The final day of the summit passed like a dream too fleeting to hold onto.
One moment, Florian had been quietly sipping tea between discussions and playing the polite prince; the next, he found himself standing beside Heinz at the grand entrance of the Diamond Palace, the soft breeze tugging at the edges of his cloak as they watched the dukes prepare for their departures.
The first to leave—predictably—were Duke Alaric and Alexandrius. No one was surprised, least of all Florian.
Florian's gaze lingered on Alexandrius' retreating figure, his jaw tightening with a quiet sense of frustration. 'I didn't get the chance to help Lancelot… Not even a word. And that bastard's still holding his mother over his head like a noose.'
A bitter taste curled at the back of his throat.
Andrew, of course, was still as insufferable as ever—loud, smug, and entirely too self-important.
