Help! Get Me Out of My Sister's Chapter 266: ’Obsidian Family Colors’

The room was massive.

Vaulted ceilings soared high above, like the interior of a cathedral—only instead of solemn echoes and sacred hush, the space buzzed with color and chaos. Swathes of fabric in deep reds, molten golds, and sleek blacks cascaded from ceiling to floor, draped over furniture, mannequins, and whatever else dared to stand still. Rolls of cloth towered like pillars, and thread glead in glass cases, arranged in flawless gradients like precious gems.

Sewing machines clicked and humd softly on their own, enchanted with minor magics. Mannequins—so half-dressed, others fully posed in regal, experintal, or downright absurd designs—shifted and turned slightly as if performing for an invisible audience.

Florian stood there, blinking against the visual overload.

’Okay... this guy is obviously a tailor,’ he thought, eyes darting from a mannequin wearing a sheer cape made of black feathers to a robe embroidered with literal moving constellations. ’But he definitely wasn’t the one who made my outfits. No way.’

And then—him.

Drizelous.

Flamboyant didn’t even begin to cover it.

The man practically radiated eccentricity. His coat was a masterpiece of shimring crimson brocade, glinting with gold threading under the lights. It flared at the ends like he was perpetually caught in a dramatic breeze. His boots glead, adorned with far too many buttons to be practical, and his glasses sat askew on his nose. His hair was wild—like he’d wrestled a thunderstorm and lost spectacularly.

He flung his arms open like a stage curtain.

"Mother!" Drizelous cried again, voice ringing through the chamber like he was performing to a full opera house.

Florian barely had ti to register it before the man launched himself toward Delilah, arms wide, expression radiant.

Delilah stopped him with one hand square to his face. "Compose yourself," she said flatly. "You’re in the presence of a prince. A mber of His Majesty’s harem."

Florian let out a small sigh, just loud enough for himself.

’Oh, now I get the royal treatnt. Guess that title’s useful for sothing after all.’

Drizelous froze dramatically, eyes going comically wide, then gasped like he was discovering the aning of life. Slowly, theatrically, he turned to Florian—hands over his chest, mouth parted.

"Oh. Oh my stars—you’re him!"

Florian raised a brow. "?"

"You!" Drizelous nearly sang, closing in like a hawk on a particularly shiny mouse. He circled Florian in quick, sharp steps, making little noises of delight as his eyes roved up and down. "That skin! That face! That waist—oh, how dare you! Are you sure you’re a boy?"

"Last I checked," Florian deadpanned, inching backward.

’Another weird character has co upon .’

But Drizelous wasn’t deterred in the slightest. If anything, he looked more enchanted with every passing second. "And those green eyes! That bone structure! You’re not just beautiful—you’re unreal! What are you? A portrait co to life? A divine illusion?! A sculptor’s fever dream?!"

Florian blinked rapidly.

’Too much. Too loud. Too many adjectives.’

He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim so sense of control. "I’m... Florian. Prince Florian Thornfield."

Drizelous placed a hand over his heart and bowed with excessive, almost absurd grace. "A pleasure," he said, his tone dropping an octave into theatrical reverence. "I am Drizelous von Tioren, His Majesty’s royal tailor and couture visionary, at your eternal service."

’If he’s Delilah’s son, then Delilah’s full na must be Delilah von Tioren?’

He straightened abruptly, manic energy narrowing into sothing sharp, focused. His gaze flicked to Delilah like a spotlight shifting stage direction.

"Mother," he said slowly, eyes gleaming, "if he’s here... then it ans..."

Delilah exhaled long through her nose. "Yes. It ans exactly that."

Drizelous let out a noise that defied classification—part squeal, part triumphant battle cry. "Finally! You can leave him to ! I’ve waited for this day since I beca His Majesty’s tailor!"

Florian’s brows shot up, and he took a small, involuntary step back.

’Wait—what? This guy is Heinz’s tailor?’

Before he could wrap his head around it, Drizelous had grabbed his wrist with an iron grip wrapped in velvet and enthusiasm.

"Co, co, co!" he said, dragging him deeper into the fabric-flooded abyss. "We have so much to do! Ceremonial robes! Dinner attire! Midnight silhouettes! Cloaks that whisper! Buttons that weep! And the embroidery—must sing!"

"What—"

Florian stumbled after him, dazed, feet barely keeping up with the whirlwind he’d just been swept into.

