Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 452. Prince Roric of Pontus I
The courtyard smelled like steel and ash.
Not fresh...old. Lingered. Embedded into the stone and soil of Pontus Castle like a scar that refused to fade. The sky above hung thick and cloudy, that sort of washed-out gray that couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or stay moody and oppressive.
Prince Roric stood near the edge of the upper terrace, overlooking the main training yard below. His black leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers over the carved steel shaft of his battle axe. His breath fogged slightly in the cool air.
Down below, the soldiers of Pontus clashed in slow, heavy drills...half-hearted strikes, dull shields, wooden swords. They didn't know he was watching. Or maybe they did. Maybe that was why they weren't giving it their all. Some still feared him. Others admired him. All obeyed him.
He was, after all, the crown prince.
And yet…
He stared at them blankly.
Not quite seeing them.
His gaze didn't stop at the stone walls, or the velvet banners fluttering gently from the high windows. It went past that. Through them. Like he was trying to see something hidden on the other side of the world. Or someone.
But nothing came.
No image. No voice. Just… that feeling again.
A tug, deep in his chest. Low and slow. Not painful exactly. Just there. Heavy and familiar, like an old bruise someone kept pressing with their thumb. Like pressure behind the ribs that shouldn't exist, an ache with no wound.
He stiffened.
His jaw clenched.
His fingers curled into his tunic, rubbing the spot over his sternum. Like that would stop it.
It never did.
"Why does this keep happening..." he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Like it didn't belong to a man who held an axe and commanded armies. Like it belonged to someone younger. Smaller.
Someone still searching.
His throat tightened again.
Not the kind that came before battle. No adrenaline. No fear. Just… a wrongness he couldn't name.
'Am I cursed?' He thought. 'Did something follow me back from the war? No… it's not that. It's not fear. It's… something I've lost. Or forgot?'
Something missing.
Or someone.
And every time the world went quiet… every time the palace stilled and the banners stopped fluttering and the guards' footsteps faded… that was when it returned.
That emptiness.
That weight.
And the worst part?
He couldn't even tell if he wanted to remember.
Because if he did…
If he finally reached in and touched that thing buried in the dark…
He wasn't sure he'd come back the same.
Maybe he wasn't whole anymore to begin with.
"Again?" a soft voice said behind him.
He turned.
Seraphine, his stepmother, queen of Pontus, stood just inside the shadow of the archway. Her dress fluttered gently around her ankles as the wind kissed the lavender silk. The scent of lilac and sharp clove reached him a beat later.
She always smelled like that. Like perfume hiding poison.
"I'm fine," he said.
She stepped forward, her heels tapping softly over the polished stone. "You're pale."
"I'm always pale," he replied dryly. "Don't worry about it."
That earned a light chuckle from her. "Still sharp-tongued."
He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the distant hills. "Just… dizzy. Or tired."
"Hmm." Her voice dropped, gentler now. "You've been feeling this way for some time, haven't you?"
Roric didn't answer immediately.
He let his silence speak.
She moved beside him, hands folded in front of her, eyes on the training yard below.
"It's memory," he said finally, voice low. "Or something like it. Like I've lost something important. Like a… name on the tip of my tongue that never quite forms."
"Do you miss your sister?" she asked.
His back straightened.
His grip on the axe handle tightened.
"No," he said coldly.
But his voice had hesitation. The kind you could only hear if you were listening.
"She disobeyed you. And father. She ran. She betrayed the name of Pontus."
"Did she?" Seraphine asked mildly.
He didn't answer.
Because something in his chest shifted again. Not just pressure this time. A flicker of warmth...of something fond. Gone before he could catch it. Like a melody on the wind.
"She was foolish," Roric said stiffly. "Always asking questions. Refusing to accept order. She never knew when to stop."
"Strong‑willed," Seraphine corrected softly. "Like her mother."
The words hit him like a pulse under the ribs.
He flinched. Barely, but she saw it. She always did.
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