished forehead nearly touched the marble. "Your speech earlier was magnificent. Truly, the strength of the crown inspires us all."

Before Florian could part his lips, Heinz clasped the man’s shoulder, a sharp grin on his lips. "Strength means nothing without loyalty such as yours, Baron."

The poor man stammered out thanks, his cheeks blotched crimson, bowing again and again before retreating.

Another presence glided in—a baroness in cascading silk, her fan fluttering like a bird’s wing. "Prince Florian," she crooned, her eyes alight with curiosity, "the villagers I passed on my way here cannot stop praising you. They say you’ve stolen their hearts."

Florian faltered, caught off guard by the forwardness of her tone. He bowed his head, voice quiet but steady. "I... only wish to do what I can for them. Nothing more."

The baroness’s smile curved sharper, as though she had uncovered some secret. She tapped her fan closed with a soft click and glided away, perfume lingering in her wake.

Then a marquess and his wife swept in, their jewels glinting like fire.

"Your Highness," the marchioness said brightly, "is it true the villages along the eastern borders lack wells? What are your plans for them?"

Florian straightened, stepping into the rhythm of diplomacy, though fatigue tugged at his bones. "Yes. We’ve already secured resources to—"

"Ah," Heinz cut in smoothly, his arm brushing against Florian’s, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. "He has secured it. Florian has a mind for the people’s needs, sharper than many of my ministers."

And so the tide of compliments swelled.

"Such wisdom for one so young!"

"Your Highness, the people will flourish under you."

"Truly, you are a perfect match for His Majesty."

Florian’s polite smile faltered for a heartbeat, something cracking behind his eyes.

’Perfect match?’

The words lingered like poison. His smile ached at the corners of his mouth, his throat dry from endless thanks, his back sore from bow after bow.

Every noble was another mask he had to wear, another exchange that drained him. And all the while, Heinz’s presence loomed—close, protective, sweet in a way that unsettled him.

His words painted Florian as something precious, untouchable, irreplaceable.

’What is he doing? Why is he... why is he making me look like this?’

By the time the final noble retreated, Florian felt exhaustion sink into his very bones. His shoulders sagged, his chest heavy, and his smile finally slipped away the moment the crowd gave them room to breathe.

"Are you all right?" Heinz asked quietly, his crimson eyes studying him with a strange softness—genuine, or perhaps another mask, Florian couldn’t tell.

’I’m... so fucking tired.’

He parted his lips, ready to answer—

—but a sharp, deliberate throat-clearing cut through the air behind them.

The sound alone silenced the nearby chatter.

Both Florian and Heinz turned, their attention caught at once.

A woman stood there, her very presence bending the atmosphere around her. She was tall, shoulders squared with a warrior’s poise, her attire a sharp contrast of deep crimson and black that shimmered under the chandeliers. Her hair, pinned in an intricate crown, gleamed like steel.

Her expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but her eyes—cold and cutting—swept over them with authority.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness..." she said, her voice low and measured, carrying the weight of command. "Forgive the interruption."

The music did not falter, nor did the nobles stop dancing, yet somehow the air grew heavier, taut, as if the entire hall itself braced for what would follow.

It was Duke Elara.

"Nonsense," Heinz said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough to reach the curious ears nearby. His smile was sharp, but not unfriendly, the kind that made nobles lean in rather than recoil. "I have been wondering when the dukes would approach me tonight."

The weight of his words rippled outward, and Florian could feel the shift in the room—whispers blooming like vines, nobles tilting their heads discreetly to catch every syllable.

Florian forced himself to smile as well, though his heart thudded unevenly. Seeing Duke Elara up close now, he was reminded of the letter she had sent him days ago—its parchment still vivid in his memory.

A request. A task. One he had ignored.

"Actually," Elara’s voice broke through his thoughts, warm yet firm, carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed. Her gaze softened when it landed on Florian, a contrast to the severity of her presence. "I would like to excuse His Highness. May I steal him for a bit?"

The words struck him like a pebble to the chest.

"Me?" Florian asked, caught off guard.

’Is this about her letter?’

Silence lingered for a breath. The ballroom seemed to pause, nobles daring to glance over their jeweled shoulders, sensing a moment worth memorizing.

Heinz’s crimson gaze narrowed briefly, assessing, weighing, before—surprisingly—he inclined his head. "Of course." His tone carried a strange ease, though Florian could feel the underlying steel. "I figured it was time to let the birthday prince mingle on his own."

The hand at Florian’s waist slipped away, leaving behind the ghost of heat and a sudden, unmoored feeling.

Elara’s lips curved slightly. "Perfect." She extended an arm in an almost courtly gesture, her movements precise, commanding, as though this were a duel of etiquette. "Shall we?"

Florian’s eyes flicked from her to Heinz. The king gave a single nod, urging him forward, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," Florian said at last, his voice steady despite the unease clawing at his ribs. He inclined his head toward Heinz. "I’ll see you in a bit, Your Majesty."

The words tasted strange in his mouth, but he turned and followed after Elara, his steps echoing faintly against the polished floor.

The music swelled again, nobles twirling across the marble, yet Florian could feel eyes tracking them as they moved. The air was alive with curiosity, like sparks hovering above dry leaves.

’What could she want?’