Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 90: ’Do You?’

Chapter 90: ’Do You?’

The air in the dungeon felt heavier than before, thick with damp rot and something unseen, something insidious. It pressed down on Florian’s shoulders as he followed Lancelot and the knights deeper into the dark.

Each step echoed against the stone, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive silence. The flickering torches lining the corridor cast long, writhing shadows along the walls—shadows that seemed to stretch toward them like grasping hands. The further they walked, the colder it became, the air turning stale, suffocating.

Behind him, Heinz and Lucius moved in unspoken unison, their presence a silent warning. Neither spoke, but their tension was palpable. This was not a place any of them wanted to be.

Lucius finally broke the silence. "Are we truly certain this is a good idea?" His voice was calm, measured, but Florian caught the faint strain beneath it.

"The rogue seems willing to talk," Heinz replied, his tone clipped. "But only if it’s Florian who speaks to him."

That only made the knot in Florian’s stomach tighten.

’Why me? Why now?’

He didn’t let the uncertainty show, keeping his expression neutral. Even Lancelot, usually composed, seemed uneasy. Florian could sense it in the way his steps were sharper than usual, the rigid set of his shoulders.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Nerves? Anger? Maybe even fear?

But as they reached the iron door, he realized he felt none of it.

The heavy door groaned as it swung open, revealing the man inside.

Arthur was slumped against a chair, chains biting into his wrists and ankles, holding him in place. His body was marked with bruises, a deep cut along his cheek still fresh. Dried blood crusted at his temple. And yet—despite his injuries, despite his situation—he was smirking.

The moment Florian stepped inside, Arthur let out a low, breathy chuckle.

"Well, well... color me surprised. You’re still alive, Your Highness."

His voice was hoarse, but the amusement in his tone was unmistakable.

Florian met his gaze, head tilting slightly. His own voice was steady when he spoke. "It takes a lot to kill me."

Arthur laughed—a short, sharp sound that scraped against the silence like a blade on stone. The others remained still, watching. Waiting.

"You wanted to talk," Heinz cut in, his tone flat. "Florian is here. Speak."

But Arthur didn’t even glance at him. His attention was fixed solely on Florian, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"You already know, don’t you?" he mused, voice laced with something between mockery and intrigue. "That only Charles knew the information you’re looking for? You’re not getting anything from me."

Lancelot moved before anyone else could react.

A sharp yank—the sudden, sickening sound of hair being wrenched back—Arthur’s head snapped upward as Lancelot grabbed a fistful, forcing his gaze higher. Arthur grunted, but that smirk didn’t falter.

"Then what was the point of calling for the prince?" Lancelot’s voice was low, ice-cold. "Did you just want to waste our time?"

Florian watched the scene unfold, but to his own surprise, he felt nothing.

No unease at the violence. No disgust at the cruelty.

Just... nothing.

His heart beat steady, his breathing slow. It should have unnerved him, this emptiness—but it didn’t.

Arthur grinned through the pain, his voice raspy yet amused. "No, no. I was just curious." His gaze flickered over Florian, something dark gleaming behind his eyes. "I wanted to see if I finally broke the unbreakable prince. But look at you... still standing, still composed. It’s eerie, you know? Almost inhuman."

Florian didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

Arthur chuckled again, the sound scraping, hollow. His next words, however, struck like a blade between the ribs.

"I even killed Levi just to see if it’d crack you."

Florian’s breath stilled.

The air in the dungeon seemed to thicken, pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

Lucius and Heinz exchanged sharp glances, their unease shifting into something colder—something wary.

"...Levi?" Heinz finally asked, his brow furrowing.

Arthur laughed, louder this time, as if the mere question was amusing. He ignored Heinz entirely, his gaze locked onto Florian, dark and glinting with something Florian couldn’t quite name.

