Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 499. Melody
Angel's mouth flattened slightly.
Pontus was not weak.
Its military was competent. Its trade routes strategic.
But its leadership was brittle.
An insecure king could destroy his own kingdom faster than any invading army.
If Darius felt threatened…
He could wage war over nothing.
Over pride.
Over whispers.
Over the existence of a younger king whose name echoed louder than his.
Angel did not want war.
But he would not hesitate if forced.
He turned his gaze toward the eastern wing of the castle.
Roric's chamber lay somewhere there.
The prince stood at a crossroads.
If the tonic truly distorted his mind…
If it dulled him slowly…
Then Roric had been fighting uphill for years without knowing.
Angel respected him more for that.
A prince who doubted himself yet still tried to choose differently.
He had seen the look in Roric's eyes yesterday.
Uncertain.
But awakening.
Angel huffed softly.
He needed to push him further.
Subtly.
Roric had to reach the conclusion himself.
If Angel confronted Darius directly now, it would collapse the delicate balance.
If he accused Seraphine without proof, it would spark open hostility.
And proof required patience.
Proof required samples.
Angel's gaze sharpened faintly.
He wondered if Roric had managed to secure any.
He hoped so.
Because if Rose confirmed the tonic carried enchantment woven into its essence…
Then she could make the cure.
Angel turned from the balcony rail and stepped back inside, already mapping the next steps in his mind.
Then he heard it.
A melody.
Soft at first.
So soft it might have been mistaken for wind curling through stone corridors.
But it wasn't wind.
It was deliberate.
Ancient.
He paused mid-step.
The notes drifted upward from the courtyard. Not from the garden. Not from the private inner grounds.
The courtyard.
Theatrical.
Public.
Angel moved back toward the balcony and looked down.
Seraphine stood below.
Not in elaborate regalia. Not in full queen's display. She wore something lighter, flowing, pale fabric that caught the sunlight and made her seem almost ethereal. A few courtiers lingered at a respectful distance. Servants slowed as they passed. Guards pretended not to listen.
She was singing.
Beautifully.
The performance was intentional. Her posture perfect. Her chin angled slightly upward.
She wanted his attention.
And she chose this courtyard because his chamber overlooked it.
His lips pressed thin.
Calculated.
But the melody…
His breath caught.
He had never heard it before.
Not in Euphorion. Not in any kingdom he had visited. Not in any ancient archive or ritual chant he had studied.
And yet…
There was something wrong.
No.
Not wrong.
Familiar.
A faint tremor moved through him.
Like a memory that did not belong to him brushing against the inside of his skull.
The notes twisted in patterns that felt older than language. Older than kingdoms. The rhythm did not follow common scales. It rose and fell in a way that tugged at something buried deep beneath his conscious mind.
His pulse stuttered.
-Ba-thump!
Angel's hand shot to his chest instinctively.
Another beat.
-Ba-thump!
Stronger.
Not his heart.
Not entirely.
His eyes widened a fraction.
The dark crystal.
Inside him.
It reacted.
He felt it shift against his core. Not violently. Not like when he summoned power. This was different. It was… recognizing.
Recognizing. her.
His fingers tightened against his chest.
The reaction stunned him.
He did not summon it.
He did not provoke it.
The melody was doing this.
Another wave of sound carried upward, and for a split second, his vision blurred.
A flicker.
Not a memory.
An echo.
A throne room not of Pontus. Not of Euphorion. Vast. Shadowed. Pillars carved from something darker than stone. A crown resting on a head he could not see clearly.
Gone.
Angel inhaled sharply.
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
That reaction…
That was the crystal's reaction.
Which meant…
Seraphine had a connection.
Not to him.
To its origin.
His mind moved quickly.
The crystal within him was ancient. Far older than his reign. Its origin traced back to something fragmented. Something shattered. Something that had once belonged to a being whose name was no longer spoken.
If Seraphine's melody stirred it…
Then her bloodline…
Her inheritance…
His gaze locked onto her figure below.
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