"So? What is the meaning of this?"

Heinz's voice cut through the air like steel drawn from its sheath. He stood rigid, crimson eyes narrowing as they bore into Lysander and Delilah.

Delilah looked pale, her usual composure faltering as her hands twisted at her skirts.

Lysander, on the other hand, kept his head bowed low, shame etched into every line of his posture, as though he were a child caught hiding some unforgivable secret.

"Y-Your Majesty…" Lysander stammered, his voice unsteady. "Please understand—I… I don't know where to start. It's about… Prince Florian."

Heinz's eyebrow twitched at the name, irritation sparking instantly.

His patience was already worn thin tonight, and this was not the subject he wanted to be teased with. He exhaled slowly, fixing his gaze on Delilah instead.

"If he has hurt himself again merely to draw my attention," Heinz said, his tone edged with ice, "I already told you—"

"No, Your Majesty." Delilah's voice broke through sharply, almost desperate. She took a hurried step forward, her composure cracking as she bowed her head. "Please… listen to him. It's not what you think. It's something you're supposed to hear."

'Something I'm supposed to hear? What kind of nonsense is this…'

Heinz clenched his jaw, every muscle coiled tight. Yet, Delilah's eyes—pleading, uncharacteristically vulnerable—stayed his hand from lashing out.

She was not one to waste words, not one to meddle without reason. If even she looked this shaken, then perhaps…

He allowed his silence to stretch before finally placing a hand on his hip, his voice low, deliberate. "Then speak. Properly."

The weight of the command made Lysander flinch. He swallowed hard, bowing even deeper, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"A… a few months ago, Prince Florian was brought to me by Lord Lucius," Lysander began, his tone trembling. "Apparently, he had been… unwell. Sick."

Heinz's gaze sharpened, cold and predatory. "Sick?"

"I… I ran some examinations," Lysander continued quickly, tripping over his own words. "Asked him about his symptoms, observed the changes… and ultimately, I came to a conclusion that he…"

Lysander hesitated. His throat bobbed as though the words themselves might cost him his life.

Heinz's eyes narrowed to slits. "Out with it."

"…that he was pregnant."

Silence.

The word struck like lightning through the chamber, slicing all thought to ribbons.

Heinz froze.

'Did I hear that correctly?'

The echo of it roared in his mind, louder than the music of the ball, louder than the murmurs of the court.

His chest tightened, his breath stilled in his throat, as if the entire world had stopped turning in that single moment.

Pregnant.

"Are you…" Heinz's voice faltered. For the first time in years, words felt foreign on his tongue. He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. "…certain he's pregnant?"

Lysander nodded, his tone careful but unwavering. "I've… been consistently examining him, Your Majesty. His stomach by now is already quite… noticeable. I believe he has simply been wearing clothes to hide it."

Heinz's breath stilled. His nod was mechanical, his body moving on instinct while his mind stood paralyzed.

He felt… dazed.

And then the pain came.

A dull throb at the base of his skull, sharp and insistent, spreading like fire behind his eyes. He pressed a hand to his temple, gritting his teeth.

It was as if something inside his head was clawing, demanding to be freed—memories, voices, fragments—straining against the walls of his mind.

But he forced himself to focus. He had one more question. A question that burned in his throat like poison.

"Who…" His voice was ragged, unsteady. "Who is the father?"

The very idea tasted bitter.

Heinz had never cared for Florian.

Never wanted to. The prince was desperate, clinging to him like a shadow—everything Heinz despised.

And yet… his chest ached. His blood roared. His whole body screamed to know.

'Who?'

Who dared touch him?

Who had laid claim where none should?

Lysander shifted uneasily. "Initially, I assumed it was Lord Lucius… perhaps even Lord Lancelot, given the rumors of his closeness to both. However—"

His eyes flickered to Delilah.

She stepped forward. Slowly. Heavily. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, with a weight she had carried alone for far too long.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice soft but steady. "You don't remember it right now. But I do."

Heinz's breath hitched.

"I have remembered every night. Every day." Delilah's sigh trembled. "You had feelings for Prince Florian. Feelings you could not bear, so you used magic to erase them. That is why you cannot recall it now."

His stomach twisted violently, but she didn't stop.

"You would often visit him at night," she continued, each word deliberate. "To be intimate with him. More than once… more than many."

Her gaze flickered with pity, almost with regret. "And I am led to believe, the reason he has hidden this from everyone is because the father is—"

Heinz's vision blurred.

The clawing in his skull ripped open. And suddenly, everything came crashing back.

Every touch.Every word.Every night.

Florian's trembling voice. His soft green eyes, looking at him with hope, with love. His warmth beneath Heinz's hands, his lips whispering promises into the dark.

He had loved him.

He had wanted him.

And Florian—earlier, when he'd tried to speak—what had he been trying to say?

The truth flared, burning, undeniable.

The father was—

"…Me."

"You… you knew?" Florian's voice cracked, green eyes wide in disbelief.

Heinz nodded once, steady, unflinching. "Yes."

Florian's breath hitched. His chest rose sharply as the words sank in.

"Then… then why?" His voice trembled, but the next words came out sharper, heavier. "Why did you have him executed? That—" He shoved at Heinz's chest, forcing space between them.

The movement was slight, almost weak, but to Heinz it cut deeper than steel.

His hands lingered in the air where Florian had pushed him, a faint sting blooming against his skin.

Still, he did not close the distance.

He had expected this. He had known this Florian didn't carry the whole story.

This version only knew fragments—enough to wound him, but not enough to understand.

All he had was the truth of the pregnancy, the whispers that Heinz was the father, and the shadow of betrayal with no explanation.

"He said I was the father." Heinz's voice grew darker, heavier, as he forced the words out. "And everyone else who knew… assumed the same. They believed it was mine."

Florian's mouth parted, his face paling as Heinz's gaze dropped, crimson eyes hardening with shadow.

"But that night," Heinz continued, the memory searing behind his eyes, "was also the night I learned the truth. That I was not the father." His voice cracked, low and dangerous, his jaw tightening.

"That Florian—" He paused, and the venom in his voice was unmistakable. "—betrayed me."

"What?"