Dark Moon Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 539. The Cure VI

Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 539. The Cure VI

Roric pulled his coat tighter and walked.

No horse.

That had been deliberate.

Taking one from the royal stable would leave records. Stablehands talked. Guards remembered. A prince riding alone after midnight attracted attention.

A man walking?

Less so.

At least theoretically.

In reality, the distance felt endless.

His boots struck damp cobblestones in a steady rhythm. The cold crawled through the soles. Every few streets he checked behind him.

Nothing.

Then again.

Still nothing.

He avoided the main roads, taking narrow lanes between closed businesses instead. The city smelled different at night too. Cooling bread ovens. Damp stone. Old smoke. The faint sourness of spilled alcohol. Salt carried inland by the sea breeze.

Once, he heard horses approaching and immediately stepped into the recessed entrance of a closed tailor shop.

Three soldiers rode past.

Roric recognized the uniforms.

Royal patrol.

His heart slammed once against his ribs.

They did not stop.

He waited until the hoofbeats faded completely.

Then continued.

By the time the pastry shop appeared ahead, his calves ached and his patience had died somewhere three districts behind him.

The building looked harmless beneath moonlight.

Dark windows downstairs. Flower boxes reduced to silver silhouettes. Only one lamp remained burning near the side entrance.

Roric knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

A small panel slid open.

Two suspicious eyes stared through it.

“We’re closed.”

Roric pulled his hood back slightly.

The panel immediately slammed shut.

Locks clicked.

The door opened.

“Your Highness!”

“Quiet.”

The receptionist went pale.

Roric stepped inside before the man could decide whether to bow or faint.

The familiar smell greeted him immediately.

Butter.

Sugar.

Vanilla.

Even closed, the pastry shop smelled like childhood.

Roric reached into his coat.

“VIP room.”

The receptionist blinked.

“But, Your Highness, the kitchen is closed and the private rooms have already been cleaned for tomorrow.”

Roric placed several gold coins into his hand.

The man stared down.

Then back at Roric.

“Which VIP room would Your Highness prefer?”

Roric almost laughed.

Money.

The ancient universal spell.

“The upstairs one.”

“Immediately.”

He was escorted through the darkened shop and up the narrow staircase.

Their footsteps creaked against wood.

At the top, the receptionist unlocked the familiar room.

Roric entered.

“Do you require refreshments? Servants? Anything at all?”

“Privacy.”

The man bowed.

“Of course.”

Roric waited until the door closed.

Footsteps descended the staircase.

Then silence.

He looked around.

Empty.

His stomach tightened.

Had something happened?

Had Seraphine caught them?

Impossible.

Well, not impossible.

Roric was rapidly learning that the word had become useless whenever Angel was involved.

He walked toward the window.

The street below remained empty.

Five minutes?

Ten?

He had no clock.

Every second felt longer.

Maybe he came too early.

Angel had said once all was clear.

Perhaps the shadows had lingered longer elsewhere.

Jane.

His chest tightened immediately.

What if something happened to her because of this?

Again.

Because of him.

He turned away from the window and started pacing.

Once.

Twice.

Then the candle flame flickered.

Roric stopped.

Cold air swept across the room.

Not from the window.

From everywhere.

The temperature dropped so quickly his breath nearly became visible.

His hand instinctively moved toward the dagger hidden in his boot.

Darkness gathered near the wall.

Not Seraphine’s crawling shadows.

This darkness folded inward.

Dense.

Controlled.

The atmosphere itself seemed to bend around it.

Then a voice came from behind him.

“You came early.”

Roric spun.

Angel stood near the table.

Jane beside him.

Roric stared.

No footsteps.

Just there.

Angel looked annoyingly composed for someone who apparently considered the laws of space optional.

But Roric barely had time to process him.

Jane moved first.

She crossed the room quickly.

“Brother.”

Roric froze.

She stopped directly before him, eyes moving over his face, his shoulders, his hands like she needed visual proof he had survived the night.

“Are you okay?”

Roric nodded. “I’m fine.”

Jane’s brows tightened. “You look exhausted.”

“I walked.”

Her expression changed. “You walked here?”

“I couldn’t take a horse.”

Angel moved toward the table. “Good choice.”

Angel placed a small black case on the table and opened it.

Inside sat a small vial.

Pale silver liquid shimmered under the candlelight, almost luminous. Thin black threads drifted through it, twisting slowly before dissolving and reforming.

Roric approached the table.

His heart began beating harder.

“That is…”

“The antidote,” Angel said.