Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 425. Runaway Princess
The carriage rolled to a stop.
A hush swept over the gathered staff. Everyone held their breath—not that they knew why, not exactly—but tension has a way of crawling up the spine even when you don't know what you're afraid of.
The Black Devils stepped forward, hands resting lightly on their weapons but not drawn. They opened the carriage door.
It creaked.
Rose's heart beat once, loud in her chest. Then again, slower this time, but deeper.
She hadn't seen this woman in years.
Not since the collapse of the southern front. Not since the fire. Not since the letter that never arrived.
The air shifted.
And then—she stepped out.
She wore a thick traveling cloak, deep green, with the hood half-pulled up to hide her features. She moved slowly, carefully, like someone unused to attention. Her boots hit the stone with faint wet thuds.
Then, as she reached the bottom of the steps, she looked up.
And their eyes met.
It hit Rose like wind through an open window.
Not just the sight of her.
But the memory—raw, vivid, sudden—of where this all began.
Of when she herself had been taken to Euphorion's capital in chains of diplomacy, traded by her kingdom to maintain peace.
A princess of Zephyrus under the pretense of negotiation. And on the way, before she ever set foot in these cold white halls, she'd made one stop.
A detour.
A decision.
There had been word of a rebel faction threatening to annihilate a village along the border—small, insignificant to most maps. But not to her.
She had insisted on going. Refused to let another nameless group of innocents be erased.
That's where she met him.
The masked soldier with blood on his gloves and fire in his voice. Rai.
Silent. Ruthless. Efficient. The kind of fighter who didn't flinch, didn't speak unless it mattered.
He fought like a devil and stood like a king.
Because he was one.
Angelus. The hidden king of Euphorion, walking among soldiers as one of them.
They didn't know. Not then.
Just two strangers on the same battlefield, weapons raised together, backs pressed in a storm of ash and screams. They saved that village. They buried the rebels in their own fire. And in the middle of battlefield, they found her.
Jane.
Her identity unknown even to herself in that moment. Not until later would Rose learn the truth—Jane was a runaway princess. Of Pontus.
Three royals.
One battlefield.
None of them knowing who the others really were.
Jane never found out.
Not even after Rose and Angel disappeared back into their lives—crown, court, control.
And now…
Now she was here.
Now Jane would see their faces. See the truth. Know what they'd hidden.
Rose exhaled. Slowly. The cold in her chest lingered, sharp and sweet, like the last breath before something important.
Then she stepped forward.
And smiled.
All she saw was Jane.
Leaner. Her skin kissed by years of sun in the village. But her eyes… they hadn't changed.
Rose stepped down from the stone steps slowly, deliberately, her heels soft against the smoothed white marble. She stopped just a pace in front of the stunned woman and inclined her head slightly.
"Welcome to White Moon Castle," she said.
Jane's lips parted, and for a second, no words came out. Her gaze swept over the courtyard, the guards in their strange black armor, the familiar yet distant air of royalty that clung to everything. And then it settled on Rose—more specifically, on the silver embroidery at her breast.
A crest.
And not just any crest.
The queen's.
Jane's mouth moved. "It's you…"
Rose's smile softened. "Yes," she said simply. "It's me."
She watched as Jane's gaze traveled lower, then up again—scanning every detail now with widened eyes. Recognition crashed in, a storm of memory behind her stare. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
Then, with a kind of trembling grace, Jane bowed deeply. Her voice wavered just a little as she said, "Your Majesty."
That title coming from her—after everything—made something tight press against Rose's lungs. But she didn't let it show.
Still, Jane's shock remained. That much was written plain across her face. She looked like someone trying to hold too many thoughts at once and failing to grasp a single one.
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