Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 523. Unnecessary

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 523. Unnecessary

The lord trembled slightly now.

Rose smiled again. “And if anyone thinks they can use my past against him, or use his power against me, they should find smarter hobbies.”

Behind them, from the direction of the tea court, laughter rose too loudly.

Forced.

Rose knew Angel was still there, surrounded, watching enough without appearing to.

The lord bowed abruptly. “I apologize if I offended Your Majesty.”

“You did.”

He froze.

Rose handed the flowers back to him. “Keep them.”

His eyes darted down. “But…”

“If you return with them, whoever sent you will know you failed.”

His face paled further.

“Your Majesty…”

Rose leaned closer, voice lowering. “And if you throw them away before returning, they will know you noticed.”

His breath caught.

“So here is my gift to you. Carry them back. Smile. Say I admired them but preferred not to take rare plants from Pontus soil. Can you do that?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Rose stepped past him and began walking back toward the tea court.

After two steps, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

He looked up, miserable.

“If you ever try to drug me again, I will make sure you live long enough to explain every ingredient to my husband.”

He went utterly still.

Rose smiled.

Then returned to the party.

The tea court received her like nothing had happened.

That was the fascinating thing about noble gatherings. Someone could walk back from a garden path after almost being drugged with refined aphrodisiac oil, and the party would simply adjust its smile, lift its cup, and pretend the world was made of sugar.

The lord followed behind her several moments later, still carrying the flowers.

His face had regained color, but not dignity.

Rose did not look back. She didn’t need to. His fear clung to the air behind him like cheap perfume.

At the center of the tea court, Angel was still surrounded.

Poor man.

Well, not poor exactly. No one with that face, that throne, and that murderously calm aura could truly be called poor. But socially? Yes. Socially, he was being hunted by satin wolves.

The noblewomen had tightened their circle around him while Rose was gone. Their dresses formed a bright, rustling barrier, silk and lace and jewel-toned ambition trapping him near one of the outdoor tables. Fans fluttered. Soft laughter rose. Perfume thickened.

Angel stood at the center of it all with an expression so controlled it almost looked polite.

But Rose knew better.

She saw the little things.

The stillness in his shoulders.

The way his fingers rested against his cup without drinking.

The way his gaze occasionally flicked past the women, calculating paths of exit like he was trapped in an enemy fortress instead of an afternoon tea.

And honestly, she couldn’t blame him.

One lady in pale yellow stepped closer, holding a plate of tiny almond cakes.

“Your Majesty, surely you must try this one. It is delicate. Not too sweet.”

Angel glanced down at the cake. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, but just one bite.”

“No.”

The answer was flat enough to bury a conversation six feet under.

The lady smiled awkwardly, but another immediately moved in. “Perhaps Your Majesty prefers savory snacks? Pontus cheese pastries are famous.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve barely eaten.”

“I am aware.”

That killed another conversation.

A third woman, older and sharper, tried a different route. “Euphorion must be blessed to have such a disciplined king. Many rulers indulge themselves when surrounded by admiration.”

Angel looked at her. “I avoid unnecessary indulgence.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Unnecessary? How strict.”

“Practical.”

The woman blinked, unsure if she had been complimented, dismissed, or sentenced.

Rose almost laughed.

Angel had that kind of coldness in useless conversations. He didn’t need to insult anyone directly. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply answered with such precise disinterest that people found themselves standing at the edge of a cliff made entirely of their own embarrassment.

Still, they pressed in.

Because some of them had been told to.

That part mattered.

This was not mere curiosity anymore. They were crowding him deliberately. Too close, too many, too constant. Their questions overlapped just enough to make retreat rude. Their bodies angled in a way that blocked his clean line of movement.