"Florian, what are you doing up? You should be resting."
Heinz was already moving before he finished speaking—his chair scraping lightly against the marble floor as he stood, his steps brisk, almost frantic.
He circled his desk, ignoring the startled glance Serapion threw him as the older man noted how sharply the king's entire aura shifted the moment Florian appeared.
The air that had been heavy with restrained hostility toward the priest softened instantly—if only slightly—but Heinz didn't care how it looked.
All he saw was Florian.
The prince looked fragile, painfully so. His pale skin was almost translucent under the faint morning light spilling through the window, his lips dry, and faint shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes.
Every slow, deliberate step he took seemed to take effort, and Heinz's chest tightened with each one.
