Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 494. Who Touched My Wards?
It was subtle.
So subtle that most mages would dismiss it as a fluctuation in air current or distant torchlight.
But Seraphine did not build her influence on carelessness.
Her fingers stilled against the silver comb she had been dragging slowly through her hair. The strands slipped between her fingers like silk, catching candlelight in faint copper glints.
Her eyes lifted toward the ceiling.
There.
Again.
A ripple.
Not forceful. Not clumsy.
Controlled.
She turned slowly toward the eastern wall where her primary ward was layered, thin sheets of magic braided carefully into stone when she first entered this palace years ago.
Her lips curved faintly.
"It's him…"
The whisper slipped from her mouth before she could stop it.
Angel.
The King of Euphorion.
She did not like the way her pulse responded to that name.
Measured. Alert.
But then doubt followed immediately.
No.
He shouldn't be able to.
The Shield.
The ancient barrier woven into Pontus' foundations by Darius' bloodline. Only the king and those directly bound to his lineage could manipulate magic freely within these walls.
That privilege had been extended to her.
Not to outsiders.
Angel could not.
He shouldn't.
Her gaze narrowed.
Then who?
Jane?
The thought almost made her scoff.
Jane had no training. No talent. No discipline.
She shook her head slowly.
Impossible.
Still…
Seraphine stepped toward the center of her chamber. The carpet beneath her feet was thick, embroidered with gold thread and dark roses. The room smelled faintly of myrrh and dried lavender.
She extended her hand.
The candle flames flickered violently.
Her voice dropped.
Ancient syllables rolled from her tongue, old and layered with power. The language was not of Pontus. Not of Euphorion.
Older.
Darker.
The shadows in the room thickened.
They detached from the walls like spilled ink, pooling at her feet before rising in thin, twisting forms.
They whispered.
Always whispering.
"You summon us again…"
Their voices overlapped, breathy and irritated.
"Yet you have not given us what we want."
Seraphine's expression did not change.
"You want Jane," she said calmly. "I will give her to you."
The shadows stilled.
"She is back."
Their forms shifted, restless.
"So calm down."
A low hiss vibrated in the room.
"She has powerful guards."
The shadows recoiled slightly, then leaned closer.
"Who?"
Seraphine's lips curved faintly.
"The King of Euphorion. And his wife."
The shadows rippled in confusion.
"Who is that?"
"We do not know him."
"Never heard of him."
A faint edge crept into their tone.
"Weak human?"
"Why afraid of weak humans?"
Seraphine's eyes hardened.
"He is not weak."
Her voice sharpened just enough to silence them.
"He is a powerful magic user."
The shadows quieted.
"Dark magic user."
The words settled heavier in the air.
"So you better be careful."
The shadows writhed uneasily.
Magic recognized magic.
Even in rumor.
"Now," Seraphine continued smoothly, "I want you to search."
They leaned closer.
"For what?"
"For who touched my wards."
The shadows hissed softly.
"Find the trace."
She raised her chin slightly.
"Go."
The forms trembled, then dispersed in thin strands through the cracks of stone and beneath the doorframe.
"Fine," they whispered faintly as they vanished.
Silence returned to the chamber.
Seraphine remained still for a long moment.
Her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh.
Angel.
If it was him, then the Shield was not absolute.
Which meant the balance of control here was shifting.
She did not like unknown variables.
Her gaze moved to the small table near the window where a crystal vial rested.
Clear liquid.
Her tonic.
She picked it up gently.
The glass was cool against her skin.
Roric had consumed it faithfully for years.
She had ensured that.
Slow infusion. Subtle influence.
Never enough to enslave him completely.
That would be obvious.
No.
She preferred something softer.
Compliance without awareness.
Loyalty that felt natural.
She turned the vial in her fingers, watching candlelight refract through it.
Tonight, she would need to play her part again.
The loving stepmother.
Concerned.
Attentive.
She crossed to her wardrobe and selected a lighter gown, pale blue silk instead of her usual darker hues. The color softened her silhouette, made her appear less imposing.
She braided her hair loosely over one shoulder.
Every detail mattered.
She paused before the mirror.
Her reflection gazed back at her with calm, intelligent eyes.
Roric had begun to slip slightly from her influence recently.
She had felt it.
Small hesitations.
Minor deviations.
It could be coincidence.
Or interference.
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