When did it start?
When did it become that Heinz's heart would only remember how to beat when it was reflected in the green of Florian's eyes?
'Florian.'
This Florian, his Florian—looking at him now with concern, with worry, as though he could somehow reach into Heinz's chest and pull him back from whatever pit he had fallen into.
What had happened to him?
What had broken him so thoroughly?
Not even his mother's death had cracked him this way. Not even killing his own father had left his soul this hollow.
When had it happened—that a single prince, this one person, had begun to shift the very ground beneath his feet?
That was the question Heinz had been chasing.
For the last four days, he'd been with Afton and Lysander, forcing Afton to drag out every memory—bright or bleak, gentle or cruel. Heinz had stood there and let them wash over him. The good. The bad. The ones that made his hands shake.
And still, he couldn't stop.
