Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 271

Chapter 271: ’The Execution’

"Your Highness!"

Cashew’s scream ripped through the courtyard, raw and broken, his small frame shaking with each sob. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks as he struggled violently against Lancelot’s hold. "P-Please... Your Majesty, please spare him! Please!"

Lancelot gritted his teeth, muscles tense as he kept the boy from bolting again. But his own hands trembled slightly—barely noticeable, but there.

Around them, servants and nobles alike stood frozen, forming a loose, uneasy circle. Murmurs crawled like poison through the crowd.

"Did you hear?" one maid whispered, voice hushed but sharp. "I heard that prince is finally being executed."

"It was only a matter of time," another muttered. "Such impertinence... and for a prince? Disgraceful."

Lucius stepped forward, pale but composed, the only one brave—or desperate—enough to address the man at the center of it all.

"Your Majesty, I..." His voice faltered for half a second before he recovered. "I don’t understand. What are the charges?"

Heinz stood still, unmoving amidst the chaos. Cold and distant.

His sharp eyes swept across the bystanders, then fell slowly, deliberately, on the figure kneeling before him.

Florian.

Collapsed on the cold marble, shaking like a leaf, silent tears streaking his cheeks as his bare skin trembled under the open sky. He wore nothing but a thin, wrinkled shirt—no shoes, no cloak, no dignity left.

He hadn’t made a sound since he’d been dragged out.

Not a word. Not a scream.

Only silence.

Until now.

"Treason."

Heinz’s voice echoed, cruel in its finality.

Gasps erupted around them. The word struck like a whip across the crowd. Treason? Now? So soon after the ball, after the laughter and lights and dancing in the great hall?

Lucius took a step forward, stunned. "Your Majesty, please—his highness would never—"

"Silence."

Heinz’s voice cracked like thunder. All sound vanished. He didn’t even look at Lucius. His eyes were on Lancelot now.

"Lancelot," he ordered, calm and merciless, "have your knights put Florian in the dungeon. Prepare for execution at once."

Lancelot’s eyes widened. For a second, just one breath of hesitation, he didn’t move. His grip faltered—just enough.

Cashew broke free.

"No!"

The boy ran forward, stumbling, falling to his knees beside Florian and pulling him into a trembling embrace. He clung to him like a child to a fading dream.

"Y-Your Majesty, please," Cashew sobbed. "Please... his highness would never do such a thing. He would never commit treason! You know he wouldn’t—Your Majesty—"

"Cashew."

The courtyard froze.

It was Florian.

His voice was soft, but it cut through everything.

Everyone turned, breath held.

Florian hadn’t spoken since being dragged into the open like a criminal. Not a single word. But now—his voice, hoarse but steady, rose with a quiet weight that silenced even the wind.

His head remained bowed, hair shadowing his eyes.

"Cashew, go."

Cashew looked up, stunned. "W-What? Your Highness—no—no, I won’t—"

"Cashew," Florian said again, firmer now, each word laced with authority. "My last order to you... as your master... is to leave my side. Do not interfere."

His voice didn’t shake. There was no fear in it.

Only resignation.

Only resolve.

A snide voice broke the tension.

"He has the nerve to speak like that?" a maid whispered, scoffing.

Cashew’s eyes filled with panic. He shook his head, gripping Florian’s arms tighter.

"No... no, please, Your Highness... don’t make me—please..."

And then—

Florian lifted his head.

His eyes were dead.

Empty.

Cashew froze, breath caught in his throat. That expression—he’d never seen Florian look like that before. As if everything inside him had already been stripped away.

As if he had nothing left.

Cashew choked on a sob, his hands slowly slipping from Florian’s shoulders. His fingers trembled as he stood—weakly, unsteadily—and took a single step back.

Then another.

And then he turned—

—and ran.

Ran like his heart had been shattered in his chest.

Lucius took a tentative step forward, voice low but tight with urgency. "Your Majesty... please. This doesn’t make sense. What did Prince Florian do? At least grant him a fair trial—"

"He won’t," Florian said suddenly, cutting him off. His voice was sharp—sharp enough to silence—and yet hollow, as if the weight of it was dragging from somewhere deep, brittle and tired.

Lucius turned, startled by the interruption.

Florian lifted his head again. A faint smile touched his lips, slow and cold. But it wasn’t a smile—it was the ghost of one. The kind worn by people who’ve long since run out of hope.

There was no light in his eyes.

Only exhaustion.

Bitterness.

’He won’t let me speak,’ he thought. ’He doesn’t care to hear me.’

His gaze locked onto Heinz.

And Heinz—without missing a beat—looked away.

He looked away.

That was all it took.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Florian’s lips. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t amused. It was empty. Worn thin. The sound echoed across the still courtyard like something broken.

"You still won’t look at me?" he asked, voice quiet. Almost amused. Almost. "Typical."

But the pain behind the words was unmistakable.

A ripple of discomfort spread through the assembled crowd—servants shifting on their feet, maids exchanging uneasy glances, soldiers pretending not to hear.

Then Florian’s eyes slid sideways.

To the far end of the courtyard.

To the motionless figure lying sprawled on the marble, pale and still—where blood had already begun to seep into the cracks of the stone.

Hendrix.

Maids hovered near him, whispering and wringing their hands, but none dared approach.

Florian’s expression cracked.

The bitter amusement was gone.

Only grief remained.

"Prince Hendrix had nothing to do with this," he said, louder now. Clear. Unshaking. "If there is anyone to punish, it should be me. Every crime—every offense—you want someone to blame?" He lifted his chin. "Then let it be me. Just... pardon him. Please."

Whispers rose once more from the crowd—confused, uncertain, rattled. No one understood. Or maybe no one wanted to.

Lucius’s eyes darted between Florian and Heinz, stunned. Lancelot stood frozen, every muscle in his body tight, as if holding back something dangerous.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them spoke.

And Florian knew why.

’They love me... but they’re loyal to him more.’

He didn’t resent them for it.

Not really.

You couldn’t go against a king—not when you’d sworn your loyalty, your future, your life.

Still, the silence stung like betrayal.

Heinz’s voice rang out, sharp and final. "Lancelot. Put Hendrix in one of the cells."

Florian’s breath caught.

His heart stopped.

"He will be the first to die tomorrow."

"No—!"