Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 463. Pontus Dinner II
Roric's throat tightened.
He could feel everyone looking now.
Eyes. So many eyes.
Even his father paused. Even Seraphine's brows lifted slightly.
Roric sat straighter in his chair, suddenly too aware of how his robe fit, how the embroidery at his collar scratched a little, how the ceremonial sword at his waist felt like dead weight. He had dressed properly, just like he was told. He had combed his hair. Worn the signet.
But now? He felt like he'd walked into someone else's story without reading the first chapter.
He met Angelus' gaze head-on. Didn't flinch. Didn't bow. Didn't scowl either.
Just nodded once.
"That would be me," Roric said.
His voice was even. Barely.
Angel tilted his head slightly, studying him like a craftsman inspecting a sword on a merchant's table.
Roric hated that.
Hated the way it made him feel, like an object.
Not a person.
Not a prince.
A product.
Rose, beside Angel, finally spoke. "You don't look like the stories, Your Highness," she said, tone light. "They make you sound like a warrior. Or a recluse living in a tower. You seem… human."
Was that kindness?
Was that mockery?
He honestly couldn't tell. And that somehow made it worse.
Roric gave a tight smile. "I'm afraid the stories exaggerate. Or maybe… people just need something to believe in."
And then there was Jane.
She entered quietly behind them, dressed in a simple but elegant gown, her hair braided with pearls. She didn't need jewels to look royal. Her gaze was soft. Too soft. The kind of softness that stabbed, not soothed.
Her eyes found Roric almost instantly.
And Roric looked away.
He hated how that made him feel.
Like a child caught stealing something he didn't even want.
He could still hear their voices drifting closer, like waves lapping at the edge of his skull.
Darius gestured for the guests to sit. "Please. Let's not stand on ceremony."
A few forced chuckles rippled through the nobles. The guests took their seats.
Angelus sat at the left hand of Darius. Rose to Angel's left. Jane beside her.
Roric?
Directly across.
Of course.
His grip tightened on his goblet.
"Wine, Your Highness?" asked the server beside him.
Roric nodded without looking up. "Please."
The wine was red. Too red. Like blood and cherries soaked in old grief.
He drank.
Not too much. Just enough.
Enough to pretend.
Enough to survive the dinner.
Darius was already speaking again. "We hope Euphorion will enjoy our hospitality. Pontus is honored by your visit."
"I'm sure we will," Angelus replied simply. "Though we didn't come for pleasure."
Roric blinked.
Straight to the point, huh?
Seraphine's smile strained. "Then what did you come for, Your Majesty?"
Rose answered, eyes unwavering. "To ensure that our alliances are as stable as we need them to be. War is always a possibility, after all."
That silenced the room for a beat.
Then Darius chuckled. "You speak boldly, Queen Rose."
Angelus placed his goblet down gently. "She speaks truthfully."
The tension? Palpable.
Thick enough to slice.
The nobles shifted.
Roric glanced sideways and caught Jane watching him again.
This time, he didn't look away.
He didn't smile either.
Neither did she.
Her lips parted just slightly. Like she might say something. But then she didn't.
She just looked sad.
He hated that more.
He didn't want her to look sad.
He wanted her to be angry. Or distant. Anything but that quiet, aching look like she understood him too well. Like she still remembered how he didn't chase her when she left. How he watched the carriage vanish and told himself he was glad.
Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't.
Who the hell knew anymore?
The food came.
Slow, heavy, ceremonial.
First course was soup. Some sort of creamy shellfish blend with herbs from the southern islands. It smelled amazing. Roric barely touched it.
Second course was roast lamb with pomegranate glaze. Too sweet.
Third course was fish wrapped in seaweed and rice. Too delicate.
Every bite tasted like obligation.
Across the table, Angelus barely touched his food too. But it wasn't nerves.
No.
He was watching. Calculating.
He was a king, yes. But he looked more like a soldier who learned how to wear velvet.
Roric respected that. Even if it unnerved him.
Seraphine, on the other hand, was trying too hard. Laughing too loudly. Toasting too often.
And Rose? Rose watched it all like a predator in silk.
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