Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 497. Who? II
She paused at the threshold and looked back at Roric.
"You should avoid overthinking," she said softly.
"It worsens your condition."
He lowered his gaze obediently.
"I understand."
She studied him one last time.
Then left.
The door closed.
Roric stood still for three full breaths.
Four.
Five.
Only when her footsteps faded completely did his posture change.
His shoulders straightened instantly.
His eyes sharpened.
He moved quickly to the desk and lifted the ink basin.
The dark mixture of ink and tonic swirled faintly.
He dipped a small glass stopper into it and sealed it inside a tiny vial hidden in the drawer beneath.
The fabric of his sleeve clung damply to his arm.
More sample.
More evidence.
Roric moved quickly. He stripped off the outer layer of his tunic and pressed the soaked sleeve into a folded linen cloth from his drawer, squeezing carefully to draw out every drop without wasting it. The faint herbal scent rose again, sharper now without porcelain masking it.
He worked with steady hands, cutting a small strip from the inner lining where the liquid had spread the most. The cloth and fabric strip were sealed inside a small waxed pouch, then hidden beneath the false bottom of his writing chest. No hesitation. No noise. Only precision.
Outside in the corridor, Seraphine slowed her steps.
Her fingers brushed lightly against the stone wall, tracing the faint seam where her wards were braided into the castle's foundation. The disturbance pulsed again. Not violent. Not clumsy. But deliberate. Controlled.
Her eyes narrowed.
She whispered under her breath, ancient syllables curling through the air like smoke. The language tasted metallic on her tongue. The shadows gathered faintly at her heels, stretching thin and restless.
"We search," they murmured.
She exhaled slowly.
Good.
But her mind was already racing ahead.
If this was truly Angel's doing, she needed to know how.
Was he that powerful? Powerful enough to penetrate the castle shield itself? The barrier was anchored in the magic room beneath the western tower, sustained by the king's bloodline and the formation etched into ancient stone. Outsiders were not supposed to bypass it.
Unless…
Jane.
Seraphine's jaw tightened slightly.
Had Jane helped him? Had she somehow granted him passage?
If she did, then why had Seraphine heard nothing from the magic room? No fluctuation. No tremor in the formation. The shield should have reacted.
Unless it hadn't been breached at all.
Unless Angel had found a different path.
Her lips curved faintly.
Interesting.
The faint pulse against her wards no longer irritated her.
It intrigued her.
Angelus of Euphorion.
Young. Composed. Revered by his people. Feared by enemies. And now… possibly brushing against protections that had stood untouched for decades.
Darius had never once made her wards react like this.
Not because he was respectful.
But because he was incapable.
Seraphine's fingers folded lightly over one another as she continued down the corridor, posture graceful, expression serene. Inside, however, something warm stirred beneath her ribs.
Desire?
No.
Recognition.
Her bloodline carried something older than Pontus. Older than this throne. Ancient magic flowed in her veins, a quiet inheritance from an ancestor who had once served the Dark King himself. Not a queen. Not nobility. Merely a servant in the shadowed court of a ruler long erased from history.
Low class.
But loyal.
Fanatically loyal.
No one in Pontus knew. Not Darius. Not the court. Not even Roric.
The past had been buried carefully.
Yet when she looked at Angel…
It felt like watching a fragment of that lost era breathe again.
Power wrapped in restraint.
Darkness worn like silk instead of armor.
If he truly had touched her wards, if he had slipped through without disturbing the formation…
Then he was far more than a young monarch playing diplomacy.
And that made him far more interesting than Darius ever could be.
Her tongue traced lightly against her lower lip.
Yes.
She wanted him to bend.
Not because he was weak.
But because he wasn't.
Inside his chamber, Roric looked toward the door.
His pulse was steady.
Clear.
For the first time in years, he had defied her influence.
And survived.
But the game had shifted.
Because now, she knew someone was watching.
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