Florian groaned softly, the sound muffled by the pillow he had pulled over his face. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, made worse by the relentless sunlight spilling into his chambers.
The golden rays seeped through the cracks of the heavy curtains, piercing his half-closed eyes like needles. He squinted under the pillow, feeling the sluggish weight of his limbs, as though his body itself protested the idea of moving. Exhaustion hung over him like a shroud, the remnants of his nightmare and—more infuriatingly—Lancelot's smug, haunting smirk refusing to leave his mind.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, the memories surged forth, vivid and cruel, dragging him back into a storm of humiliation, frustration, and a tangle of emotions he wasn't ready to untangle. His chest still felt tight, as though the nightmare had left behind a phantom grip around his ribs.
