As Florian's eyes fluttered open, he begged—pleaded—that he'd see Lancelot.
Or Lucius.
'Even Heinz, please.'
But fate was cruel.
His heart dropped like a stone in his chest.
A stranger stood over him. Gruff. Broad-shouldered. Filthy. A beard like wire and eyes sharp with menace. He held Florian as if he weighed nothing—like he wasn't a person but cargo.
And behind him… more men.
Armed. Leering. Their armor mismatched, their faces dirty and twisted into smirks. Not soldiers. Not knights.
Predators.
Florian's breath caught in his throat, the chill of dread slithering down his spine.
'They're not palace guards or servants… Who are they? What is this?'
"W-Who—who are you?" he croaked out, throat dry, voice trembling like a dying flame. But the question barely left his lips before a rag was shoved into his mouth.
"No questions," one of them hissed, pressing the cloth over his mouth with a gloved hand.
"Mmmph!!" Florian cried out, muffled. 'What the fuck is this?!'
