Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 518. Separating The Royals I

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 518. Separating The Royals I

Some had been sent by mothers. Some came willingly. Some wanted to see if the stories were true. The dark king. The conqueror. The young ruler who took three kingdoms and somehow looked calm enough to discuss weather afterward.

A few looked at Rose with interest too.

Different interest.

Not romantic, not entirely. Strategic.

Some men, especially, watched her as if she were the true gate.

Because if Rose controlled Angel, then winning Rose’s favor meant reaching Angel’s decisions. If the red witch had tamed the dark king, then perhaps whoever charmed the witch could redirect the king.

Angel almost laughed at the arrogance.

Almost.

Rose walked beside him, face pleasant, eyes sharp.

“I can hear them thinking,” she murmured softly.

Angel replied just as quietly, “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

“Mostly insulting.”

“They think I’m controlled by you.”

“You are.”

He glanced at her.

Rose’s smile remained polite as she looked ahead. “Emotionally. Not politically.”

Angel’s mouth twitched faintly.

A noblewoman nearby saw it and immediately whispered behind her fan. “He smiled.”

Rose heard that too and looked almost pained.

Jane followed behind them quietly, guarded by two knights. Her gaze drifted over the courtyard arrangements. White tables beneath silk canopies. Low trays filled with pastries. Porcelain cups painted with blue waves, the symbol of Pontus’ royal house. Musicians in the far corner playing something light and harmless, strings and flute soft enough not to interrupt conversation.

It was beautiful.

That was the problem.

Pontus knew how to make cages look like celebrations.

The servant led them through an archway into the outdoor tea court. It sat between the main palace wing and the eastern garden wall, paved in pale stone and shaded by flowering trees. Their petals drifted occasionally on the breeze, soft pink and white, landing on tables like decoration arranged by nature itself.

Seraphine stood near the central table.

She wore silver-lavender today, her hair half pinned with delicate pearls. She looked graceful, composed, welcoming. Nothing about her suggested ancient shadows, cursed tonics, or songs that could stir dark crystals inside a king’s chest.

Darius was not beside her.

Also predictable.

This was her field.

Her game.

She turned as they approached, smile blooming.

“Your Majesties. Jane. I was worried the capital had stolen you from us.”

Angel inclined his head. “Only briefly.”

Rose smiled. “It was a lovely outing.”

“Good,” Seraphine said, eyes gliding over Rose, then Jane, then resting on Angel just a little longer. “I hope this gathering will be pleasant as well.”

Angel’s expression remained neutral. “I am sure it will be useful.”

Seraphine’s smile deepened by a thread.

Useful.

She seemed to enjoy that answer.

Around them, nobles began stepping closer in waves. Not all at once. That would be vulgar. Instead, they approached in careful sequence, as if drawn by an invisible schedule of importance.

A duchess with silver hair came first, bowing elegantly. “Your Majesty of Euphorion. It is a rare honor.”

Angel answered politely.

Rose received her with equal grace.

Then came baronesses. Young ladies. Merchant-nobility wives. A count’s second son who bowed to Rose a little too deeply and spoke of medicinal trade with suspicious enthusiasm.

Rose handled him with a smile that could slice fruit.

“How admirable that you care about public health,” she said.

The man brightened.

Then Rose added, “I assume you already fund clinics in your own district?”

His smile weakened.

Angel looked away to hide his amusement.

Jane stood slightly behind them, absorbing everything. A few women greeted her with soft pity.

“Lady Jane, how lovely to see you returned.”

“You must be overwhelmed.”

“Do you remember the tea court at all?”

Jane lowered her gaze. “Only a little. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, poor thing.”

Poor thing.

The words pressed softly.

Jane smiled faintly.

Angel saw her fingers tighten.

Then a young noblewoman nearby whispered, “If she remembers nothing, succession matters will become cleaner, won’t they?”

Rose’s eyes moved.

Only slightly.

Angel felt the temperature around her shift.

Not magically. Not visibly.

But he knew his wife.

The afternoon tea had barely begun.

And already, someone was about to learn why the red witch did not need poison to make people regret speaking.