Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 318: "I will do it."

Chapter 318: "I will do it."

Heinz tensed.

Florian felt it instantly—through the subtle shift in his posture, the way his grip around Florian’s hand faltered for just a second before steadying again. A small, nearly imperceptible tremor traveled from Heinz’s fingers into his own.

It was enough.

For whatever reason, the King really didn’t want to drink. He never explained why—not once, not even in passing. And it wasn’t due to anything obvious. He had no known health condition, nor had he ever claimed to be allergic to alcohol. Physically, he was in perfect condition. Magic-wise, he was leagues above everyone else in the room.

’Does it have something to do with his trauma?’ Florian wondered, his gaze flickering to Alaric, who was still watching Heinz with that thin-lipped, pointed smile.

No matter the reason—Heinz clearly didn’t intend to speak for himself.

So Florian did what Florian always ended up doing when things got too complicated. He picked up the slack.

With quiet composure, he reached for a napkin and dabbed at his mouth. Then, beneath the table, he squeezed Heinz’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

"His Majesty does not drink alcohol," Florian said, his voice level and polite. "He is willing to attend the event, of course, but he won’t be partaking in any alcoholic beverages."

Elara nodded, her expression unreadable but voice light. "I can get behind that."

Cedric and Roland followed suit with nods of agreement.

"That is fine," Roland said, waving a hand lazily. "I don’t believe drinking was ever a requirement. The gathering’s more about conversation and reconnecting, no?"

But Alexandrius, of course, scoffed like someone had insulted his bloodline.

"How are you all alright with it?" he sneered. "Drinking the wine handpicked and served by the King is part of the tradition. This summit has kept that custom alive for decades."

Alaric, ever the opportunist, leaned in with a thoughtful nod. "I must agree with Duke Alexandrius. Even the late King Henrik, who had health complications, still upheld the custom. Surely our current King—who is significantly stronger in magic—can manage a single glass? Unless... he simply won’t give us a reason?"

Florian blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He didn’t have a reason to offer. He didn’t know.

He turned toward Heinz slowly, brows furrowing.

Beside him, Heinz remained composed—too composed. But the lines around his eyes were tense now, drawn. He hadn’t flinched when insulted, but he also hadn’t defended himself. That silence was growing heavier by the second.

Florian’s jaw tightened.

Alaric and Alexandrius were pushing. Too hard. And at this rate, they were going to use this as another wedge—a way to further isolate and discredit the King.

’Come on, Heinz. Say something. Before they twist this into another excuse to undermine you.’

Just when Florian began to open his mouth again, ready to step in once more—

Heinz moved.

He glanced at Florian, his expression unreadable, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Florian froze.

’Huh?’ he blinked. ’What does that mean? Is he trying to reassure me—or... is that his answer?’

Then Heinz sighed, low and resigned.

"Fine," he said, voice heavy with decision.

Florian’s heart skipped. Wait—

"I will do it," Heinz continued, lifting his head. "I will drink with the dukes."

"What?" Florian choked out, nearly dropping his spoon.

Lucius and Lancelot echoed the same word, stunned.

Lucius stiffened like a statue; Lancelot’s brows drew together in visible disbelief.

They knew. They knew Heinz would never agree to this under normal circumstances. The man who ruled with an iron spine, who bent for no one—not even tradition—was now yielding?

The dukes looked equally surprised.

Elara’s lips curled into a radiant smile. "Are you sure, Your Majesty? Please, do not force yourself."

But Heinz wasn’t smiling.

"No, no," he said, his gaze sharpening as he turned to Alaric and Alexandrius. "Duke Alaric and Duke Alexandrius are correct."

His eyes were cold, hard as polished obsidian.

Both dukes visibly flinched.

Just like that—all their earlier smugness evaporated, scattered like dust under his gaze.

"It is tradition," Heinz said coolly.

Roland leaned back and gave a satisfied nod, flicking his fingers as if wiping the matter clean. "That settles it, then. I trust both of you are satisfied?"

