"Your Highness, we should go."
Lancelot's voice trembled with urgency, his gloved hand gripping Florian's arm as the walls around them continued to shake.
The knight's face was pale, his eyes darting between Florian and the chaos beyond the shattered window.
But Florian didn't move.
He couldn't.
His legs refused to listen, his mind spinning as he stared at the man—the monster—standing on the red dragon outside.
"How is he still alive?" Florian whispered, his voice barely audible under the roar of the battle.
Lancelot froze.
Florian turned to look at him, eyes wide, voice rising. "How is he still alive, Lancelot?"
Lancelot's throat bobbed. He looked down at his trembling hands as though they betrayed him.
"I–I don't know, Your Highness," he said finally, his voice breaking. "I could've sworn he was dead. I—" he swallowed hard, his voice cracking further, "I killed him myself, Your Highness."
Florian's chest tightened.
