'His vitals are weak.'
Heinz's arms trembled slightly as he gathered Florian's fragile body into his embrace. He held him delicately, like porcelain—like something that might break further if touched too hard.
'I have to bring him to Lysander as soon as possible.'
Florian's skin was cold. His face, pale. His breathing was shallow and barely there, like a whisper of life clinging to a thread.
Heinz stared at him, eyes narrowed in pain.
'Why does this feel so familiar…?'
Then it hit him.
A memory from his first life.
The last time he ever saw the original Florian—right before the execution. That same face. That same silence. That same look of resignation in Florian's eyes before the blade fell.
And before that? The countless times Florian had been taken. Hurt. Broken. All the moments the prince had cried out for him—begged for him—while Heinz pushed the responsibility to Lucius and Lancelot.
Because he hadn't cared.
Or… hadn't wanted to.