Alexandrius grumbled something under his breath, clearly unhappy.

Alaric gave a shallow sigh, bowing his head ever so slightly. "Of course."

Florian, however, was not satisfied.

His eyes remained fixed on Heinz, who now returned to his food with a silence that was more armor than ease.

’Why would he say yes? He was so adamant before—completely unwilling. And now he’s giving in just because they pressured him?’

’At this point, he’s allowed to tell them off. They’re being disrespectful. No one would blame him. So why—why give them what they want?’

And worse, why did it feel like this decision wasn’t a surrender?

Why did it feel like a trap?

"Oh, Duke Flameheart. Duke Darkthorn."

Heinz’s voice cut through the room like a blade drawn in ceremony.

He finally let go of Florian’s hand to place both of his own firmly on the table, fingers splayed with unnerving composure.

Florian blinked. The warmth that had been anchoring his hand just a second ago vanished, replaced by a cold emptiness that felt strangely disproportionate. It was just a hand, and yet—

’Never mind.’

He tried to shake the feeling off, but Heinz’s presence now demanded all attention.

The king smiled—calmly, disarmingly—at the two men he had addressed. But there was something sharp beneath that curve of his lips. It wasn’t mirth.

It was the kind of smile wolves might wear before a kill.

"I have been trying to ignore your rash behavior out of respect for the fact that this is a sovereign summit," Heinz said, his voice steady, polite, but laced with ice. "But since you both seem so fond of speaking about tradition... why don’t we speak instead of law and etiquette?"

’Oh shit.’ Florian felt his heart drop. ’So it was a trap.’

Alexandrius opened his mouth, clearly intending to object—"What does that—"

He never finished the sentence.

Heinz moved—but not with words. His presence surged like a tidal wave. His long black hair, which had been resting in sleek stillness, began to flow as if caught in an unseen storm. The room dimmed—the flickering chandelier light above them stuttering, trembling—as though frightened by the man beneath it. The table itself gave a quiet groan, and the very walls of the room vibrated.

It felt like the palace itself was holding its breath.

"I should remind you both," Heinz began, his voice now deeper, heavier, laced with an unmistakable threat, "that I am still your king."

Every syllable landed like the toll of a funeral bell.

"No matter what grievances you may nurse, I remain your sovereign. And while you are within my palace, you will act accordingly. Any form of disrespect," he paused, eyes narrowing, "will not be tolerated—especially from men so eager to preach the sanctity of tradition."

The air itself grew heavy—thick with power and barely-contained fury.

Even the temperature seemed to drop.

The other dukes were silent now, their previous ease stripped away like paint under acid. Their children clutched nervously at their sleeves or stared with wide, stunned eyes. For years, Heinz’s reputation had been just that—a collection of stories, whispered rumors about the iron king who ascended through blood. But now, they were watching those tales stir into life.

Heinz turned his gaze on Alaric and Alexandrius again. Neither man could hold it for long.

"I am hosting this summit out of respect, out of a desire to unite the land," Heinz said, standing now with slow, deliberate grace. The flickering lights cast long shadows across his face, giving his expression something ancient—something monstrous.

"But if you continue to test me... to insult me in my own home... then you are forcing my hand."

His voice dropped a register lower.

"You do remember how I became king, don’t you?"

The question fell like a guillotine.

Alaric and Alexandrius both physically flinched.

Florian didn’t miss it. The beads of sweat trickling down their temples. The way their fingers twitched like they were resisting the urge to reach for weapons they didn’t carry.

They remember.

How Heinz had killed the previous king—his own father—to claim the throne. How he had exiled his brother without a second thought. How he had brought kingdoms to ruin in days.

And now, here he stood, smiling at them, asking politely if they wanted to test him again.

There was no need for further words.

Alaric and Alexandrius stood in unison, their pride crumbling under the weight of Heinz’s presence.

Their children rose shakily behind them.

All bowed their heads low. "Yes, Your Majesty," the two men mumbled, almost in unison.

The sweat glistened openly on their brows.

The silence that followed was absolute.