"What took you so long?!" Florian's voice cracked, sharp with frustration. The raw edge carried a volatile mix of anger and desperate relief, spilling out before he could restrain it. His chest heaved as adrenaline lingered, though exhaustion gnawed at his fraying resolve.
Lancelot froze, utterly stunned. He had expected a broken, trembling boy—one overwhelmed by terror and gratitude after enduring captivity. But what stood before him was someone brimming with defiance, glaring daggers at him through bruised eyes. Florian's rage burned brighter than his pain.
The knight's heart lurched in his chest, confusion tightening his throat. 'Why does this feel so... wrong?'
He wanted to dismiss the prince's words, maybe toss back a playful retort about royal brats and the dangers of impulsive behavior. But something in the sight of Florian—bruised, torn clothes, blood streaking his skin—stole the sharpness from his tongue. The boy had clearly fought tooth and nail to survive.
