Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 450. The Dark King's Request III
"You're my children's stepmother," he corrected, too fast.
Seraphine's smile didn't falter. But her gaze cooled by a few degrees.
"That doesn't make me less queen."
"I didn't say it did."
Silence stretched between them. The air in the solar was heavy, pressed down by the weight of velvet drapes and old dust. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly from the tea tray she hadn't touched. Outside the stained glass windows, the autumn wind whispered through the trees of the palace courtyard. Crimson leaves scraped along stone paths like restless whispers.
Darius sighed and sat, tugging the thick mantle from his shoulders. The boar sigil, the crest of Pontus, embroidered in thread across the back, gleamed for a moment before he let it fall against the carved oak of the chair. He looked tired. Not just from politics or the endless hours of bureaucracy. But from her.
Seraphine crossed the room without invitation, her heels tapping softly. "You're upset," she said lightly. "Is it because of me?"
He scoffed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "You wish it were you."
She hummed. "Then it's our guest."
"The Dark King of Euphorion." The words came out with a bite. "Raizel. Angelus. Whatever ridiculous name he's going by these days."
She smirked and sat opposite him, smoothing her skirts. "I heard he prefers Angelus."
Darius's jaw clenched. "How adorable."
"You're mad… because I said you flirt with him?" she teased, cocking her head.
He waved her off. "I'm mad because this entire thing is absurd. A trade and business discussion? With a man who took his throne by killing another king?"
Seraphine blinked slowly. "That's Euphorion's rule. The one who contracts all four elemental spirits and defeats them becomes king. The strongest leads. Their law. Not ours."
"But this man didn't just take one throne." Darius's voice dropped, sharp and low. "He took four. Euphorion. Asteria. Zephyrus. Draconis. And now? He lets their royals stay on their thrones while he pulls the strings behind their backs."
He was hissing now, fury barely leashed beneath his words. The veins in his hands stood rigid as he gripped the armrest.
"This young, smiling, charismatic king is the beginning of disaster."
Seraphine tilted her head thoughtfully. "You hate him, Darius."
"I do," he snapped.
She was quiet for a moment. Then softly, almost playfully, "Is it because he's stronger than you?"
His head jerked up. "What?"
"More popular. More respected. More feared. Pick one." She shrugged, fingers tracing the armrest. "Or maybe it's that the world watches him now. And they don't look here anymore."
Darius didn't answer. But his jaw flexed, and that was enough.
The truth hung between them.
He hated that Angelus Raizel Moonfall was young and already had the respect of kingdoms. That he'd led Euphorion in war against his own homeland, Asteria, and still emerged a hero in the eyes of his people.
He hated that the man hadn't hidden behind diplomacy or proxies.
He fought. He won. And now even Pontus, with its ancient traditions and proud military, had no choice but to welcome him.
"He should be hated," Darius muttered bitterly. "He is hated. But that's the problem. They hate him… and still respect him."
Seraphine's tone softened. "He did everything for his kingdom. Even raised his sword against Asteria when they attacked Euphorion. What would you have done if Pontus were in his place?"
"I would've sent generals. Not taken the sword myself."
"But then you wouldn't have won."
He froze.
And for once, Seraphine didn't smile. "That's the difference, isn't it?"
Silence stretched again.
She stood and walked slowly behind his chair, her voice near his ear now, soft as silk. "You hate him… because he made you feel small."
"I am king," he said flatly.
"And yet you sit here whispering about him like a jealous schoolboy."
His hands curled into fists.
"I'll greet him," Darius said finally. "I'll smile. Shake his hand. Offer wine and a chair."
Seraphine placed her hands gently on his shoulders, her touch deceptively soft. "Good. That's the wise thing."
"But if he oversteps—"
"He won't. He doesn't need to." She moved around him again, retrieving her gloves from the velvet armrest. "Men like him don't win by shouting. They win by existing."
He looked up at her, eyes narrowed and full of accusation. "You admire him."
"I acknowledge power," she said simply. "And survival. He's both."
"No," Darius said coldly. "You admire him because he holds dark power... like yourself."
She stopped. Her smile curled, not with affection, but with something deeper, older, hungrier.
"Ah," she purred. "So you've noticed."
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