Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 152: ’Fathers and Sons’

Chapter 152: ’Fathers and Sons’

As the final notes of the waltz faded into the air, a round of polite applause rippled through the ballroom. Florian and Lancelot bowed to each other, maintaining the composed grace expected of them. Yet, as Florian straightened, his mind snapped back to the reason he had agreed to this dance in the first place.

’Right. I needed to tell him about that man.’

He turned to Lancelot, opening his mouth—but before he could get a single word out, a heavy presence swept over them, demanding attention.

"Lancelot."

The voice was sharp, edged with barely restrained displeasure. Florian felt the temperature in the room shift, as if the very air itself recognized the authority of the man who had spoken. He turned his head and, for the first time, laid eyes on Duke Alexandrius Flameheart.

The man was imposing. Broad-shouldered, clad in deep crimson and black, his very presence seemed to radiate heat like the forges of Emberhold. His long, ashen-red hair was tied back, revealing a strong, weathered face marred with faint scars—a testament to his years on the battlefield.

His piercing amber eyes locked onto Lancelot with an intensity that even Florian, who wasn’t the subject of his ire, could feel down to his bones.

’Oh. So that’s Lancelot’s father.’

Lancelot, to his credit, didn’t look the least bit concerned. If anything, he seemed amused.

"Father," Lancelot drawled lazily, as if the duke’s appearance was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"You’ve been avoiding me all night," Alexandrius stated, his voice steady but carrying a weight that left no room for argument. "Why?"

Lancelot gave a lopsided smirk. "Have I? Well, I must be getting better at it if you only just caught me."

Alexandrius’ eyes darkened. "Do not test me, boy. You know exactly why I’m here. We need to talk."

Florian felt increasingly awkward standing between them. It was as if he had been completely erased from the conversation—though, given the palpable tension between father and son, he doubted they even cared that he was still there.

’Okay. This is definitely a family matter. Should I just... step back? Slip away? No? Alright then. Guess I’ll just stand here and listen to this mess unfold.’

Lancelot scoffed, folding his arms. "Talk? Now you want to talk? Funny. I don’t remember you ever wanting to do that before."

"You’ve made it rather difficult over the years," Alexandrius snapped. "And don’t act as if you don’t know what I want to discuss. You should have helped your brothers become royal knights. Instead, you threw your lot in with the man who killed our king."

There it was. The crack in the ducal family’s stance. While most of the noble houses had begrudgingly pledged loyalty to Heinz, the Flamehearts had been among those who initially resisted, their influence too great to be ignored.

But Lancelot had made his choice long ago—and now, Florian was witnessing the consequences firsthand.

Lancelot let out a bark of laughter, tilting his head as he regarded his father with something between mockery and genuine incredulity.

"Is that what this is about? That I didn’t help Andrew and the others secure cushy positions in the palace?" He scoffed. "It was His Majesty’s choice, not mine. Or did you think he’d welcome them with open arms after their oh-so-loyal support of the previous king?"

Alexandrius’ expression darkened further. "They were meant to serve Concordia. Just as you were."

"Serve Concordia?" Lancelot’s amusement faded, replaced with cold disdain. "That’s rich. Tell me, Father—did you ever once consider me worthy of anything? Or was I just the useless son who couldn’t wield magic?"

The words struck like a blade. Alexandrius didn’t immediately respond, and for a moment, the flicker of something—regret, perhaps—passed through his expression. But it was gone just as quickly.

Florian’s mind raced as he recalled everything he had read about Lancelot’s past in the novel. Unlike his older brothers, Lancelot had been the least favored—the black sheep of House Emberhold. He had been deemed unworthy, not because he lacked skill, but because he lacked magic.

In a kingdom where knights wielding arcane power were seen as the pinnacle of strength, he had been cast aside. Overlooked. Forgotten.

It was Heinz—and only Heinz—who had seen past that. Who had recognized the raw, monstrous strength within him. The very strength that had shaped him into the warrior he was today.

And in the end, Lancelot had chosen Heinz over his own family.

’No wonder he doesn’t care about this conversation.’

Lancelot smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. It was hollow, distant—almost like he had heard this argument too many times before.

"Face it. You never wanted me," he said, voice steady, but sharp. "You only care now because I’m inconvenient for you. Too bad, though. I made my choice. And guess what? I don’t regret it."

Alexandrius exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His jaw tightened, but rather than argue further, he simply shook his head.

"I see there’s no getting through to you," he said coldly. "As reckless as ever."

Lancelot only grinned, tilting his head mockingly. "And yet, here I am. Alive. Successful. Annoying you to no end."

Alexandrius looked as if he wanted to say more—perhaps even yell—but before he could, another presence interrupted them.

And they didn’t seem friendly either.

Florian’s breath caught as his eyes flickered toward the newcomer. His stomach twisted in recognition.

’Wait, is that Lucius?’

Walking in front of him was a figure he hadn’t expected to see tonight.

"My, Lord Emberhold, I see you finally got the chance to speak with your son."

Florian stiffened. That voice.

"Lord Darkthorn," Alexandrius greeted, his tone shifting into something more formal—but no less tense. "I see you have yours as well. Though, unlike mine, yours doesn’t seem to be avoiding you."

Standing before them was Duke Alaric Darkthorn, head of Obsidian Summit—the political and magical heart of Concordia. A man whose influence ran deep, whose presence alone was enough to turn heads.

Florian knew exactly who he was.

’The one who just let Lucius be taken advantage of when he was younger.’

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Alaric chuckled, the sound low and insincere. "Oh, let me tell you. Lucius would have avoided me if he hadn’t been the one doing the greeting." He waved a hand dismissively. "Can you imagine? My son, reduced to greeting guests."

He spoke as if Lucius weren’t standing right beside him. As if his son’s mere existence was an afterthought.

Lucius’ expression darkened, irritation flashing in his sharp, cold eyes. "Father, please. Not here. Not again. We’ve already spoken about this."

Alaric barely spared him a glance. "Oh? And why should I listen to you, you ungrateful son?" His voice was smooth, but venom dripped from every word. "Just because you aren’t the heir to House Darkthorn does not give you the right to act as you please." His eyes narrowed.

"How could my own son stage a rebellion against the king? And not only that—abandon his own family?"

His voice dropped lower. "We are the king’s direct bloodline, yet you turned your back on us."

Lucius inhaled sharply. "Father," he hissed, voice barely above a whisper. "King Heinz was the rightful heir and your nephew. You were the one who wanted to put Prince Hendrix on the throne."

Alaric scoffed, but it wasn’t him who answered.

"It’s because Hendrix was the better choice," Alexandrius interjected, his tone carrying an air of finality.

Florian stiffened. His gaze darted between them.

’Are they... actually just saying this out loud?’

The king was here—somewhere nearby.

And these men, two of the most powerful dukes in the kingdom, were openly discussing treason like it was casual dinner conversation.

Florian resisted the urge to slowly back away.

’Yeah. Nope. I am not getting involved in this.’

Not if he valued his life.