Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 418. Failed
Images. That forest from his dream. The fog, identical to this one. That woman's face—never clear, always just out of reach. Her voice, shattered and echoing inside his skull.
'I'm a human… I want freedom… I'm not a revenge tool…'
"Then what are you?" Angel asked the night. "Because whatever you are, you're tangled with me."
He stayed there a while.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Listening to the wolves fight in the distance.
The curse of this mountain wasn't violence. It wasn't danger. It was denial. You came here expecting answers, and Erebus gave you silence.
Angel stood again, eventually.
His body ached—not in a painful way. Just tired. Not the kind sleep could fix.
He stepped to the edge of the ledge and looked down. Nothing but gray. A thick ocean of fog that pulsed like breath.
No choice but to climb down.
Again.
He pressed his hand to the rock wall and whispered a binding phrase. The stone shimmered faintly. A trail of dark magic followed his fingers, anchoring him as he started the descent.
'I'll come again,' he thought.
He didn't say it aloud.
Just relax.
Erebus already knew.
And maybe—just maybe—it was waiting for the right time to answer.
Angel exhaled through his nose, breath cold and sharp in the thin air clinging to the cursed mountain.
But the fog didn't move.
The path didn't open.
No answer came.
Just the same suffocating silence. The same ledge. The same walls. The same absence of direction.
He let out a short, bitter huff. Not quite a laugh. More like the exhale of someone trying not to swear into the void.
He felt it—defeat, creeping under his skin like frostbite. It wasn't the climb that drained him. It wasn't even the mountain. It was the feeling of being led here, summoned, called… and still denied. Over and over.
Just fog. Cold. Blood on his palms from jagged stone. And silence.
He closed his eyes.
Dark aura shimmered around his body—sluggish at first, as if the mountain itself clung to him, reluctant to let him go. But it relented. Eventually.
A pulse of black magic gathered at his core, spiraling out through his veins, rising in a slow spiral around his boots and coat. The shadows thickened, bent, swallowed him whole— And he vanished.
The transition wasn't smooth. Not when jumping between realms of stone and war to somewhere built with polished floors and still air.
Angel reappeared in the center of his chamber back in Euphorion. The dark magic snapped out with a hiss as his boots hit the marble. He staggered a few steps forward, bracing one hand on the nearby wall to catch himself.
The sudden shift in pressure, in scent, in stillness—it hit like a punch.
Gone was the biting wind and endless fog. Now the air was warm. Candlelit. Softened by the smell of burning cedar and rosewood from the embers in the fireplace.
He didn't move for a second. Just stood there, cloak hanging wet from mist, black gloves coated in dirt and moss. His breathing slowed.
It was past midnight.
And Rose was asleep.
She lay curled on her side, wrapped in a pale cream blanket, her silhouette soft under the thin canopy drapes. One hand near her chest, the other resting against the empty side of the bed where he should've been.
She'd waited. Of course she had.
Angel swallowed, throat tight.
He promised he would bring her. That they'd go to Erebus together. That she wouldn't be left behind. Not this time.
But he'd gone anyway. Alone.
Because some part of him still believed she shouldn't see that place.
Because something darker whispered that if he did bring her… he might not come back at all.
He looked down at himself.
Mud on his trousers. Dried scratches on his wrists where stone had torn the fabric. The gloves—black leather, now creased and bloodied—looked more like a hunter's than a king's.
Not that he looked like a king right now.
Angel unfastened the cloak and let it fall to the floor. It landed with a wet thump, trailing dirt on the marble. He didn't care.
He pulled off the gloves next. Slow. One finger at a time. The fabric peeled away, revealing bruised knuckles and red skin. He tossed them onto the table beside the window and didn't look back.
His hands trembled.
He hated that.
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