Delilah lingered at the door, her expression unreadable. Her mouth opened slightly, like she wanted to say sothing—but nothing ca out.

She shut it again.

Then she turned.

"I have duties to attend to," she said simply.

And with that—she left.

The golden door closed behind her with a soft, decisive thud.

Florian stared after it.

’Okay, but why does this feel like such a big deal? It’s just clothes... right? Right?’

Drizelous wasted no ti.

The mont Delilah disappeared behind the door, he practically spun Florian onto a small velvet-padded stool in front of a towering gilded mirror. The sudden motion made Florian stagger slightly, but Drizelous was already circling him like a storm wrapped in silk.

"Arms slightly out, chin up, no slouching!" Drizelous sang as he unfurled a asuring tape with a snap.

Florian obeyed, though not without hesitation.

’What the fuck is even happening right now.’

Before he could catch his breath, the tailor was at his side, asuring from his shoulder to his wrist, muttering numbers under his breath, scribbling notes on a floating pad of paper that followed him like a loyal pet.

"Relax your fingers. We’re not sculpting tension, darling."

Florian blinked, adjusting his hand posture as the asuring tape danced from his collarbone to his waist. It all felt surreal—like being swept into soone else’s fever dream.

He looked down, watching Drizelous work with precision that contrasted wildly with his theatrical personality.

’Should I ask... or just stand here and get poked and prodded like a mannequin?’

But before he could make the call, Drizelous broke the silence himself.

"So? How did you do it, Your Highness?" he asked smoothly, not even looking up as he jotted down a few more numbers.

Florian furrowed his brow. "How did I do what...?"

Drizelous finally looked up, lips curled into a knowing smile. "How did you get that broody king to give you the pleasure of eting ? This is an amazing feat, and seeing my mother so frustrated is absolutely comical." He chuckled, turning his attention back to Florian’s inner thigh asurents without missing a beat. "She’s always preferred the princesses, but I’m thrilled it was the rumored beautiful prince instead."

Florian blinked.

’So... he knows Delilah doesn’t like . And he’s not even pretending otherwise.’

He debated whether to be honest, to downplay everything, or just smile and nod his way through—but there was sothing disarming about Drizelous. As flamboyant and overwhelming as he was, the sincerity in his tone wasn’t fake.

"Honestly, Mr. Uhm—Drizelous—"

"Call Drizelous, Your Highness," he interrupted lightly.

Florian nodded. "Honestly, Drizelous, I... don’t know what this ans. You’re clearly important, but I don’t have enough knowledge about this kingdom to understand why it’s significant that you are making my clothes." He paused. "Delilah didn’t ntion it. His Majesty didn’t ntion it. All I was told is that I’ll be a representative at the summit with the dukes."

Florian braced himself for a gasp, or another performance—but Drizelous only smiled with amusent, folding the tape neatly in his fingers.

"Ah. That tracks." He tilted his head, stepping back slightly to eye Florian’s silhouette. "You’re not from around here, and they just threw you in the sea without a paddle. Classic."

Then, with a small flourish, he gestured to himself. "Your Highness, I am the king’s personal tailor. That ans I am the Obsidian Family’s tailor."

Florian’s head tilted. "...And that’s supposed to an sothing to ?"

Drizelous laughed—not cruelly, but with genuine amusent. "You’re adorable. And clueless." He crossed his arms. "Let clarify. The only people I dress are those under the Obsidian Family. No one else is allowed to wear the Obsidian colors—black, red, and gold. Not unless you’re officially considered one of them."

Florian’s brows furrowed, a flicker of realization lighting in his eyes.

"...Wait. Now that you ntion it... all the princesses have different tailors. Their outfits match their kingdom’s colors."

"And yours is purple and green, correct?" Drizelous quirked a brow.

Florian nodded slowly, the pieces sliding into place.

"But His Majesty—he’s letting wear his family’s colors?"

"More than letting," Drizelous said, walking over to a rack and pulling out a bolt of dark gold-threaded velvet. "He’s assigning you to . That makes it official. You’re under the Obsidian banner now."

"But..." Florian hesitated, voice low. "Why?"

’I still don’t understand.’

Drizelous shrugged as he laid the fabric across the table, fingers dancing over it with care. "I’ve known the king since childhood, Your Highness. And even I... do not know."

He turned, smiling softly, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "But whatever the reason... it’s certainly not nothing."