Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 519. Separating The Royals II
Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 519. Separating The Royals II
Pontus nobles were not stupid enough to flirt with the Queen of Euphorion like tavern fools trying to impress a barmaid. They approached with perfect manners, perfect bows, perfect smiles that had been sharpened in drawing rooms since childhood.
A young lord with soft brown curls and a velvet coat the color of expensive wine greeted Angel first.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing deeply. “Pontus is honored by your presence.”
Angel inclined his head, but said nothing.
Only after paying respect to Angel did the man turn to Rose.
“Queen Rose,” he said, voice warming just a little too much. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Rose smiled. “Which one?”
The lord froze for half a breath.
Angel lifted his cup to hide the faintest amusement.
The man recovered quickly. “Your wisdom, of course. And your grace.”
“Ah,” Rose said lightly. “One of the safer ones.”
His smile faltered again. Good.
But he did not retreat. Not fully.
He gestured toward a silver tray held by a servant beside him.
“These are honeyed pear tarts from my family’s estate. I asked our chef to prepare them fresh this morning. If Your Majesty would do me the honor of trying one.”
A normal offer.
Perfectly polite.
But the tray was angled toward Rose, not Angel.
The man’s eyes lingered on her fingers when she reached for one.
Rose noticed.
Seraphine noticed too, from where she sat beneath the flowering tree, watching as if this entire event had been arranged only for her entertainment.
Rose took the smallest bite.
The pastry was delicate. Flaky. Sweet with pear and warm honey, finished with a spice that lingered on her tongue.
“Lovely,” she said.
The young lord brightened like she had granted him land. “I am relieved it pleases you.”
Angel set his cup down. “It pleases me too,” he said calmly.
The young lord blinked. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Angel reached for one without waiting to be offered.
Rose did not look at him, but her lips twitched.
That was the first attempt.
They came in waves.
A count’s son brought rare tea leaves from a southern import line, presenting them first to Angel, then explaining the aroma to Rose with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
“This one is best appreciated slowly,” he said, eyes on Rose. “It opens with warmth, then leaves a lingering sweetness.”
Rose looked at the tea leaves.
Then at him.
“How poetic. Do you describe all imported goods like courtship?”
The man coughed lightly.
Angel sipped his tea. Rose knew how to be sweet, but when needed, her tongue could turn sharp enough to make people regret testing her.
Jane, standing nearby, almost choked on air.
Then came a baron known for textile wealth. He greeted Angel with military praise, mentioned Euphorion’s victories with proper reverence, then turned to Rose and offered a folded length of silk so soft it shimmered like water under sunlight.
“A humble gift,” he said. “Pontus weave, specially dyed. It would suit Your Majesty’s complexion beautifully.”
Rose touched the fabric once.
It was lovely.
“You are generous,” she said.
“My family admires strength,” he replied smoothly. “And elegance.”
Angel’s gaze moved to him.
Slowly.
The baron’s son immediately remembered breathing was important.
Rose accepted the silk with a polite smile and handed it to her attendant without looking away from the man.
“Admiration does not require repayment. Keep that in mind.”
The man bowed lower. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The women did the same to Angel.
A duchess’s daughter approached in pale green silk, hair ornamented with pearls that chimed faintly when she moved. She greeted Rose first, praised her beauty, then turned to Angel with eyes that held practiced innocence.
“Your Majesty,” she said softly. “I prepared a small token, if you would permit.”
Angel looked at the small box in her hands. “What kind?”
“A decorative dagger,” she said. “Ceremonial, of course. My house is known for blade ornamentation.”
Rose’s gaze sharpened faintly.
A dagger.
How charming.
The young woman opened the box.
Inside rested a dagger with a polished black handle and silver filigree across the sheath. Beautiful craftsmanship. Useless in combat. Perfect for display.
“I heard Your Majesty favors blades,” she added.
Angel looked at it. Then at her. “I favor blades that can survive use. Not decoration.”
A tiny silence.
The girl’s smile trembled.
Angel had that kind of coldness in useless conversations. He didn’t need to insult anyone directly. A few precise words from him were enough to push people back and make them understand they were wasting his time.
Rose turned her head slightly, pretending to study the musicians, because looking directly at Angel right now might make her laugh.