Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 464. Pain I
When dessert finally came, Roric wanted to scream.
Not because the lemon tart was bad.
But because he was exhausted.
Exhausted of pretending.
When the final toast was made and everyone rose, Roric rose too.
He kept his distance.
He bowed when expected. Smiled when necessary.
Then slipped out the side door as quickly and silently as he could.
No one stopped him.
No one noticed.
Except her.
But Jane didn't call his name.
Didn't follow.
Just like always.
The corridor was colder than he remembered. Or maybe he was just cold inside. The walls were polished marble, smooth and glinting with torchlight, the kind of luxury he grew up with but never quite saw anymore. Everything felt like a stage now. Especially tonight.
He walked in silence. Not even his boots dared echo too loudly. Not tonight.
He shouldn't be thinking about her. But he was. Every damn step.
Jane.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, confused. His fingers shook a little and he didn't know why.
That look she gave him across the table… She looked… calm. Blank. Like none of this mattered. Not the dinner. Not the years between them. Not even him.
It messed with his head.
He clenched his jaw.
Was she pretending?
That memory, Jane never liked politics. Not once. Even when tutors insisted she attend lessons, she would doodle on the parchments. Birds, dragons, sometimes their family crest turned into silly animals. She wasn't interested. She'd always say she just wanted to ride horses and go to town with the staff.
And now she came back like some polished royal escort beside Angelus and Queen Rose? Wearing Euphorion silks? Crownless, sure. But dressed like someone who mattered?
His throat felt tight.
Was this her plan?
To show up in their palace… with them… and quietly remind Pontus of everything they lost?
He reached the hallway near the tower rooms, where his chambers sat waiting in silence.
Then he stopped.
Dead in his tracks.
That sting again.
Sharp. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Like a splinter in his brain, right between thoughts he didn't want to think.
He staggered slightly and pressed a hand to the wall.
Not now. Not again.
He whispered the words before he could stop himself. "This again…"
He stood there, breathing hard, forehead resting on the cold stone like maybe it could cool him off from the inside. The world tilted a little. His vision blurred at the edges.
He tried to remember. Tried hard.
What did Jane do?
Why did they fall apart?
Why did he let her go?
He remembered… loving her. No, not in that way. She was his sister. But close. Too close for court comfort. They understood each other. They laughed at the same things. They had plans, the kind no royal tutor could break apart.
And then…
Then?
It was gone.
A blank space in his mind, like something erased and stitched together poorly.
He hissed softly, fingers curling into fists. His nails bit into his palm.
The sting in his head flared.
He pushed off the wall and stumbled the last few steps to his door. His guard nodded at him but didn't comment. Roric barely returned the nod, reaching for the handle himself. The door creaked open. His sanctuary.
He stepped inside.
Shut the door.
Locked it.
Then he collapsed forward, hands on the bed frame, breathing like he'd just run a war march.
The sheets smelled like lavender. He hated that. He didn't even like lavender. Seraphine said it "soothed his mind." But it just made him feel like he was being drowned in something fake.
He sat down heavily.
Tried to breathe. To think.
To not think.
But the thoughts kept chasing each other in circles.
Why did he feel rage back then?
Why did he turn on Jane?
What had she done?
What had he done?
Why did he remember nothing but emotion?
It wasn't normal. It couldn't be.
His fingers touched his temple. Still warm. The pain lingered.
He remembered the king's words, after the rebellion incident at the border. After he returned.
"You hit your head. Internal wounds. The doctor said we must be cautious."
And then the tonic.
Always the tonic.
A herbal mix Seraphine gave him herself. Always with a smile. Always in a cup he wasn't allowed to pour himself.
And yes, it helped.
But something about it never sat right.
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