Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 534. The Cure I

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 534. The Cure I

Rose opened the case further and saw it. Smaller. Darker. More concentrated.

Her mind began organizing steps immediately.

Dose timing. Mental shock risks. Possible memory flooding. Jane’s presence or absence.

Angel watched her think.

Then Rose looked up. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Roric’s chamber?”

“Not safe enough.”

“Then where?”

Angel looked toward the window, beyond it to the sleeping castle wrapped in moonlight and secrets. “The old pastry shop has a private room.”

Rose blinked. Then smiled faintly. “Sentimental and tactical.”

“Useful.”

“Of course. Heaven forbid you admit sentiment.”

Angel leaned closer, voice low. “I have sentiment.”

The words touched the air between them differently.

Dark. Soft. Warm enough to be dangerous.

Rose’s pulse shifted despite herself. “Oh?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “For you.”

Rose held his gaze for a long second. Then she smiled. “Then survive tonight properly.”

Angel’s lips curved. “As my queen commands.”

And somewhere deep within Pontus, as if sensing the cure had arrived, Seraphine woke from a dream she could not remember.

Her melody still on her tongue.

Her shadows restless at her feet.

For a long moment, she did not move.

She lay beneath the thin silver sheets, eyes open to the dark canopy above her bed, listening to the castle breathe around her. The room was dim, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth and a few candles that had burned down into waxy little ruins. The scent of lavender oil clung to the pillows. Warm. Expensive. Too soft for the mood clawing its way under her skin.

Something was wrong.

The kind of wrong that made old blood stir before the mind understood why.

Seraphine slowly sat up, silk sliding down her shoulder. Her nightgown was pale and thin, clinging lightly where sleep had warmed her skin. The air outside the blanket kissed her with a chill, and she welcomed it. Cold helped her think. Heat made people careless. Heat made men drunk. Heat made kings stupid.

Speaking of kings.

She turned her head.

Darius was not there.

The space beside her was untouched, sheets smooth, pillow cold. He had not come to bed.

She almost laughed.

Still in the study, then.

Still glaring at documents and reports like parchment could surrender if bullied hard enough. Still comparing military ledgers, trade figures, court petitions, tax records, anything he could grip in both hands and tell himself, see, I am not lesser. See, I still rule. See, I am more than that Euphorion boy with calm eyes and a wife made of knives.

Childish.

Terribly childish.

And yet useful.

Darius was always easiest to handle when wounded pride kept him moving. A peaceful Darius could grow suspicious. A satisfied Darius could ask inconvenient questions. But an angry Darius? An insecure Darius? That man walked exactly where she nudged him, especially if she let him believe every step had been his idea.

Still, tonight his absence irritated her.

Not because she missed him.

But because his absence made the room too quiet.

Too easy for her thoughts to crawl toward Angel.

Angelus Raizel Moonfall.

Even his name irritated her now.

Not because it was ugly. It was not. It sounded like something carved into black marble and worshipped by people who should know better.

She slipped out of bed and stood.

Seraphine moved toward the small table beside the window. The room smelled faintly stale from dying candles and too much thought. She needed tea.

Herbal.

Something calming.

Something to soothe the restless prickle crawling under her skin before sleep became impossible.

She reached for the silver bell and rang it once.

The sound was delicate, almost innocent.

A servant arrived moments later, knocking softly before entering. Young. Plain faced. Careful eyes. One of the night maids assigned to the queen’s wing.

She bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”

“Tea,” Seraphine said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The girl turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The maid froze immediately.

Seraphine watched her back for a second before speaking, voice casual.

“Are the guests sleeping already?”

The maid turned carefully, gaze lowered. “I’m not sure, Your Majesty. But all of them have returned to their rooms.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The King of Euphorion retired to the guest wing. Lady Jane also returned to her chamber.”

Seraphine’s fingers brushed the edge of the table.

“And Roric?”

The maid hesitated.

Only briefly.

“Seems like the prince is sleeping already, Your Majesty.”

Seraphine smiled faintly. “Seems like?”

“I did not see him personally,” the maid said quickly. “But the servant assigned to his wing reported no disturbance.”

“And the tonic?”

“He drank it, Your Majesty.”

There.

That should have pleased her.

It did.

A little.

But not enough.