"You forgot about him already?" Arthur tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Cold. But I suppose that’s expected from a royal." His smirk widened, curling at the edges like a blade ready to cut. "Levi—the rogue who helped you. The one who gave his life for you. The one you didn’t even think to remember when you spoke to your dear king."

Florian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

A flicker of something—rage, guilt, something else entirely—clawed at his ribs, threatening to surface. He shoved it down, burying it beneath the same empty composure he had always worn. But Arthur saw it—sensed it.

"Oh? That struck a nerve?" Arthur taunted, licking at the blood on his split lip, eyes alight with cruel amusement. "Did you ever bother wondering why he was a rogue in the first place?"

Arthur leaned forward as much as the chains would allow, his voice dropping just slightly, the mockery never fading.

"He had a sister, Florian. A sick, dying sister, wasting away in the Village of Forgotten Waters. He turned against the crown to get her the medicine she needed." Arthur scoffed, the sound edged with venom. "And guess what? That village? It’s just one of hundreds, left to rot under your owner’s rule."

The words struck harder than they should have.

Florian’s breath faltered for a fraction of a second.

’This... wasn’t in the novel. Was it? Was there something like this? I knew Heinz neglected his duties, but this...’

The weight of it settled in his chest, cold and heavy.

Before he could respond, before he could even think of what to say, Lancelot’s patience snapped.

His fist connected with Arthur’s face in a brutal strike. A sickening crack echoed through the cell.

Arthur’s head jerked to the side, blood splattering onto the stone floor.

But he laughed.

Low, rasping, hoarse—choked with blood, but genuine.

"Enough games!" Lancelot hissed, his voice like a blade against stone. "Tell us what you know!"

Arthur spat blood to the side, red staining his teeth as he grinned up at them. "Sure," he rasped. "But let me ask something first."

His gaze flicked back to Florian, eyes dark, calculating.

"Did you know, Your Highness," Arthur murmured, voice dipping into something almost conversational, "that Lancelot and his fellow knights have killed countless so-called criminals?" His smirk sharpened. "And not just criminals—people who only fought for their rights. Citizens of this kingdom."

Lancelot moved to strike him again, fury crackling through his stance.

But before his fist could connect, Florian lifted a hand.

"Stop."

Lancelot hesitated, his glare burning into Arthur. But he obeyed, lowering his arm.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Florian met Arthur’s gaze, his own expression unreadable. "Why are you telling me this?"

For the first time, Arthur hesitated.

It was subtle, a barely-there flicker in his eyes, a slight falter in his smirk. But it was there.

Then, just as quickly, he recovered, grinning like the devil himself. "Because, as much as I despise you, you seem like the only one with a functioning brain."

He leaned forward, chains clinking softly, his voice dipping into something quieter, something almost conspiratorial.

"What happened to you? That’s just the beginning. This wasn’t just a simple kidnapping. The people are mad, Little Prince. And they will stay mad."

A slow, crawling unease curled through Florian’s veins.

Arthur let the silence fester for a moment before continuing, his smirk stretching wider, more sinister.

"And the only thing I know about our boss?" He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "They’re mad too. The kind of mad that doesn’t end until everything is burned to the ground. The ruthless and neglectful king. The nobles. The royal family."

The weight in the room shifted.

The air felt suffocating, thick with something unspoken.

Arthur studied Florian, and then—almost lazily—sighed. "And I don’t know why, Florian, but for some reason?" His grin widened, teeth stained red. "They really, really hate you."

A sharp, icy silence filled the space.

Something coiled in Florian’s gut, something tight and unreadable. He had suspected as much. But hearing it aloud, spoken with such certainty, sent a slow, creeping unease through his spine.

"And you?" Florian asked, his voice careful, measured. "Where do you stand?"

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "Me?" His eyes gleamed with something Florian couldn’t quite name. "I’m just a pawn, same as you."

Then, almost casually, he sighed. "But at least I know the game being played."

He grinned, sharp and cruel. "Do you?"

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