Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 317

Chapter 317: ’Under The Table.’

The scent hit first.

Rich, savory, and decadent—an orchestra of aromas wafted through the hall as the twin gilded doors swung open with ceremonial grandeur.

It was as if the very air transformed. The murmurs of conversation paused, replaced by the collective intake of breath as servants and chefs began to file in from both sides. Each moved in practiced elegance, balancing silver trays with artful precision. The platters gleamed under the chandelier light, their contents arranged like edible masterpieces.

The atmosphere shifted from anticipation to awe.

Steam curled upward from bowls of spiced venison stew, seasoned with rare herbs grown only in the biting altitudes of the Obsidian Summit. Azure Glen’s signature herb-dusted trout shimmered beneath a veil of citrus glaze and delicate violet petals, artfully arranged like a blooming flower.

To the left, Emberhold’s section overflowed with rich crimson wine sauces and warm pastries filled with truffle mushrooms and slow-roasted root vegetables. The plates seemed to glow, painting the long dining tables with every color of indulgence.

Even the harem members—trained in poise and etiquette—blurted out soft gasps and murmured words of appreciation to the nearby staff, utterly enraptured.

Nividea let out a delighted squeal, clapping as a miniature fondue tower—yes, a tower—was delicately placed in front of her with an assortment of vibrant fruits and sweetbread.

Rodrick was already halfway through buttering a slice of golden cornbread, clearly in bliss.

Elara cracked a faint smile as her kingdom’s traditional spiced fruit cider was poured with reverence into a cut-crystal goblet, its surface fogged with cold.

’Okay, wow,’ Florian thought, eyes darting over the plates being set before him. ’Heinz really pulled out all the stops for this.’

Roasted lamb soaked in rosemary glaze. A medley of mushrooms with golden flakes. Freshly baked bread still warm from the oven. It smelled like memories and promises.

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.

Heinz stood slowly, his presence commanding the room with the ease of someone who didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. Instead of a wine goblet, he lifted a delicate porcelain teacup—flawless white, rimmed in gold.

The hall hushed in an instant.

"A brief toast," he said, his voice calm—serene, even. But there was steel beneath the silk.

’This is his third toast or speech today,’ Florian noted dryly, hiding a twitch of amusement.

"To all the dukes and their esteemed heirs," Heinz continued, gaze sweeping across the hall. "Thank you for gracing the palace with your presence. May this meal—crafted with your people, your histories, and your cultures in mind—serve not only as sustenance, but as a symbol."

He paused, letting the silence settle before finishing:

"A symbol of unity. A hope that, despite our differences, we might sit at one table not as adversaries, but as allies."

His crimson eyes roved the table, stopping just long enough on each face to mean something. Finally, they softened—just a fraction—and he added, "Please... enjoy."

A wave of claps followed. Some polite. Others heartfelt. Glasses were raised, wine glinting under chandelier light. Someone murmured, "To peace," and others echoed it softly.

But then, like a crack in fine porcelain—

"Hmph," Duke Alaric muttered, loud enough to slice through the reverence. "For someone who claims he’s nothing like the previous king, your speech is remarkably similar to King Henry’s."

The atmosphere shifted. A single sentence and it was as though winter had fallen over the hall.

Florian froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just inches from his mouth. His spine stiffened, and his eyes narrowed.

Alexandrius chuckled darkly beside Alaric, swirling his wine lazily. "Ah yes, I agree. In fact, the more I look, the more you do resemble him."

’What the fuck?’

A few nobles gasped audibly. The clink of utensils became awkward, metallic echoes. Tension crackled like static in the air.

’Are you kidding me right now?’ Florian thought, glaring at the two dukes. ’They just had to bring up the one thing Heinz can’t stand.’

He turned to look at Heinz—and his heart sank.

The king’s smile had vanished. His grip on the teacup was so tight, Florian swore he heard the faintest crack. And his eyes... those glowing red eyes were no longer dim with amusement. They shimmered now, alive with fury, an almost feral heat beginning to rise behind them.

’No. No no no—don’t lose it. Not here. Not now.’

Florian’s mind scrambled for options. A witty remark? A strategic deflection? But something told him this time, words wouldn’t be enough.

’Goddamn it. These two are getting on my fucking nerves.’

His body moved before he fully processed the decision. Beneath the table, he reached over and gently took Heinz’s hand.

A small, wordless gesture—subtle enough to go unnoticed by the crowd.

But Heinz noticed.

His breath hitched, shoulders twitching almost imperceptibly. His head turned toward Florian slowly, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something softer—something wounded and raw.

The unnatural glow dimmed. Rage faltered. Confusion took its place.

Florian squeezed his fingers just a little tighter.

’Calm down,’ he thought, his expression soft but firm. ’Not for them. For you.’

The silence lingered for a beat longer.

Then Heinz inhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes briefly, and sat back down—wordlessly.

He didn’t let go of Florian’s hand.

Florian turned to the crowd and beamed, his voice bright and theatrical.

"Let us eat!" he declared, raising his goblet with such exaggerated cheer that the table startled back into motion.

The tension snapped. Conversations resumed—stilted at first, then gradually flowing again. Nobles clinked glasses, dove into their meals, and turned their attention back to the feast. Laughter returned, though quieter, more careful.

Alaric and Alexandrius exchanged a look of disbelief.

They’d been expecting an outburst.

A scene.

A scandal.

Instead, they got a toast and a smile.

Florian met their eyes and gave them a dazzling, diplomatic grin, teeth white and eyes full of warning.

’Not this time, bastards.’

He began to withdraw his hand—only to freeze when Heinz held on.

Florian flushed. His heart stuttered, ears warming. ’Okay—but why are you holding my hand about it?! That’s not how this works?! I just tried getting your attention!’

Heinz didn’t budge. His grip wasn’t aggressive—just firm. Steady. Anchoring.

’So now he’s composed?’ Florian thought, sneaking a glance at the king’s face. ’Ah. I suddenly regret grabbing his hand.’

They wanted Heinz to crack.

’Fine. I’ll be your anchor. For now.’

’Don’t think about it. It doesn’t mean anything. Just eat.’

But now that the chaos had dimmed, and his fight-or-flight instincts weren’t screaming in his ear, Florian had become painfully aware of one thing.

Holding. Hands.