"Well? Are you just going to keep staring at me?"

Florian froze, the words striking him like an arrow straight through his chest.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The woman before him stood taller than most in the ballroom, her very presence bending the atmosphere around her. Nobles instinctively shifted aside as if some unseen force demanded space for her.

Her hair—white as fresh snow—spilled past her shoulders, shimmering beneath the chandeliers like strands of silver.

It framed a face both sharp and elegant, carrying the dignity of someone who had long since learned how to wield respect without asking for it.

And her clothes—no glittering gown, no courtly embellishment. She wore a warrior's garb, fitted to her frame with precision, practical and unyielding, yet still refined.

Each seam, each polished clasp hinted at someone accustomed not to pageantry, but to command. To battles both on the field and within halls such as this.

But it was her eyes that made Florian's chest seize.

Green.

Not a dull or muddied shade, but piercing, alive—the same striking green that stared back at him in his own reflection.

There was no mistaking it. No denying it.

Her.

And yet… that wasn't why his throat had gone dry, why his feet felt nailed to the marble floor.

It was her name.

The ballroom noise dulled. The laughter of nobles, the clink of goblets, even the soaring waltz of strings and piano—all of it faded into a low hum, as though the world itself had drawn back, leaving only him and her standing in its center.

His lungs burned. His gaze locked on hers, unblinking, unwilling—unable—to look away.

"Florian, are you alright?"

The voice pulled him back, sharp and grounding.

Heinz.

A steady hand pressed against the small of his back, firm but not forceful, anchoring him in place.

The king leaned down, crimson eyes narrowed, his expression softened with something rare: concern.

His voice was low, meant only for Florian, yet it carried the weight of command all the same.

"I'm—" Florian started, his voice unsteady. He didn't even know what he was about to say, only that Heinz's hand at his back and the piercing gaze of green eyes before him had tied his tongue in knots.

But before he could form a word, another hand caught his arm.

He startled, whipping his head to the side—Heinz turned as well, eyes flashing.

"Rian."

The voice was soft, but laced with steel.

Kazaria.

Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass, her fingers curling around his arm with the easy familiarity of someone who had every right to touch him. "Come now, why are you ignoring me? I've been wanting to talk to you since earlier."

Without hesitation, she tugged him toward her.

But Heinz's arm was still firm around his waist. His grip did not budge.

Florian felt the tension immediately—one pull forward, one hold back, his body the rope in their silent tug-of-war. His breath caught, his eyes darting between the two of them.

"He's the celebrant," Heinz said, his voice smooth but cold, laced with a subtle threat. "Of course he's busy."

Florian's head snapped toward him, his brows furrowing. Why is he saying it like that?

Kazaria's expression barely shifted, though her voice dropped into something flatter, sharper. "Your Majesty."

Deadpan.

Flat enough that even the surrounding hum of the ballroom seemed to hush.

"I'm quite surprised. You were just on the other side of the ballroom," she said, her green eyes glinting beneath the chandelier's glow. "And within a blink of an eye, you're beside my baby brother. Truly impressive."

Her tone was dry, but the word baby landed like a knife, deliberate and taunting.

Heinz smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth curving with that infuriating confidence of his. "To hear a fine warrior say that," he replied, his grip at Florian's waist tightening subtly, "it is also an honor."

The pressure of Kazaria's hand on his arm matched it, her fingers flexing as if she were testing the strength of Heinz's hold through Florian's body.

Florian's chest tightened. 'They're pulling me apart like I'm some prize on display.'

Kazaria's smile didn't waver, but her tone cooled, layered with iron. "If you don't mind, King Heinz," she said, each word deliberate, "I would like to talk to my brother alone. It has been months since you've taken him from us. Surely, you can grant me a few moments to reclaim that time."

The sharpness of her tone made Florian flinch—just slightly, but enough.

'She's taunting him. She's daring him to let go.'

Heinz, of course, didn't flinch at all. His crimson gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking. "As far as I know," he countered smoothly, though his words carried the bite of a blade, "your father willingly gave him up."

Florian felt her stiffen immediately. Kazaria's eyebrow twitched—just a fraction, but enough to betray the anger simmering beneath her carefully controlled exterior.

The ballroom around them seemed to shrink. Conversations hushed. The music still played, but quieter now, as if even the musicians felt the air sharpen.

Florian's heart hammered in his chest. "Your Majesty," he whispered, low, almost scolding. His hand twitched at Heinz's arm, a silent plea.

'He's being… strange again. Dangerous.'

But Heinz ignored him.

He didn't move, didn't look away.

It was as though he and Kazaria were locked in their own battlefield—two predators circling the same prey. And Florian, trapped between their grips, was the prize neither was willing to surrender.

But as Florian felt the pressure of their grips, he wasn't the only one. The tension between Heinz and Kazaria had already begun to ripple outward, drawing eyes.

A murmur stirred among the guests nearest to them.

"It's Prince Florian's sister and the king…"

"Are they… having a disagreement?"

"They're both holding onto Prince Florian. I wonder what's happening."

The whispers carried, quiet but insistent, feeding the atmosphere with unease. Florian could see faces turning their way, curious gazes cutting like blades.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lucius and Lancelot at a distance. Both were watching intently, their concern clear in the set of their jaws and the furrow of their brows.

Lucius looked ready to step forward at any moment, while Lancelot's hand twitched at his side, close to the hilt of his blade as if instinct demanded readiness.

Florian's chest tightened. He forced a smile at a passing noble, a light dip of his head to another. '

'Nothing's happening. Nothing at all. Just smile. Just keep smiling. Don't let them see.'

Kazaria's voice cut through, sharp enough to silence some of the whispers. "And as far as we both know," she said, her hand tightening on Florian's arm like a vise, "my mother and I were not made aware of this decision. We have been trying to—"

Her words snapped off.

Because another voice entered the fray.

"Oh, my son."

The tone was warm, yet commanding, resonant enough to cut through the noise of the ballroom.

Before Florian could even blink, his body lurched—Kazaria's grip slipping, Heinz's hold broken. A strong hand clasped his own, pulling him with force that brooked no resistance.

His chest collided against something unyielding and cold.

Metal.

Armor.

He blinked up, breath catching in his throat.

The woman towering over him wore silvered plate, the gleam of polished steel catching the light of the chandeliers. Her long white hair framed a face carved by both elegance and severity.

The warmth in her voice did not reach the iron of her gaze as she held him firmly against her side.

"How I've missed you," she murmured, her hand cupping his cheek with surprising gentleness despite the armored gauntlet that had just wrenched him free.

"M-Mother…" Kazaria's voice faltered, her sharpness cracking for the first time.

Florian's pulse thundered in his ears. 'Mother?'

Oh.

It was her.

The original Florian's mother.