Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 114: ’More and More Nightmares’

Chapter 114: ’More and More Nightmares’

Lucius didn’t expect the forgiveness to come so quickly—if at all. When Florian spoke, it wasn’t the sharp reprimand he’d prepared himself for, nor the cold dismissal he feared.

"I’ll let it go," Florian said, his voice measured but firm. "But don’t make me regret it, Lucius."

Lucius blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "You mean it?" he asked, his tone careful, almost disbelieving.

Florian’s gaze didn’t waver, though the edges of his exhaustion were beginning to show. "I don’t have the time or energy to waste on grudges," he replied plainly. "There’s too much to do before tomorrow. Now, are you going to help or not?"

The question was rhetorical, and Lucius didn’t bother answering with words. He only nodded, following as Florian moved briskly to the next task.

The hours passed in a blur of activity. Instructions were given and followed; supplies were moved, checked, and rechecked. Florian worked with relentless focus, his sharp eyes catching even the smallest imperfections. Lucius kept pace without complaint, matching Florian’s quiet determination with his own.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the castle in soft golds and purples, Florian felt the weight of the day pressing heavier on his shoulders. His movements slowed, the sharpness of his commands dulling as fatigue crept in.

Lucius noticed. Of course he noticed. "You’re exhausted," he said, breaking the silence.

"I’m fine," Florian replied, though even he could hear how unconvincing the words sounded.

Lucius frowned, stepping in front of him to block his path. "No, you’re not," he said firmly. "Go to bed. I’ll handle the final update to His Majesty."

Florian hesitated, his instinct to argue bubbling up despite the weariness dragging at him. But the look on Lucius’ face—a mix of quiet insistence and something unspoken—was enough to stop him.

"You’ll handle it?" Florian asked, his voice softer now.

Lucius nodded. "I’ll make sure he knows everything we accomplished today. You’ve done more than enough."

Florian exhaled, the fight slipping out of him as the sheer weight of exhaustion made the decision for him. "Fine. Don’t mess it up," he muttered, brushing past Lucius toward his room.

The moment his head hit the pillow, he didn’t even have time to think about the day’s work. Sleep claimed him almost instantly, heavy and...

...dreamless.

But it wasn’t.

The darkness wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, suffocating, like a living thing pressing down on Florian’s chest. He lay on an unfamiliar bed, the mattress beneath him too soft, the weight of another body pressed against his side. Someone was sleeping next to him. He could feel their presence, hear the faint rhythm of their breathing, but their face was a smudge in the dim, oppressive light.

’Where am I?’

The thought was barely formed before a creak broke the silence. His heart stuttered, the sound so sharp it seemed to cut through the air.

Florian’s gaze shot to the doorway. A figure stood there, their outline barely visible, their features swallowed by shadow. He couldn’t see its face, but the weight of its gaze fell on him like a blade poised to strike.

’Who is that? What do they want?’

The figure didn’t move at first. Then, suddenly, it screamed—a blood-curdling, distorted wail that filled the room, warped as if submerged underwater. It wasn’t human. It couldn’t be. The sound scraped against Florian’s nerves, his body seizing in terror.

And then it moved.

The figure rushed toward him, its form growing larger, more monstrous with every step. Florian’s instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something, but his body betrayed him. He was frozen, paralyzed, as rough hands yanked him from the bed with a violent jerk.

"No—let go!" he tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat, suffocated by his own panic.

The other body on the bed—the person next to him—was being pulled too. He twisted his head, straining to see them, to understand what was happening. But they didn’t struggle. They didn’t even move. The silence of their compliance was deafening.

The room dissolved into chaos, shadowy figures swarming in like a black tide. Florian thrashed in their grip, but it was useless, like trying to swim against a rip current. The ground shifted beneath him, no longer soft and yielding but cold, unyielding stone.

He was on his knees.

Chains bit into his wrists, the jagged metal cutting into his skin. His arms trembled as he fought the restraints, his breaths shallow and ragged. Around him, a sea of shadowed figures loomed, their eyes glinting in the darkness like predatory beasts. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

"No," Florian whispered, the word barely audible even to himself.

