Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 526. Tricks II

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 526. Tricks II

Seraphine’s fan shifted slightly.

How annoying.

And how familiar.

For a moment, she almost smiled for real.

Because this was not disappointment.

It was challenge.

And she had always been at her best when the board refused to move easily.

Nearby, the nobles began adjusting.

They were not stupid either.

The first wave had failed. Angel could not be charmed by admiration. Rose could not be softened with gifts or little poisons. Their marriage could not be split by throwing pretty bodies and delicate suggestions between them.

So the court changed direction.

Naturally.

Like water finding a crack.

Jane.

At first, she had been ignored.

Pitied, yes. Mentioned, yes. But not truly engaged. She was the lost princess. The poor girl with missing memories. A soft tragedy placed at the edge of the gathering, useful for whispers but not negotiation.

Now that changed.

A noblewoman in pale pink approached first, fan held gently near her chest.

“Lady Jane,” she said warmly, “you must forgive us. We have been so occupied with greeting our esteemed guests that we neglected you.”

Jane lifted her gaze slowly, her expression mild and uncertain. “Oh… please don’t worry about me.”

Angel heard it from several steps away and almost admired the performance.

The noblewoman smiled wider, encouraged. “Nonsense. You are Pontus blood. Your return is a blessing.”

Another woman joined, older, with silver threading through her dark hair. “Indeed. The capital has missed you dearly.”

Jane blinked as if overwhelmed. “I wish I could remember more.”

And there it was.

The opening.

The noblewomen leaned in, almost tenderly. “That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Memories can return slowly.”

“Perhaps familiar faces will help.”

“Or familiar friendships.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed slightly from where she stood beside Angel.

They were shifting the battlefield.

Not toward seduction now.

Toward narrative.

Jane had amnesia, or so they believed. That meant she was empty space. A blank parchment. A returned princess who could be written upon before she remembered how to hold the pen herself.

If they could befriend her now, influence her now, feed her carefully selected versions of the past, then perhaps they could build new loyalty around her.

One young lady stepped forward with a bright smile. “Lady Jane, we used to attend the spring lantern festival together. Perhaps you do not remember, but we were quite close.”

Jane tilted her head. “Were we?”

“Yes.” The girl clasped her hands sweetly. “Very close.”

Jane stared at her for one second too long.

Because she did remember.

That girl had once spilled juice on her dress during a childhood banquet and cried until Jane comforted her. Close? Hardly. They had met four times at most.

But Jane smiled faintly. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

The girl’s expression softened with false pity. “That’s alright. We can start again.”

Start again.

Rose and Angel heard it.

Seraphine heard it too.

And unlike Rose, Seraphine liked it.

Her fan lowered slightly as her gaze settled on Jane.

Yes.

That was a better route.

If Angel and Rose could not be moved directly, then perhaps their concern could.

Jane had become close to them. Too close, perhaps. The little lost princess had drawn their sympathy. Rose protected her. Angel guarded her with knights. Even Roric had begun circling strangely again, though Seraphine did not yet have proof of why.

Jane was a bridge.

A weakness.

A door.

And if she could be reclaimed by Pontus society before Rose rooted herself deeper, then Seraphine might redirect the entire situation.

A lost memory made a person vulnerable.

At least, that was how it usually worked.

Jane lowered her gaze as the women surrounded her more gently than they had surrounded Angel. No aggressive flirting. No obvious traps. Just kindness sharpened into hooks.

“Do you remember the music hall?”

“Your favorite tea used to be peach blossom.”

“You once said you hated violet ribbons.”

“Did you? Oh, perhaps that was another lady.”

Every sentence was a needle.

Some true.

Some false.

Some half-true.

Jane let them speak. She nodded sometimes. Smiled weakly. Asked soft questions.

Inside, however, her mind was painfully awake.

They were trying to rebuild her.

That realization made her stomach curl.

They thought she was empty.