Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 516. Performance

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 516. Performance

Angel understood then.

This outing was not for him to understand Pontus.

It was for Pontus to perform itself.

A kingdom standing straight while hiding the bruise under its collar.

They continued toward the military square next. Training yards. Weapon displays. Lines of armored soldiers drilling in formation. The rhythm of their boots struck the ground in perfect unison, deep and sharp.

The chief guard’s voice turned proud.

“Pontus maintains one of the finest infantry forces on the continent.”

Angel watched the soldiers move.

They were disciplined.

Well trained.

Not ornamental.

“I can see that,” he said.

The chief guard seemed satisfied.

Rose leaned closer and murmured, low enough only Angel could hear, “They want you to admire the blade.”

Angel replied just as quietly, “They don’t want me to see who holds the handle.”

Her lips curved faintly.

“Or how shaky his grip is.”

Angel almost smiled.

Almost.

A group of soldiers stopped training to salute. Their captain shouted orders, and the whole line struck fists to chest.

The sound cracked through the square.

Angel gave them a nod.

Respectful.

Not warm.

The soldiers looked thrilled anyway.

Behind him, he felt the chief guard growing more anxious and proud at once. Proud that Pontus’ military was being noticed. Anxious that its soldiers were looking at Angel with too much admiration.

The same disease as the court.

No one wanted to shine too brightly.

But everyone wanted to be seen by someone who valued strength without resenting it.

That was dangerous.

For Darius.

They left the military square and moved toward a curated trade avenue. The stalls here were cleaner, wealthier. Fine glass. Jewelry. Imported spices. Expensive leather. Everything arranged to show abundance.

Angel could practically hear Darius’ intention through the route.

Look. Pontus is prosperous.

Look. Pontus is secure.

Look. Pontus does not need Euphorion.

But the people’s whispers betrayed him.

“Will Euphorion trade here?”

“Maybe their tea will become cheaper.”

“My cousin said their potions healed battlefield fever.”

“Queen Rose made those reforms, right?”

“I heard she turned poison into medicine.”

Rose’s eyes flicked toward that last whisper.

Angel noticed again.

So did the chief guard.

The man cleared his throat, louder than necessary. “Perhaps Your Majesties would enjoy seeing the noble quarter next.”

Angel looked at the sun’s position.

They had not been out that long, yet it already felt exhausting.

Not physically.

Politically.

Every bow was a reminder that Darius feared comparison.

Every whisper was a spark Seraphine could use.

Every public moment gave Angel popularity he did not ask for and Darius resentment he did not need.

Rose seemed to reach the same conclusion at nearly the same time.

She lifted a hand lightly to her temple, graceful enough to look natural.

Angel turned toward her immediately.

“Tired?”

“A little,” she said.

A lie.

But a useful one.

The chief guard stepped closer. “Your Majesty, shall we return to the carriage?”

Angel nodded. “Yes. We should not overextend before the afternoon tea.”

The chief guard looked relieved, though he tried not to show it.

Jane lowered her gaze, playing fragile again. “That sounds pleasant,” she murmured.

The return path felt longer because the crowd had grown. Word had spread through the streets. More people lined the route now. Not a massive crowd, but enough to make movement slower.

More bows.

More whispers.

More eyes.

Angel kept his expression calm.

Rose kept hers gentle.

Jane kept hers lost.

By the time they entered the carriage, the chief guard was visibly relieved and slightly sweating beneath his polished helmet.

The carriage door closed.

For the first time in nearly two hours, the noise dulled.

Rose exhaled softly. “I hated that.”

Angel leaned back slightly. “Yes.”

Jane looked between them, then whispered, “Yesterday felt real.”

Rose nodded. “Today was staged.”

Angel glanced out the small carriage window as the streets rolled by.

“No,” he said quietly. “Today was also real.”

Rose looked at him.

He continued, “Just not in the way Darius wanted.”

Outside, another group of townspeople bowed as the carriage passed.

Angel watched their faces.

Admiration.

Curiosity.

Hope.

Fear.

Pontus had shown him its performance.

But beneath the performance, he had seen the cracks.

And judging from the way the chief guard kept glancing at the carriage like it contained a political disaster waiting to hatch, Pontus had seen something too.

The King of Euphorion did not need banners to draw attention.

That was exactly why Darius wanted him contained.

And exactly why Seraphine wanted him closer.

They returned to the castle earlier than planned.

The afternoon tea was waiting.

And Angel already knew it would be worse.