A throne rose before him, massive and foreboding, carved from black stone. Seated upon it was another figure. Slowly, the shadows peeled back, revealing a man with long, sleek black hair and crimson eyes that burned like embers. His face was hauntingly beautiful, but his expression was cold, detached, devoid of mercy.

’Heinz.’

The name burned in Florian’s mind, flooding him with a visceral, almost primal dread.

’Why is he here? Why am I here?’

He tried to speak, to beg, but his voice was gone, swallowed by the void. Heinz’s gaze bore into him, sharp and merciless, as if Florian were nothing more than an insect to be crushed.

The crowd pressed closer, their presence suffocating. One figure stepped forward, their movements deliberate, their silhouette shifting into sharp focus. They carried a blade—gleaming, cruel, ready.

Florian’s heart slammed against his ribs. He thrashed against the chains, his body trembling violently, his chest heaving as soundless screams ripped through him. The blade rose, the dim light glinting off its edge, and then it came down in an arc toward him—

"Your Highness!"

The voice shattered the nightmare. Florian’s eyes snapped open, his body jerking upright as a strangled gasp tore from his throat. His chest heaved, desperate for air, as though he had been drowning moments before. Sweat slicked his skin, and his hands trembled violently, clutching at the damp sheets beneath him.

The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering candle. But it was his room. He recognized the ornate carvings on the furniture, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air.

"Prince Florian."

The voice came again, softer this time. A hand rested firmly on his shoulder, grounding him. He turned, his wide, panicked eyes locking onto the face beside him.

Lancelot.

The knight sat on the edge of his bed, his simple tunic wrinkled, his hair slightly disheveled. He wasn’t wearing his armor. It felt wrong—everything about this moment felt wrong.

"What... what are you doing here?" Florian managed to croak, his voice raw, barely above a whisper.

Lancelot’s brow furrowed in concern. "I’m guarding your wing tonight," he said gently. "His Majesty ordered increased security after the incidents this week. When I heard you screaming..." His voice trailed off, his eyes scanning Florian carefully. "I thought someone had broken in."

Florian blinked, trying to process the words. His heart was still racing, the echoes of the nightmare clawing at the edges of his mind. "I was screaming?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Lancelot nodded, his gaze steady. "It sounded like you were being attacked. Are you hurt? What happened?"

"I’m fine," Florian said quickly, too quickly. The words were sharp, defensive, but his trembling hands betrayed him. "It was just... a nightmare."

"You’re shaking," Lancelot pointed out, his voice calm but unyielding. "Prince Florian, whatever you saw—"

"I said I’m fine!" Florian snapped, jerking away from the knight’s touch.

But Lancelot didn’t move. His hand stayed firm on Florian’s shoulder, his eyes unwavering. "You’re not fine," he said quietly, his tone gentle but resolute. "You’re trembling so badly I can feel it through the bed."

Florian opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists around the sheets. The nightmare’s grip hadn’t loosened—it was still there, a shadow at the edge of his vision, whispering its horrors.

"Just breathe," Lancelot urged, his voice steady. "You don’t have to talk about it, but you need to calm down. Breathe, Prince Florian. Right now, you’re safe."

The words hit Florian like a wave, crashing over him, pulling him down into the depths of his exhaustion. His shoulders sagged, his breaths shaky and uneven as he fought to pull himself back to the present.

Lancelot stayed silent, his presence an unmoving anchor in the storm of Florian’s fear.

The nightmare still lingered, its claws buried deep in his mind. The images—the screams, the chains, the blade—flashed behind his eyes whenever he blinked. But slowly, as moments stretched into minutes, Florian forced himself to focus on the sound of his breaths and the quiet, steady presence beside him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the shadows at bay—for now.

Then...

A hand rested lightly over his own, startling him. His wide, haunted eyes snapped to Lancelot.

"Do you need anything, Your Highness? Water?" Lancelot asked, his voice low and calm, as if speaking too loudly would shatter Florian’s fragile composure.

Florian froze, his mind racing. ’Why...’ His thoughts were sluggish, tangled with the remnants of terror.

His gaze lingered on Lancelot, his trembling hands still clutching the sheets beneath them. The nightmare was still too fresh, but something about the knight’s touch—gentle, steady—cut through the haze clouding his mind.

’...why is he being so nice lately?’