'What was that?'
Heinz stormed down the hall, long strides carrying him swiftly away from Florian's room and into the dimly lit corridors of the palace. His heart—usually calm even in the tensest negotiations or bloodiest battles—was thundering wildly in his chest, each beat echoing louder than the last. It was infuriating.
Unfamiliar.
He reached his chambers and slammed the door shut behind him, the echo of wood against stone doing nothing to drown out the whirlwind of thoughts raging in his head.
Something had happened.
Something he didn't understand.
When Florian had thanked him—sincerely, openly, without sarcasm or judgment—Heinz had already been caught off guard. But it wasn't just the words that threw him off.
It was what came after.
The voice.
No—a voice inside his own head.
"Thank you for loving me, Your Majesty."
It had been Florian's voice. Undeniably his.
