Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 538. The Cure V

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 538. The Cure V

His fingers lingered on the page.

Then he closed the journal and returned it to its usual place.

He would not take it.

Too risky.

If someone stopped him, a prince carrying his private journal into the city at midnight would invite questions.

He needed something simpler.

Something believable.

Roric approached the door.

Listened.

Footsteps.

Two guards passing.

He waited.

Their voices faded toward the staircase.

Then he opened the door just enough to look outside.

Empty.

He slipped into the corridor and closed the door soundlessly behind him.

The castle at night was different from the castle during the day.

Less performance.

More truth.

Servants disappeared into their quarters. Guards grew tired. Nobles slept behind locked doors. The enormous halls became hollow, filled with the smell of dying torch oil and cold stone.

Roric knew these corridors.

Every passage, stairwell, shortcut he had used as a boy to escape lessons with Jane.

The memory almost made him smile.

He turned toward the old servants’ staircase.

Not the main corridor.

That would be too obvious.

His father might not know where every passage led, but Seraphine’s eyes were everywhere.

Or almost everywhere.

Roric descended carefully, one hand resting against the wall.

At the bottom, a guard stood near the storage passage.

Roric stopped before reaching the corner.

Damn it.

The man was awake.

And eating something.

Apparently midnight snacks were now his greatest enemy.

Roric waited until the guard turned toward the nearby kitchen, then crossed the passage quietly.

One step.

Two.

Three.

He slipped through the narrow doorway leading toward the old delivery courtyard.

Outside, the night air struck his face.

Cold.

Fresh.

Free.

He inhaled deeply.

For the first time in years, he was sneaking out of his own castle.

Not because he wanted to avoid responsibilities or because Jane had dragged him into some ridiculous childhood adventure.

But because he was trying to save himself.

Roric looked toward the distant city lights beyond the castle walls.

The pastry shop.

He tightened his coat and moved toward the lower gate.

Leaving the castle turned out to be considerably harder than entering an enemy battlefield.

At least on a battlefield, everyone already knew he was trying to get somewhere.

Here, every footstep had to be measured.

Roric kept to the oldest section of the palace grounds, where the walls had been expanded so many times that even some guards forgot which corridors still connected to what. He knew them because he had grown up here. Because once, years ago, he and Jane had used these same passages to escape tutors, steal pastries from the kitchens, and convince themselves royal responsibility could not find them if they ran fast enough.

Those memories were clearer now.

Painfully so.

He slipped behind a row of storage buildings and waited as two guards passed the courtyard entrance.

One was complaining about his boots.

The other wanted breakfast early.

Ordinary conversation.

Roric waited until their voices disappeared.

Then moved.

The lower gate was impossible. Two guards stood there, fully awake.

So he went farther east.

There was an old delivery entrance used by bakers and produce carts before sunrise. Smaller. Less important. Only one guard watched it at night.

Unfortunately, that guard also seemed determined to perform his duties properly.

Roric crouched behind stacked wooden crates and stared at him.

The man stood beneath a lantern, arms folded.

Move.

Nothing.

Roric waited.

Still nothing.

Had Pontus guards always been this competent?

He should have felt proud.

Tonight, he wanted to strangle someone.

Then a kitchen servant approached carrying an empty basket.

The guard turned.

Roric moved immediately.

Across the darkness.

Past the crates.

Through the narrow opening beside the wall.

He slipped beyond the gate before either man turned back.

Cold night air struck his face.

He stopped only after putting two streets between himself and the castle.

Then he breathed.

Really breathed.

The capital looked entirely different at this hour.

During the day, Pontus was loud and colorful. Vendors screaming prices. Horses. Children. Smithing hammers. Carriages.

Now it was reduced to moonlight and shadows.

Most windows were dark. A handful of taverns still glowed amber behind thick glass. Somewhere farther down the street, drunken laughter erupted before someone loudly demanded silence.