Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 524. Not a Festival Attraction

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 524. Not a Festival Attraction

Angel finally set his cup down.

The sound was soft.

The whole circle reacted anyway.

“I think I have listened enough,” he said calmly.

Several smiles froze.

One woman quickly tried to recover. “Your Majesty, surely you won’t leave us so soon?”

“That was my intention.”

Rose’s lips twitched. Brutal.

Then Seraphine moved.

She had been sitting beneath the flowering tree until then, watching, waiting. Now she rose gracefully, fan folding shut in one smooth motion.

“Ladies,” Seraphine said warmly, “you are overwhelming our guest.”

The women paused at once.

Her voice was gentle, but it carried command through the tea court like silk wrapped around steel.

She walked toward Angel with a smile that looked almost amused. “Give His Majesty some air. He is a king, not a festival attraction.”

A few women laughed softly, retreating with embarrassed murmurs.

Rose watched carefully.

There it was. The rescue.

After letting the circle pressure him, Seraphine stepped in as the gracious savior. Sweet. Helpful. Perfectly timed.

Angel remained standing, expression unreadable.

Seraphine reached him and inclined her head slightly. “My apologies,” she said. “Pontus ladies can become enthusiastic.”

Angel’s gaze stayed on her. “So I noticed.”

The coldness in his voice made two nearby women suddenly find the flower arrangements deeply fascinating.

Seraphine only smiled.

Then she shifted.

It was subtle.

A foot placed too close to the edge of her gown. A heel catching where it should not. Her balance tipping forward at the exact angle that would send her toward Angel’s chest.

A stumble.

The kind of accident designed for a man to catch.

Seraphine fell toward him, one hand reaching out, her body angled perfectly, soft perfume blooming in the air.

Rose saw the plan in one heartbeat.

Make Angel catch her.

Create contact.

Create intimacy.

Make Rose jealous.

Make witnesses.

But… Angel did not catch her.

He dodged. Just one smooth step to the side, clean as a sword evading a strike.

Seraphine’s reaching hand met nothing.

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

Then she went down.

Not harshly. She had enough control to soften the fall. But still, the Queen of Pontus ended up on one knee and one hand on the pale stone floor, silk pooling around her, pearls trembling in her hair.

The silence that followed was devastating.

A bird chirped somewhere in the garden.

This was awkward.

Seraphine looked up.

For once, her mask had cracked. Not shattered. She was too skilled for that. But cracked enough that irritation flashed clearly through her eyes before she smoothed it over.

Angel looked down at her coldly.

Not concerned. Nor apologetic.

Like he had just watched someone try a bad trick and fail badly.

A few noblewomen exchanged horrified looks.

The lord with the cursed flowers looked as if he wanted to crawl beneath the nearest table and apply for a new identity.

Seraphine inhaled once. Then gave a faint, graceful laugh.

“How embarrassing,” she said lightly. “I seem to have lost my footing.”

Still, she extended one hand toward Angel.

A second attempt.

“Your Majesty,” she said, voice soft, “would you be so kind?”

Angel did not move.

The silence grew teeth.

Rose walked forward. She reached Seraphine and offered her hand.

“My husband has a unique battle instinct,” Rose said pleasantly, “not to catch people when they fall.”

Seraphine’s gaze flicked up to her.

Rose smiled. “To avoid assassination.”

The tea court went silent again, but this time it was worse because several people clearly wanted to laugh and knew it might get them executed by politics.

Angel’s face remained perfectly still.

Jane, standing near the refreshment table, lowered her gaze quickly. Her shoulders shook once.

Roric was not there to witness it, which Rose thought was a tragedy. He deserved joy today. Even tiny joy.

Seraphine’s fingers tightened briefly in Rose’s grasp as Rose helped her up.

“Assassination?” Seraphine repeated, laughing softly. “How grim.”

“Experience makes people practical,” Rose replied.

Angel added calmly, “I have been killed once.”

The sentence landed like a knife dropped onto porcelain.

Several noblewomen paled.

Seraphine’s smile paused.

Rose released her hand.

“And since then,” Rose said sweetly, “he avoids catching falling bodies unless he is absolutely certain they are not carrying blades, needles, curses, or inconvenient intentions.”

One older duchess coughed violently into her napkin.

Seraphine smoothed her dress slowly. “Quite understandable,” she said.

Her voice remained pleasant.

Her eyes did not.

Angel watched her without blinking.