Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 453. Prince Roric of Pontus II
Her gaze softened, mouth curving into something too gentle. Too knowing. She stepped closer, fingertips brushing nonexistent dust from his shoulder. A light touch... barely a graze, but enough to make his breath hitch.
Not because it felt motherly.
Because it didn't.
"Your mother was beautiful," Seraphine murmured, her voice like warm honey. "Your strength… your eyes… you inherited more than you realize."
Roric swallowed. Hard.
Her fingers drifted higher, lingering near his collarbone a moment too long… her perfume curling around him, lilac with something darker beneath. Something sharp.
It made the pressure in his chest tighten again.
"Seraphine…" he muttered, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.
Her eyes met his. Steady, assessing, almost amused. The kind of look a woman gave a man, not a son. For a heartbeat he wondered… no, feared, that she admired him the way she admired power. That she looked at him the way she looked at Father.
His pulse kicked.
Then… too quickly, she withdrew her hand, stepping back with a soft, practiced smile. Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant, turning warm and maternal, like the previous moment never happened.
"I made you a tonic," she said, tone light again. "For your health."
His jaw worked. He looked down at the bottle. Something inside twisted. Unease? Shame? Disgust?
Why did it feel like a trap?
Roric blinked, thrown by the sudden distance. "I don't need it."
"You don't," she agreed. "But you've just returned from a long campaign. You fought bandits, rode for weeks, brought back order to three provinces."
"I enjoy that," he said, almost defensively.
"I know," she murmured. "You're your father's blade."
"His blade?" Roric repeated with a bitter smile. "Or yours?"
She didn't respond.
Instead, she held up the small silver cup in her hands. Steam rose gently from it, spiraling into the air between them. The scent reached him first...sweet mint, bitter root, a metallic tang that made the back of his throat tense.
He stared at it.
"…This smells different," he said softly.
"I adjusted the mix," Seraphine replied. "You've grown since the last time. It will help settle your mind. Calm your nerves. Make you… clear."
He didn't take it right away.
Instead, he looked down at his own hands. Large, calloused, cracked with old scars. He didn't wear rings. Never had. Too cumbersome for war.
"Do you think something's wrong with me?" he asked.
She tilted her head slightly. "Do you think something's wrong with you?"
"I don't know," he murmured. "That's the problem."
A gust of wind whipped across the terrace. His cape flared behind him.
"I forget things," he said. "But not like normal forgetfulness. I feel like… pieces were cut away. Like someone's removed a part of me and left the hole patched with frost and silence."
"You're tired," she said gently. "And under pressure. This is normal. You carry the hopes of an entire kingdom."
He nodded slowly.
Still… something in his gut twisted.
He reached for the cup.
Held it in both hands.
Warm. Smooth. Silver etched with serpents curling around the base. Her mark.
"Drink," she said.
He did.
The liquid burned slightly at first. Then bloomed into warmth...false comfort laced with a slow, dulling edge. It settled heavy in his gut. Not poison. But close.
"You're always so good," Seraphine whispered. "Obedient. Strong. That's why I trust you."
He set the cup down on the railing. "You trust me to do what?"
"To protect Pontus," she said, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. "To guard your father. And to remember who your real enemies are."
He didn't respond.
His jaw worked. His eyes fell closed for a moment.
And again...
That flicker.
That sound.
A girl's laughter.
Distant. Muffled. But it was there.
He gripped the edge of the stone with one hand.
"Do you remember something?" she asked.
"No," he lied.
She stepped closer. Her hand brushed down his arm.
"You will," she said softly. "And when you do, you'll understand why she had to go."
Roric didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just stared at the empty cup and waited for the pain in his chest to fade.
It didn't.
Not entirely.
Not anymore.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
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