Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 427. I Don't Trust Her
Angel stepped forward.
"You're part of something larger than you think," he said.
And his voice, like always, was warm and cold all at once.
Steady.
Real.
"We're not here to use you," Rose added gently. "We're here to protect you."
"From who?"
Angel's eyes darkened.
"From everyone who's been searching for you."
The room went quiet.
Jane stood between them.
Not quite royal anymore.
Not quite safe.
But not alone either. Not anymore.
Her fingertips brushed against the heavy wool of her cloak as she glanced between Rose and Angel—the Queen of Zephyrus and the King of Euphorion—two titles that suddenly felt impossibly heavy when paired with their faces.
The same faces she'd once seen streaked with ash and blood. The same voices that had barked commands across a ruined village square. The same people who had pulled her from the smoke and stayed long enough to make her believe safety was real… even if only for a few days.
Now they sat in a parlor room that smelled of firewood, citrus, and old secrets.
Rose gestured lightly toward the servants near the door.
"We need to talk," she said.
Her tone was calm—too calm, the kind of quiet that warned of deeper things under the surface.
The maids bowed and began to withdraw. One of them hesitated, glancing at the tray of untouched tea on the low table, but Rose gave the faintest flick of her hand. That was enough.
All of them slipped out without a word, soft shoes whisking across stone floors. All except Claire, of course, who remained by the door with her arms folded neatly across her waist, watchful as ever.
The doors shut behind them with a dull thunk.
And silence returned.
Jane stood still for a second too long. Rose didn't rush her. Angel leaned back into his seat, one arm resting on the chair's curve like he belonged in the room more than the room belonged to itself.
Jane finally took a seat.
Not on the edge, not perched like a mouse—but with her back straight, her hands on her lap, her eyes sharp. A princess, trained and masked again. Even after all the years away.
Angel spoke first.
"I know you ran from Pontus and hid," he said, voice calm but weighted. "You told us a little about why you didn't want to go back. But you never told us… why."
Jane's shoulders shifted slightly, but she didn't look away. "You think it matters now?"
Rose's voice joined softly. "This isn't a story of waiting for your lost love, is it?"
Jane gave her a tired look.
"Or," Rose added with a faint raise of her brow, "your father forcing you into marriage?"
That earned a short breath—half scoff, half disbelief. "No," Jane muttered, shaking her head. "It was… family matters. At least, that's what it started as. I've been isolated in that village for years now. So I don't even know how things are anymore."
Angel's gaze didn't soften. "According to Duke Cassian, your father's in good health. So is your… mother."
A silence.
Jane's hand curled slowly around the edge of her skirt.
Then she said it.
"Stepmother."
She let the word hang.
"She isn't my mother."
Angel nodded slightly. "You don't like her."
Jane's laugh was brittle, like dry leaves crushed underfoot. "I don't trust her."
His tone stayed steady. "Why?"
"She manipulated my father. And my brother. I… I saw it." Her eyes darkened, voice dropping. "She used something. Some kind of… dark power."
That made Rose lean forward slightly. "Dark power?"
Angel's tone didn't change—but something behind his eyes sharpened. "Can you escalate that? What kind of power, Jane?"
She paused.
Long enough that the silence crept in again. Long enough to hear the crackle of the fireplace like it was listening too.
"I don't know the name," she said finally. Her voice was quiet, but laced with something colder. "I was sixteen. Maybe seventeen. I hadn't even had my first diplomatic campaign yet. But one night… I couldn't sleep. So I wandered."
Her eyes flicked toward the window—toward a memory she wasn't ready to fully relive.
"I passed the war chamber. No guards. No lights. Just… humming. A sound I'd never heard before. Like chanting, but inside the walls. I peeked inside and I saw her."
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