Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 468. Wounded Pride I
The banquet ended.
Slowly. Grudgingly. Like a flame refusing to die.
But eventually, the grand hall emptied. Nobles scattered with fading perfumes and fading masks. Rose had walked off with Jane, not saying much… just a glance at Angel. That was enough. Just quiet calculation. As always.
And Angel?
He returned to his quarters without a word. Not a single guard dared trail too close. The air around him was heavy. Just presence. Like even the walls knew he wasn't someone you followed lightly. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Next room over… Darius slammed his goblet down.
The clang echoed like a slap.
Wine spilled over the rim, dark red pooling on the marble table like blood. The scent of it, bitter, aged, expensive, hung thick in the room, mixing with old incense, leather-bound books, and the faint smoke curling from the wall sconces.
"They circled him," Darius snapped, voice low and venomous. "Like dogs. Like… parasites. Every single one of those bastards with titles forgot whose castle they're in."
Seraphine didn't look up. She was brushing her hair by the vanity, slow deliberate strokes that said she wasn't ignoring him. She just wasn't moved.
"You're shouting again," she muttered. "It's nearly midnight."
"He's a child," Darius growled. "A boy with a sword and a pair of eyes too old for his face. And they praise him like he's already conquered the continent."
Seraphine finally stopped brushing. Her hand froze mid-stroke. "He has conquered the continent," she said flatly. "Or at least more of it than you."
That earned her a look. Not angry. Not yet. Just sharp. Wounded pride digging its nails into his throat.
He reached for the wine again.
It wasn't his first. Not even his fourth. The count was lost somewhere between dessert and humiliation. The flavor now barely registered. Burnt oak, crushed berry, spiced something. All he felt was the burn down his throat. That and the silence that followed her words.
Seraphine met his eyes in the mirror. Her hair gleamed under the low lamplight, kissed by years of status and perfume oils far too rare for common nobility. Her dress was off, replaced by a silken nightgown the color of ash, loose at the collar but clinging at the hips. A show of softness. An illusion. Like everything else about her.
"What?" she said. "You asked."
"He's not invincible," Darius muttered. "No man is."
"No," she said. "But he's untouchable. That's different."
The wind whispered against the thick curtains. Somewhere outside, a raven cawed once, then was gone. The castle settled into its midnight hush, the kind that made your thoughts louder and your breath heavier. Guards were posted at the hall corners, but their presence faded. Servants vanished. The night had thinned the world into quiet chambers and distant breaths.
Darius got up from his seat. Unsteady, but not swaying. He was too proud to stumble.
He crossed the room, his robes brushing the carpet with that slow, menacing whisper of royalty in motion. "They used to look at me like that," he said.
Seraphine turned. "They still do. When they need to."
He stared at her. "You mean when they're afraid of me."
Her silence was answer enough.
He moved closer. Not quick. Just a slow approach, like a lion too tired to run, but still dangerous. "Tell me, Seraphine. You were watching him too. What did you see?"
She didn't blink. "I saw what everyone saw."
"Say it."
She stood up. Smooth. Measured. The scent of her perfume moved with her… honeywine, and something faintly metallic. Blood roses, maybe.
"I saw a man who didn't beg for the room's attention," she said. "It begged for his."
Darius's jaw clenched. His hand twitched, like he might throw the goblet. But he didn't.
"You're admiring him," he said quietly. Accusingly.
She didn't deny it. "You would too, if you weren't so busy bleeding over your own pride."
That made him laugh. A sharp, bitter sound that echoed against the cold walls. "So that's it then? You want him?"
"Want him?" she repeated, stepping closer. "No. I want control over him. Big difference."
He narrowed his eyes. "You think you could?"
Seraphine smiled. "He's still young. And young men still bleed, Darius. Even the terrifying ones."
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