Help! Get Me Out of My Sister's Novel-Chapter 571: ’His Heart To Silence Everlasting.’

’Ah. I’m annoyed.’

That was the first thing Florian thought when he saw it—that flicker of pain on Heinz’s face. The way his expression shifted, just for a heartbeat, as if something inside him cracked. As if Florian’s words... his distance, actually hurt him.

And that made Florian even angrier.

Because it shouldn’t matter. Not after everything.

Not after what happened last night.

Not after Lucius nearly died.

Not after he—Florian—had blood on his hands.

Not after it was finally confirmed that he was the target of everyone and everything in this cursed kingdom because of one man—because of Heinz fucking Obsidian.

He could still see it all when he closed his eyes—the rogues’ faces, the fear, the screams, the smell of blood.

And now... the dreams.

He had tried to brush them off at first, telling himself they were just nightmares, echoes of someone else’s past—of the original Florian.

But they weren’t.

They couldn’t be.

The first time, there were three shadows. Three silhouettes chasing him through the dark, hands grasping at his arms, his throat, dragging him into something cold and endless. He couldn’t see their faces—only their shapes.

Then Alexandria died.

And in the next dream, there were only two.

That couldn’t be coincidence.

Florian’s eyes darkened as he stared blankly past Serapion, his thoughts spiraling.

’Hendrix... he was after me.’

Not to kill. Not to hurt.

To save.

Or at least, that’s what he believed.

Which meant the "savior" Charles had mentioned wasn’t Alexandria.

And it wasn’t Hendrix.

There was still one more.

Someone who hadn’t revealed themselves yet.

Someone who hated Heinz—and saw Florian as the perfect weapon. The perfect punishment.

His stomach twisted.

’Those dreams weren’t random. They were warnings.’

Before he could speak, Serapion’s voice cut through his thoughts.

"How intriguing."

Florian looked up sharply. The priest’s tone had shifted—curious, almost gleeful, though his polite smile remained in place.

"It’s rare," Serapion said, stepping closer, his gold-lined robes whispering softly across the floor. "It’s very rare for someone not from our kingdom to receive warnings from the Gods. Usually such divine attention requires great sacrifice."

He turned slightly, his eyes glinting as they flicked toward Heinz. "Much like how His Majesty acquired his power... and his dragon."

Florian’s hands curled slightly against the desk.

Serapion continued smoothly, almost too casually. "You see, I’m fully aware that the reason the great King Heinz commands such strength—why he bears the mark of divinity—is because he was trialed. Tested and tormented by a specific God until he emerged worthy of their favor."

He turned back to Florian, his gaze narrowing with interest. "But you, Prince Florian..."

He took another step forward.

"...I don’t suppose a God has ever trialed you? Or spoken to you directly?"

Florian’s answer was short, flat. "Right."

He didn’t flinch when Serapion came closer, though from the corner of his eye, he caught Heinz’s movement—the king standing rigid by the entrance, his presence heavy, watching the entire exchange in silence.

’Still not saying anything.’ Florian thought bitterly.

"Of course," Serapion continued, tone almost conversational, "Gods rarely speak to mortals. Why would they? They are beings beyond us—above us. They don’t waste their voices on those unworthy of hearing them."

He spread his arms slightly, the faint smile returning to his face. "Our kingdom is special because we dedicate ourselves entirely to them. We worship every God, not just one. We pray, we offer, we listen—and in return, they grant us their voices. Their will. Their prophecies. Their answers to our suffering."

The faint light of the chandeliers above caught on the gold rings of his fingers as he turned, gaze sliding back toward Heinz with something sharp beneath his politeness.

"And yet..." Serapion’s tone lowered, the warmth fading. "When we begged for their aid—when we pleaded for salvation, when we prayed to the heavens to save our saintess Alexandria from the Concordian King’s grasp..."

He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"...I heard a whisper."

Florian’s brow furrowed, but Serapion’s eyes didn’t leave Heinz. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

"The Gods told me to let her go."

The words fell like a death knell, deep and resonant—final.

Florian blinked, disoriented for a second, unsure if he’d heard correctly. His brows furrowed as his mind tried to piece together the meaning, but beside him, Heinz stood utterly still.

Expressionless.

