Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 536. The Cure III

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 536. The Cure III

The shadows stirred.

For a moment, they remained gathered around her ankles, curling against the hem of her nightgown like particularly affectionate pets.

Except these pets were ancient, hungry, and occasionally demanded human sacrifices.

Adorable little things.

“Go,” Seraphine repeated.

They hissed.

Then the darkness beneath her feet stretched toward the door, flattening into thin ribbons that slipped through the narrow gap beneath it.

Seraphine watched them disappear.

Her fingers tightened around her teacup.

She could have sent them toward Angel’s chamber.

She wanted to.

Oh, how she wanted to.

But she was not stupid.

The King of Euphorion was an unpleasant mystery, and mysteries had an irritating habit of biting when approached carelessly.

Even if the castle shield supposedly prevented him from using magic, he still carried that sword.

That damned sword.

She had noticed it during the banquet. The way darkness seemed to cling to its sheath. The way the weapon felt almost alive whenever she stood near him.

A sword possessing its own dark power.

How utterly unfair.

A handsome young king with a thriving kingdom, terrifying magic, a devoted wife, and a weapon that apparently came with its own personality.

What next?

Would the sword start giving him marriage advice?

Seraphine almost laughed.

The problem was that the weapon could destroy her shadows.

And her shadows were not ordinary summoned creatures.

They were bound to her.

Extensions of her magic. Fragments of her power given form through ancient contracts.

Destroying one would not necessarily kill her, but she would feel it.

The backlash could tear through her nerves, disrupt her spells, or leave her bleeding from wounds no physician could explain.

No, thank you.

She was far too beautiful to spend the night coughing blood because some irritating sword decided to murder her little servants.

Roric was safer.

Predictable.

Obedient.

Or he should have been.

Seraphine brought the tea to her lips again. “Show me what my dear son has been doing.”

The shadows obeyed.

They flowed through the corridor like spilled ink, hugging the edges of the walls where torchlight failed to reach. Their bodies stretched and separated whenever a servant approached, becoming nothing more than ordinary darkness beneath furniture or between stone pillars.

A pair of guards passed through the eastern hallway.

The shadows flattened.

One guard yawned.

The other scratched his chin.

Neither noticed the thin black tendril slipping beneath the decorative carpet.

Humans.

Such wonderfully oblivious creatures.

The shadows continued.

Past the stairwell.

Past the old gallery lined with portraits of dead Pontus royalty.

Past a servant carrying freshly washed linen.

Finally, they reached Roric’s chamber.

The door was closed.

A faint line of candlelight glowed beneath it.

The shadows gathered there.

Listening.

Nothing.

No conversation.

No movement.

Only the distant crackle of a dying fire.

They slipped inside.

Roric lay beneath the covers, turned slightly toward the window. His breathing was slow, his dark hair scattered across the pillow. One arm rested outside the blanket, fingers relaxed.

Asleep.

Apparently.

The shadows spread across the floor.

One climbed the leg of his desk.

Another slipped beneath the wardrobe.

A third crawled along the wall toward the small cabinet where medicinal supplies were usually kept.

Search.

Find.

Smell.

Remember.

Seraphine had given them a simple task.

Find evidence that Roric had stopped drinking his tonic.

An untouched bottle.

A hidden vial.

A stain.

Anything.

They investigated the cabinet first.

Nothing unusual.

A few ordinary herbs. Clean bandages. A physician’s prescription advising rest.

The shadows sniffed the parchment.

Boring.

They moved toward the desk.

An inkpot.

Several sealed letters.

Military reports.

A journal.

One shadow curled around the journal’s leather cover.

The book was closed, its pages pressed tightly together. The shadow tried slipping between them, but found only cramped fragments of writing and the lingering smell of ink.

It could not understand the scattered notes.

And Seraphine had not asked it to read.

She had asked it to find the tonic.

So it moved on.

Beneath the desk.

Behind the curtains.

Inside the narrow gap between the wardrobe and the wall.

Nothing.

No discarded medicine.

No suspicious glass.

No evidence.

Then Roric grunted.

The shadows froze.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

“...No.”

The sound was barely audible.