Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 454. The Dark King Has Arrived I
Another month had come.
Pontus bloomed in preparation.
The capital city didn't sleep last night. It was as if every stone in the road had been scrubbed, every window dusted, every banner re-hemmed. Horses were brushed until their coats gleamed like marble, and even the fountains. The moment the Euphorion royal convoy was spotted at the outer gates, the entire city spun into a frenzy. Cloaks were straightened, breaths held, boots polished in corners while the steam still rose from bakery carts on every street.
Pontus smelled like spice bread, sweat, and panic.
Inside the royal castle, Pontus' crown jewel, it was war. Elegant, frantic war.
Servants dashed through the halls like holy orders had just declared the apocalypse and no one wanted to be caught slouching. Velvet drapes were tugged, floors polished until reflections screamed back. The crystal chandeliers were checked, adjusted, lit, and enchanted. Every hearth lit. Every vase corrected. And presiding over it all, dressed in moon-silver robes with her lips painted in royal crimson, was the one woman who looked like she was enjoying herself.
Queen Seraphine.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, hands folded loosely in front of her, surveying the chaos like a maestro watching her symphony build. There was a curl to her mouth. Satisfaction. Anticipation. Something else too.
"I want more lilies in the front entrance," she murmured, almost lazily.
"But Your Majesty—"
She turned. Slowly. Her gaze pinned the steward like a wolf eyeing an anxious rabbit. The steward immediately bowed. "I'll fetch them at once, Your Majesty."
"Mhm," she said, then waved him off.
Yes. She was the only one who seemed excited.
The king? Silent. Retired to his chamber. He would show up, but not now.
The others? Cautious. Anxious.
But Seraphine… Seraphine was curious.
Not about the alliance. Not even the official marriage recognition between Angelus of Reinheart, the new King of Euphorion, and the infamous Battle Princess, Rose of Heart.
No, no.
She wanted to see them.
The rumors had been too fascinating.
Angel,the Dark King, some called him. Said he leveled a fortified city in a single night. That he could freeze blood mid-air. That he cut a rebellion in half without ever lifting his voice. And yet… he ruled fairly. Harsh to enemies, yes, but rarely cruel. He gave the poor clean water. Paid his soldiers on time. Did not indulge in nobles' feasts while his people starved.
Not a tyrant. Not a saint.
But still… dangerous.
And his queen?
Rose.
That was the more delicious curiosity.
The Heart family was known for their healers. The kind who bled themselves for others. Soft-spoken. Humble. But Rose? They said she broke from that. Refused to be married off like cattle. Fought. Killed. Saved her own people from that plague of a kingdom. And then… taken by the Euphorion King.
Until now.
Married. Queen of Euphorion.
A political hostage, they whispered at first. But now? Now the stories shifted.
They called her the Red Witch of Euphorion. A name half-feared, half-adored.
Some said it came from her hair. Some from her rumored poison knowledge. Others said she tamed the dark king. That he knelt before her. Touched no other. That she healed him after battle, kissed the scars, and whispered orders in his ear.
And he listened.
"Oh, I must meet her," Seraphine whispered, brushing a pale lock behind her ear. "I must see the woman who bent the king without breaking."
"Your Majesty?" a maid asked nervously.
"Nothing," she said, smiling now. "Bring me my black gloves. And polish the silver mirror in the west hall. That's where I'll greet them."
She turned with the swish of silk and command.
Meanwhile, outside, the Euphorion convoy approached.
It was… terrifyingly beautiful.
Dozens of armored riders in obsidian and sapphire formed a shield wall around a sleek, rune-etched carriage drawn by snow-touched steeds. Every step of the horses sent a hush down the streets. The people of Pontus crowded the edges… eyes wide, breaths stolen. Not a single banner flapped out of line. The guards moved in practiced formation, no hesitation, no wasted gesture.
Then came the king.
In a royal carriage.
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