'The Begging Prince'

'What the fuck is happening.'

Lancelot dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his gaze locked onto Florian—shaking, breathing heavily, curled in on himself like a wounded animal.

It was unsettling.

The way he trembled. The way his breath hitched unevenly, his pupils wide and glassy, as if he were drowning in something only he could feel.

'It's as if he's…'

Lancelot swallowed, forcing the thought away. 'No. Don't even go there.'

He turned to Lucius, who stood unusually still, his expression taut—tense in a way Lancelot had never seen before.

"He said a stranger got in," Lancelot muttered, keeping his voice low. "You're in charge of greeting the guests. Did anyone who wasn't on the list appear?"

Lucius barely hesitated before shaking his head. "No. No one unusual."

"So could it be he was mistaken?"

Another shake of the head.