Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 486. Residue I
Jane stepped closer unconsciously.
Roric kept his eyes open.
He wanted to see her.
Rose's brow furrowed slightly.
"There is residue," she said quietly.
His stomach dropped.
"Residue?" he repeated.
"Yes."
Her voice remained calm, but her eyes darkened.
"It is not a single spell. It is accumulation. Repetition. The tonic was not meant to heal you."
He already knew.
Hearing it still felt like a blade sliding into place.
"It dampened certain neural pathways," she continued. "Induced mild cognitive delay. Heightened suggestibility. It did not overwrite your memory. It clouded it."
His throat tightened. "So I am not… losing my mind."
"No," Rose said firmly. "You were being guided."
Jane's hand gripped the back of the chair tightly.
Roric looked at her.
And for the first time in years, he saw something clear in her eyes.
Hope.
Fragile.
But real.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Relief flooded him.
And behind it…
Rage.
Slow.
Cold.
Focused.
It didn't explode.
It didn't roar like anger used to during battle.
Instead it settled into him like iron sinking into deep water. Heavy. Patient. Dangerous.
Because now he understood.
Not everything. Not the full scheme. But enough.
The fog in his mind had never been weakness. The hesitation he felt toward Jane. The strange voice whispering doubts and suspicions. The way his thoughts twisted until he questioned even the memories he trusted most.
It had been engineered.
Slowly. Carefully. Without leaving scars anyone could see.
He opened his eyes again.
The pastry shop room felt warmer than before. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. Outside, faint market chatter filtered upward, muted and distant.
Inside the room, the world had narrowed again.
Rose still stood in front of him, hands relaxed at her sides now that she had finished examining his aura. Angel leaned casually against the window frame, though Roric knew he was watching every movement with unsettling attention.
Jane stood beside the table, fingers gripping the back of the chair so tightly her knuckles had turned pale.
Roric inhaled slowly.
"Is there a way to heal it?"
The question sounded steadier than he felt.
Rose did not answer immediately.
She seemed to consider the words carefully before replying.
"Stopping the tonic will reduce further damage," she said calmly.
Reduce.
Not erase.
His chest tightened.
"But will it cure me?" he pressed.
Rose shook her head slightly.
"It will lessen the effect," she said. "But not truly cure you."
Roric felt the words settle in his stomach like a stone.
"You have consumed it regularly for years," she continued. "Your body has adapted to its influence. Some changes may remain."
He swallowed.
"Like what?"
Rose folded her hands loosely in front of her.
"Memory distortion," she said. "False associations. Emotional misdirection."
Roric frowned faintly.
"And something else."
Her voice softened slightly.
"You mentioned a second inner voice earlier."
His throat tightened.
"Yes."
"That is one of the most common symptoms," she said. "Not a literal voice, but a planted instinct. A hesitation that does not belong to you."
She walked slowly around the table as she spoke, thoughtful.
"Imagine looking at someone you trust," she continued, "and suddenly feeling suspicion without reason. Or seeing a memory and doubting whether it truly happened."
Roric's hands curled into fists.
Jane.
Rose continued.
"It creates a fracture in perception. You doubt yourself. You doubt what you see. Over time, that doubt makes you easier to guide."
Roric exhaled slowly.
Guide.
A gentler word for control.
"It does not rewrite your personality instantly," Rose said. "That would be too obvious. Instead, it happens gradually. Subtle shifts. Small hesitations."
Her eyes met his.
"No one notices. Not even the victim."
Roric looked down at his hands.
Had he changed?
The question rose before he could stop it.
He tried to remember who he had been.
Not the prince everyone saw. Not the soldier. Just himself.
The boy who used to sit in this very pastry shop laughing at ridiculous gossip from noble daughters. The boy who had chased Jane through market streets with sugared bread in his hand. The boy who believed protecting people was simple.
Then he compared it with the man he had become.
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