Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 515. Controlled

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 515. Controlled

Angel had only nodded when informed.

Rose had smiled politely.

Jane had lowered her gaze and acted as if she did not understand the tension.

So now they walked without him.

And because of that, the capital changed.

The streets were the same stone streets as yesterday. The same uneven cobbles, the same colorful awnings, the same smell of baked bread, fish oil, horse sweat, salt air, and hot iron drifting from the smithing district.

But the people were different.

Or maybe they simply behaved differently now that they knew exactly who was among them.

The first bow came before Angel had even stepped fully down from the carriage.

A merchant spotted him, froze, then bent so low his hat nearly fell into a basket of oranges.

“Your Majesty!”

Then someone else turned.

Then another.

Within seconds, whispers rippled outward through the square like fire catching dry grass.

“It’s him.”

“The King of Euphorion.”

“The Queen too.”

“Is that her?”

“The red witch?”

Rose’s fingers tightened briefly around the fold of her dress.

Angel noticed.

He always noticed.

Her face remained composed, but the title scraped against her. Not because she was ashamed of the power behind it. Rose had accepted who she was long ago. But people rarely said “red witch” with admiration. Usually they said it like a warning dressed as gossip.

Angel’s gaze moved across the crowd.

Quiet.

Controlled.

A single look was enough to make two whispering women lower their heads immediately.

The chief guard cleared his throat and raised a hand.

“Make way for His Majesty of Euphorion and Her Majesty Queen Rose.”

Angel almost sighed.

So much for blending.

They began moving through the market road, but every few steps became a formal interruption.

A baker bowed.

A group of young apprentices bowed.

A nobleman passing in a carriage immediately stopped, stepped down, and bowed so deeply Angel suspected the man’s spine had political ambition.

“Your Majesty, what an honor.”

Angel inclined his head. “Good morning.”

The man looked like he had been personally blessed.

Rose kept walking beside him, expression kind but distant. Jane followed half a step behind, surrounded by the silent protection of two knights assigned to her. She still acted lost, eyes wandering over stalls and buildings, but Angel could see the strain in her hands. She hated this too.

Yesterday, Jane had memories here.

Today, Jane had an audience.

That was cruel in a quieter way.

They passed into the artisan quarter, where cloth merchants hung dyed fabrics in long rippling rows. Crimson, blue, ivory, gold. The wind moved them like banners. Children peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts. Soldiers straightened when Angel passed.

The whispers followed.

“He conquered three kingdoms, right?”

“I heard Zephyrus burned before him.”

“No, no, he spared the capital.”

“That’s the dark king?”

“And he fell in love with her?”

“With the red witch?”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“That’s why witches are dangerous.”

Angel heard all of it.

So did Rose.

Her smile did not falter.

But when the road narrowed and they walked close enough for their sleeves to brush, Angel let his hand shift slightly. Not holding hers. Not openly. Just enough that his gloved fingers grazed the back of her hand.

A small contact.

A quiet message.

I heard it. I am here.

Rose did not look at him, but her fingers relaxed.

The chief guard proudly pointed toward the central fountain.

“This plaza was rebuilt under His Majesty Darius’ reign. The stonework was commissioned from eastern masons.”

Angel glanced at it.

The fountain was beautiful. White stone lions pouring clear water from their mouths, carved waves curling around the base, small coins glittering beneath the surface.

“Impressive craftsmanship,” Angel said.

The chief guard straightened, pleased.

“Pontus values enduring work.”

Rose’s gaze drifted over the surrounding buildings. Some were well maintained. Others had cracked plaster beneath fresh paint. A beautiful plaza, yes, but one polished harder than the streets leading into it.

Pontus wanted them to see the center.

The pride.

The order.

The controlled face of the capital.

Not the side alleys.

Not the medicine shortages.

Not the laborers buying cheap joint balm from old women because official apothecaries charged too much.