Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 58

Chapter 58: ’To Save The Prince’

Smoke curled in the cold air, thinning into the sky as Lancelot stood amidst the aftermath of chaos. The stench of blood, burnt cloth, and something acrid clung to the dead trees lining the desolate road. His sword was still warm in his grip, slick with blood that wasn’t his own. His breathing was steady, but his mind was anything but.

The distant crackling of flames was punctuated by the trembling gasps of the maids as they rushed to their princesses, their sobs raw and broken. His knights—his men—were either unconscious or lifeless, their bodies strewn across the dirt like discarded dolls. And in the center of it all, Cashew knelt on the ground, his frail shoulders shaking, face buried in his hands as muffled sobs escaped him.

’Fuck.’

Lancelot clenched his jaw. He had expected a fight, but not this. Not an ambush that left them gutted, humiliated, and worse—without Florian. The rogues had vanished like phantoms, leaving only ruin in their wake, and the weight of that failure was suffocating.

Then—

"What the fuck are you doing just standing there?"

Lucius.

The sharp voice cut through the haze in Lancelot’s mind like a blade. He turned, but Lucius was already striding toward him, his usually composed expression twisted with rage. His dark eyes burned with something far more potent than anger—fear.

"You should be going after His Highness!" Lucius spat, his voice trembling at the edges.

Lancelot exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. ’Like I don’t fucking know that already.’ He forced himself to keep his voice level. "I had to ensure the princesses’ safety first. That was my priority."

Lucius let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And now what? You just wait?" His voice rose, his fury barely restrained. "What if something happens to him? What if—" His breath hitched, and for the first time, Lancelot saw something raw in his eyes. "What if he gets taken advantage of?"

Lancelot felt something twist inside him. ’Shit.’ He knew where this was going. "It was his own decision," he muttered, though the words felt heavy, bitter.

Lucius’s face darkened. "You don’t understand. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how scared he was before he—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "Before he sacrificed himself."

A sharp, choked sob came from behind Lucius. Athena. She was crying, her hands clasped over her mouth as if she could barely believe the words. "He... he did it for me," she whispered. "And I—I never even spoke to him."

Alexandria, who had been silent, suddenly stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Athena. "I ignored him too," she admitted, voice strained. "Perhaps I misjudged him so poorly. I never expected..."

Lancelot closed his eyes briefly. ’Fuck.’ This was spiraling. Most of his men were dead. The rogues had disappeared. And now everyone was looking at him like he should have done something—like he should have been the one to make the choice.

But he hadn’t.

Florian had.

Lancelot groaned, running a hand through his hair, his heart pounding against his ribs. ’I hesitated. I fucking hesitated, and now he’s gone.’ He had seen war, had taken lives without blinking, but making the choice of who to save? That was different. That was the kind of burden that left men hollow.

And Florian, despite the fear, despite everything, had made that choice for him.

His grip on his sword tightened. ’Where the hell do I even start?’ The rogues had vanished without a trace, and for all he knew, Florian was already—

Lucius let out a sharp breath, fingers twitching as if holding himself back from another outburst. "And? What does that change?"

Lucius removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. His entire body was taut with tension. "They might return him, yes. But what’s the assurance that they’ll return him whole? That they won’t hurt him? That they won’t—" _{freeweɓnovel.cѳm}

Lancelot’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have an answer for that. The reality was, there were no guarantees. He ran a hand through his hair again, his fingers gripping the strands as if that would somehow keep his frustration in check. ’Fuck. I hate this. I hate not knowing.’

The prince had acted, and Lancelot had hesitated. It gnawed at him, burned through his veins, a bitter mix of humiliation and something else—something he refused to acknowledge. ’He’s just a damn noble. A harem member. I shouldn’t—’ His fingers clenched. ’I can’t be worried about him.’