Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 531. King's IV

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 531. King's IV

The tension cracked.

But enough that several nobles laughed before realizing they had laughed at the King of Euphorion and his queen discussing near-killing over tea.

Angel’s mouth curved faintly.

Darius did not laugh.

Angel and Rose had taken his attempt to frame Angel as fearsome and turned it into intimacy. Dark, strange intimacy, yes. But real. The kind that made people lean closer instead of step away.

A young noblewoman whispered behind her fan, “They really are like that.”

Another murmured, “I thought the stories exaggerated.”

“They might have softened it.”

Seraphine heard every word.

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

Darius’ hand tightened again.

He changed tactics.

“Pontus values tradition,” he said. “Stability. Continuity. Our noble houses have endured through storms because we do not discard order so easily.”

Angel nodded. “Tradition has value.”

Darius seemed pleased for half a second.

Then Angel added, “When it serves the living, not the pride of the dead.”

A few nobles looked like they wanted to vanish into their teacups.

Rose almost felt bad for them.

Darius’ smile faded at the edges. “You speak boldly in another man’s court.”

Angel’s gaze sharpened. “You invited me to speak.”

“I invited you to tea.”

“And you brought conquest, rebellion, fear, and order into the conversation.”

That was true.

Everyone knew it was true.

Darius had baited him.

Angel simply refused to bleed the way Darius wanted.

The king of Pontus leaned back, expression controlled again, though the color at his neck had deepened slightly.

Seraphine finally placed her cup down. “Perhaps,” she said smoothly, “we should return to lighter matters. The pastries are excellent today.”

Rose’s eyes flicked toward the tray. “Are they safe?”

The question was soft,but beadly. A ripple moved through the tea court.

The lord who had tried the flower trick went pale again from three tables away.

Seraphine’s smile did not move. “Of course.”

Rose picked up a pastry, examined it lightly, then set it back down. “How reassuring.”

Angel’s gaze shifted toward her with faint amusement.

Darius missed the full context, but not the effect. He saw another round of nobles glancing between Rose and Seraphine, curiosity sharpening into suspicion.

His attempt to bring down Angel had not just failed.

It had made the court ask quiet questions.

The rest of the afternoon tea continued with a brittle kind of elegance.

Darius remained seated, enduring the very comparison he had come to prevent. He tried several more times to redirect conversation toward Pontus’ strength, its traditions, its military, its ancient royal line.

But each attempt only revealed the insecurity beneath.

When he praised Pontus infantry, Angel praised the discipline of the soldiers instead of the throne.

When Darius spoke of noble loyalty, Rose asked about public welfare obligations tied to landholding.

When Seraphine mentioned women’s cultural influence, Jane softly asked if forgotten women were still counted in history.

Jane did it with the perfect blank innocence of someone who “didn’t remember much.”

Angel almost smiled.

Rose definitely did.

By the time the sun lowered and the tea cooled, the nobles had changed again.

They were more cautious around Angel now, not because they respected him less, but because they understood he would not play court stupidity just to be polite.

They were more careful with Rose, because every soft smile from her had begun to feel like a medical examination before surgery.

And Jane?

Jane had become more interesting.

A lost princess who asked sharp questions by accident.

A possible future piece no one understood yet.

Seraphine stood as the gathering began to dissolve, her smile still intact.

But inside, her patience had thinned.

Darius had tried to dim Angel.

Instead, he had lit the difference between them in front of everyone.

And Angel, curse him, had not even seemed to enjoy the victory.

As nobles bowed and scattered into murmuring clusters, Darius looked toward Angel with cold frustration hidden beneath royal manners.

“An eventful tea,” he said.

Angel inclined his head. “Very.”

Rose smiled. “Pontus hospitality is memorable.”

Seraphine’s eyes flicked to her. “I’m glad.”

Jane lowered her gaze, hiding everything.

The afternoon ended with porcelain, bows, and polite farewells.

But everyone left carrying something sharper than gossip.

They carried comparison.

And comparison, once awakened in a court ruled by insecurity, was not easy to put back to sleep.