Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 327

Chapter 327: ’Spark Of Hope.’

Drizelous was still sobbing—loud, ugly sobs that echoed off the high vaulted walls like a mourning song sung by someone who had forgotten how to hope.

His entire frame was curled in on itself like a withered petal, crumpled at the base of the ornate clothing chest that once held Florian’s ceremonial outfit.

His hands, pale and shaking, clutched the ruined fabric with a desperation that bordered on reverence, as though sheer will alone could stitch the shredded seams back together. His tears soaked the once-elegant sleeves, staining silk with salt and sorrow.

Across the room, Azure—the tiny blue dragon—sat on the edge of the bed, head tilted, his wings twitching in mild agitation.

His eyes, narrowed in confusion, watched the dramatics with a weariness only a magical creature could muster.

’He looks about ten seconds away from flying into another dimension just to escape this.’

Florian crouched beside Drizelous, lowering himself to eye level with the weeping man. His voice softened to a whisper, like a hand brushing over bruised glass.

"Drizelous," he murmured, "is there anything else we can do? Do you have any spares? A backup? Maybe the mockups from before?"

Drizelous hiccuped sharply, gasping like someone who had swallowed grief whole. "The mockups..." he moaned, his voice cracking. "I—I destroyed them! I always destroy them once the final pieces are done! I thought there was no point! They were the same ones used for this!"

’Ah fuck.’

Florian inhaled to respond, but—

BANG.

The doors burst open with thunderous force, slamming against the marble walls.

Florian’s head snapped up, his heart launching into his throat. Instinct screamed, muscles tensed.

Lancelot and Lucius stormed into the room, their eyes sharp, shoulders squared. Cashew trailed just behind them, panting from the run, his face red with urgency.

"Your Highness, what happened?" Lancelot asked, his voice low but seething, eyes already scanning for danger.

They froze.

All three of them halted mid-step when they saw Drizelous crumpled beside the box, sobbing like a widow at a gravesite. Then their gazes dropped—toward the shredded garments that lay in shambles.

Lucius’s face turned an eerie shade of pale. "The clothes..."

Florian rose slowly to his feet, brushing off his knees with tight, composed movements. He looked Lancelot and Lucius dead in the eye.

"Sabotage," he said flatly. "Someone destroyed the outfit I was supposed to wear today."

Lancelot’s fists clenched at his sides. Lucius’s jaw locked, the veins in his neck visible.

"Your Highness, do you think it’s—"

Florian’s sharp glare cut him off. A silent warning.

’Not now. Not in front of Cashew.’

Still, Florian gave him a curt nod. The message was clear.

Lucius stepped forward immediately. "Shouldn’t we inform His Majesty? If someone was able to do this, there may be more danger—"

"No!" The word cracked like a whip through the chamber.

Everyone stopped.

Florian drew in a shaky breath, regaining control of the fury and panic bubbling just beneath his skin.

"If we go to His Majesty, he might postpone or cancel the presentation. And if that happens, the dukes will take it as a sign of weakness. They’ll rip into me, and I’ll lose every bit of ground I’ve worked for. We deal with this. Now."

’I can’t let that happen. Not after everything. Not when I’m this close.’

There was steel in his voice. No hesitation. No room for protest.

Lucius and Lancelot exchanged a look—both concerned, but loyal—and dipped their heads in unison.

"What should we do then?" Lancelot asked, his voice low, barely leashed.

Florian turned back to Drizelous, who had quieted down to a soft whimpering mess. The man looked broken—eyes red and unfocused, breath shallow, hands still cradling fabric like a dead child.

"Drizelous," Florian said gently, inching closer, "are you absolutely sure there’s nothing you can do?"

Drizelous shook his head feebly. "It’s ruined," he whispered, "it’s all... all ruined..."

’Hmm.’

’Think, think...what can we do to fix this? There has to be a way. Anything—give me anything.’

’Wait... the upper pieces... they’re still intact.’

’I don’t want to wear something like that but...it’s hope.’

"Lucius, Lancelot," Florian called after him, mind already racing, "go with Drizelous to his workshop. I want you to investigate how someone got in. He said there were two boxes for the ceremonial clothes—one for His Majesty, one for me. His Majesty’s box was untouched. Mine was the only one destroyed."

His voice grew darker. "So it’s safe to assume they went inside the workshop."

’And as Lancelot suspected... this must be the savior. He’s the only one who wants me gone. But why ruin my clothes? Why not something more direct? Or is this just a distraction for something bigger?’

His gut twisted.

’Anything is possible. And that’s what scares me the most.’

"Kraaa." Azure flew gently over, wings fluttering as he landed on Florian’s shoulder, his tiny claws grasping fabric carefully. The dragon let out a quiet, concerned chirp.

Cashew moved beside Florian, hesitating—then leaned his head gently on his arm.

"Who would do this?" he whispered, voice tight with worry.

"That’s what we’ll find out," Lancelot said darkly, already stepping toward the hall with purpose in his stride and fury in his veins.

’At least, Drizelous seems to be feeling better.’

Drizelous, who just moments ago had been dragging his feet with all the enthusiasm of a wet towel, now seemed completely transformed.

His steps were lighter, his eyes gleamed with a newfound fire, and a lopsided grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he trailed eagerly behind Lancelot like an inspired puppy chasing a dream.

"I knew I liked Prince Florian," he murmured to himself, the words slipping out with a giddy kind of warmth. There was a strange joy in his voice—soft, genuine, and full of that rare hope that maybe, just maybe, things were finally falling into place.

But behind them, Lucius remained still.

He hadn’t moved an inch.

Instead, he stood frozen, staring at Florian as if the rest of the world had quietly faded away.

His golden eyes, usually calm and unreadable, now shimmered with something far more complex—an ache, a longing, and the weight of words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Florian, sensing the gaze, turned his head slightly, a puzzled look crossing his face.

’Hm? Does he have something to say?’