Yet the tension in his frame betrayed him. His shoulders were rigid, his hand curled into a tight fist against his side—veins straining under the skin.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Serapion’s faint smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened—soft and almost sorrowful, though his eyes were anything but kind.

"It was the first time," he said quietly, his voice reverent, almost mournful, "that I realized the Gods had something planned for His Majesty."

Heinz’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was sharp, dangerous—a blade still sheathed but humming with warning.

Serapion turned slightly, letting the light from the tall windows spill over his gilded robes as he continued.

"For a while, there was nothing. The heavens were quiet. We waited patiently, praying for clarity." His voice dropped lower, smoother. "And then, after Alexandria’s death—after her execution—the silence ended."

Florian’s stomach knotted. He didn’t like the way Serapion said it, as if death had been a trigger, not an end.

"I began to hear them again," the priest went on. "Not one voice... but many. A chorus of Gods speaking in fragments, their tones overlapping. It was chaos at first. But amidst all that—one voice stood out."

He closed his eyes briefly, as though recalling it. "The majority spoke of Alexandria’s death not as tragedy, but as design. They said her death would not be in vain. And that His Majesty—King Heinz—would soon face what was owed to him."

The priest’s gaze sharpened as he turned his eyes on Florian. "And then came the message for you, Your Highness."

Florian, who had been sitting on the edge of Heinz’s desk with his fingers lightly drumming against the surface, straightened. His patience was unraveling.

He had been listening to this entire exchange—this slow, cryptic dance of words—ever since Serapion arrived. And all it did was make his skin crawl.

He was tired of riddles. Tired of priests speaking as if his life were some divine metaphor. Tired of the pity in Heinz’s silence and the smug calm in Serapion’s tone.

He just wanted the truth.

His fingers stilled against the wood. "And that is?" he asked sharply, his voice cutting through the air like ice.

Serapion blinked, as though surprised by his bluntness, but Florian didn’t look away.

He was done being spoken around.

Serapion clasped his hands neatly behind his back and drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

Then—something shifted.

A faint hum filled the air, low and unnatural. His eyes began to glow, not with light, but with something alive, pulsing faintly beneath the surface like molten gold threading through cracks in porcelain.

When he finally spoke, his lips parted soundlessly at first—then a distorted voice, layered and echoing, spilled into the room.

It wasn’t just heard.

It reverberated—a voice that crawled beneath Florian’s skin, as if the words themselves were alive and reaching for him.

Layered, echoing, overlapping. Male, female, divine, monstrous.

"In the turning of ages, a soul once quenched by royal flame shall awaken beneath the same sun..."

Florian flinched, breath catching. His skin crawled. The sound of it wasn’t merely heard—it crawled under his skin, thrummed through his bones.

"The hand that smote thee now shields thee; the wound and the salve are one..."

Serapion’s body trembled violently. The light in the room dimmed, shadows stretching long and warped along the walls.

Florian’s vision blurred for a moment. Behind Serapion, the faint outlines of spectral figures flickered in and out of existence—shapes neither human nor divine, watching.

"Yet beware, child reborn beneath the mourning star—for that which binds thee to the blackened crown is both tether and noose."

Florian staggered back a step. His pulse pounded in his ears.

’The blackened crown... Heinz?’

He glanced toward the king—but Heinz’s face was still stone, unreadable.

"When the serpent of fire meets the mirror of sorrow, thou shalt stand at the edge of two fates: one of ruin, one of release."

The voices rose, overlapping, growing discordant—almost desperate.

"Shouldst thou remain by the flame that ended thee,thy breath shall wither in its warmth anew..."

Florian’s breath hitched. His heart twisted painfully.

’The flame that ended me...?’

Florian couldn’t understand.

"But shouldst thou turn thy back upon it, the heavens may grant thee peace unclaimed."

A gust of unseen wind burst through the room, sending papers flying, rattling the shelves.

Serapion’s head tilted sharply upward, his mouth opening wider than humanly possible as the voices grew to a deafening crescendo.

"As for the King of Obsidian—the Gods decree his soul unclean!"

Heinz’s jaw tightened. The air around him pulsed with barely restrained power.

"No light shall touch him, save through the trial of his own making. Should he not walk the path of tribulation, his crown shall fall to ash, and his heart to silence everlasting."