Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 423. Distracted
Claire hesitated. "Then why haven't I heard of it? And where's the welcome procession?"
Rose finally turned away from the window. Her expression was unreadable. Soft around the edges, but with something sharp tucked behind her lashes. That quiet storm look she wore when she was thinking too much.
"I can't say it yet," she said.
Not won't.
Can't.
That single word made Claire's spine tighten.
"Understood," she said softly, backing away.
Rose exhaled and paced.
No—worse. She pretended not to pace.
Which meant she was doing it in slow, purposeful steps, under the pretense of checking documents. Reviewing schedules. Moving between desk and shelf and tea stand like her heart wasn't thudding in her chest.
Claire remained quiet. She knew better than to interrupt when Rose was in this mood.
But even she felt the tension now. The kind that wasn't born from battle or politics. Something older. Heavier.
Personal.
When the knock came—three short taps—Rose stilled.
Claire opened the door cautiously. A messenger entered, out of breath, his uniform slightly damp from the mist outside.
"News from the gate, Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "A rider from the high border. They're nearly here."
Rose didn't speak for a second.
Then her hand drifted to her wrist, where the thin gold bracelet rested—a gift from Angel.
She nodded.
"Ready the inner courtyard," she said.
Claire blinked. "But you said—"
"I know what I said," Rose cut in. "She's coming."
Claire hesitated, voice softer now. "She?"
Rose met her gaze. Calm. Steady. That unreadable stillness she wore when her heart was anything but.
And for once, Claire didn't press.
Rose exhaled through her nose and said to the remaining messenger, "Tell the king."
He bowed, but before he could respond, she added—"Has one already gone?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. One was dispatched the moment we received the signal from the city gates."
"Good." She nodded, brushing her hands down the front of her bodice like clearing dust from a thought. "Then prepare the parlor room for us. Make sure the fire is lit, and the servants know not to linger."
The messenger bowed again and fled with a kind of purposeful urgency, his footsteps swallowed by the palace's high vaulted halls.
"The parlor room?" Claire asked slowly. "Even the king?"
Rose didn't answer directly. She pressed her index finger gently to her lips, eyes gleaming like a secret she wasn't ready to tell.
Then she left the room.
The air in the hallway was cool and sweet with the scent of recent cleaning—lavender oils and burning cedarwood. Pale light spilled across the mosaic floors in sharp squares, interrupted only by the occasional flutter of curtain or servant passing quietly with bowed heads.
Rose walked with the confidence of a queen, but there was something else threading through her steps now.
Anticipation.
It wasn't the military kind—this wasn't strategy or diplomacy. It wasn't even the tense excitement of battle or danger.
No.
This was something quieter.
Older.
She turned a corner—and there he was.
Angel.
Walking with Cley near the stained glass at the corner junction, arms folded loosely behind him. His posture casual. Relaxed.
But his eyes gave him away.
They always did.
She didn't say anything at first. Neither did he.
They just fell into step. Naturally. Like gravity realigned when they were too close.
Their shoulders almost brushed as they walked.
"I already ordered them to prepare the parlor room," she said, her voice low but clear. "I think you should wait there."
Angel said nothing at first. Just kept walking beside her, expression unreadable.
"You're a king," she added, glancing sideways. "You can't just appear at the gates unannounced. It'll draw attention."
Still no answer.
She raised a brow. "You know I'm right."
Angel let out a soft exhale. It wasn't quite a sigh, but close. "You are," he said at last.
His voice was rougher today. A bit too quiet. Tension still clung to his words like a storm that hadn't quite passed.
But underneath it… was something else.
Excitement.
He tried to hide it, but Rose saw it. In the way his fingers twitched slightly by his side. In the faint glow behind his pupils—his power restrained, barely, just under his skin.
"You're not usually this restless," she said gently.
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