Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 462. Pontus Dinner I
The dinner came.
It arrived dressed in golden tablecloths and polished silverware, with firelight dancing on goblets and everything smelling like roasted meats, sea-salt butter, and politics.
The grand hall of Pontus gleamed under the soft amber glow of its many chandeliers. Velvet drapes lined the walls. Footsteps echoed faintly on the polished marble as attendants moved like shadows, setting the final touches. Platters of wild fowl glistened in juices. Freshly baked bread steamed in woven baskets. Even the wine decanters caught the light like jewels.
Roric stood at the far end of the room near the pillar, trying not to be noticed.
He looked the part, of course. That was never the issue. His dark coat hugged his frame, buttoned high at the collar, silver detailing catching against the flickering firelight. His hair had been combed back with a little too much oil… he could feel the weight of it still damp against the back of his neck. His boots polished. His gloves pristine. His posture? Perfect. Like a carved knight out of some old storybook.
But his eyes… his eyes were tired.
And he didn't even bother hiding it.
He didn't know what exactly made his chest feel heavy tonight.
Was it the idea of seeing Jane again?
Or was it just another chapter in the slow, painful realization that peace was becoming a luxury?
Whatever it was, he didn't want to name it.
The heavy doors creaked.
And every noble neck in the room turned like gears in perfect sync.
Enter the Euphorion royals.
King Angelus didn't wear a crown. He wore only a badge at his collar, Euphorion's crest. Simple. Clean. Intimidating.
The man himself was taller than Roric knew.
Not bulky. But lean, straight-backed. Commanding. Every step he took was silent but heavy, like the floor made way for him.
And beside him…
Queen Rose.
She wasn't tall. But damn if she didn't feel larger than life.
Hair twisted in elegant coils, falling down one side like scarlet silk, her deep red gown hugged every curve without being obscene. She wore the same badge, a mark of her union and title. But there was nothing submissive about her presence. She walked like she knew the floor belonged to her too.
A queen. But not the kind who waited to be spoken to.
The two paused just inside the threshold. Politely. Like they weren't already aware of every eye clinging to them like hungry leeches.
"Welcome, King Angelus. Queen Rose," came the practiced voice of Darius, who rose from the high table with a smile that didn't touch his eyes.
Roric could see the tightness in his father's jaw even from across the room. The way his cheek twitched with that smile stretched too wide.
Angelus nodded. "King Darius. Queen Seraphine." His voice was deep, calm. But not warm. Not really.
The air in the great hall thinned just a little, like someone had plucked a single string in a room full of perfectly tuned instruments. His tone wasn't rude. It wasn't disrespectful. It was diplomatic. But it wasn't friendly either. Not the kind of tone you'd use with people you liked. No smile reached his eyes. No softness lingered in his words.
And Seraphine, ever the actress with steel for blood, gave the customary curtsy. Her movement flawless, posture graceful, but her expression? It shifted for half a second. Just a flick of her eyes toward Rose like a sword deciding where to land. Like a calculation not quite finished.
"We have prepared this for a long time," she said. "And invited several Pontus nobles so they could see you up close. Since you have… quite a reputation."
There was a pause.
Cassian stepped forward and nodded. "We meet again, Your Majesty."
Angel's gaze didn't linger on him. Just a nod. "Yes, we met again."
That was it. Nothing more. No polite elaboration. Just confirmation.
And then his gaze shifted.
Across the long banquet table. Past the rows of silver goblets and expensive wines.
His eyes found Roric.
For a moment, the world dulled around the edges.
Angel didn't smirk. He didn't nod. He just looked, like he was measuring something unseen, something beneath the skin.
"And this," Angel said, voice cutting through the quiet murmur of dinner music, "is the famous Pontus prince?"
Was that sarcasm?
It was dressed well enough that no one could say for sure. Like a blade dipped in honey. Technically polite. Technically complimentary. But just sharp enough to catch your attention.
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