Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 481. Visiting The Market II
Angel paused briefly before entering. His gaze swept the courtyard once.
For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Roric's hiding place.
Not directly.
But enough.
Then he stepped inside.
The carriage rolled forward.
Roric remained hidden until it passed the outer gates and disappeared beyond the high stone walls.
Only then did he move.
He crossed the courtyard swiftly but without panic, heading toward the stable area near the eastern wing. A stablehand looked up as he approached.
"Your Highness?"
"I require a horse," Roric said evenly. "Immediately."
The stablehand blinked but nodded quickly. "Of course."
A dark bay mare was brought forward. Strong legs. Clear eyes. Reliable.
Roric mounted smoothly, adjusting his grip on the reins.
"I will return within the hour," he said.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He guided the horse toward the main gate.
Not in a hurry.
Not yet.
The gate guards opened for him without question. He passed through at a steady trot, the castle shrinking behind him as the iron gates groaned shut.
Only once the heavy doors sealed did he lean forward slightly and nudge the mare into a faster pace.
Not a full gallop.
Just enough.
The morning air hit his face cool and sharp. The streets of Pontus were waking. Market vendors setting up stalls. Bakers hauling out fresh bread. The scent of yeast and smoke and early spices drifted through the narrow stone streets.
Ahead, he spotted the carriage.
He kept distance. Close enough not to lose it. Far enough not to seem obvious.
His eyes locked onto the carriage wheels turning steadily along the road.
And then…
Something in his mind shifted.
The rhythm of hooves.
The angle of sunlight.
The sound of wooden wheels over cobblestone.
His breath caught.
He had done this before.
But not in daylight.
Night.
It was night.
The memory surfaced like a shape under dark water.
He was riding harder. Faster. The streets were empty. No vendors. No voices. Only the echo of hooves and the distant rumble of wheels.
Jane's carriage.
He had chased it.
He could almost feel it now, the cold wind slashing across his face, the desperation in his chest. The frantic thought repeating over and over.
Don't go.
Don't go.
Don't leave.
He saw flashes.
Jane inside the carriage, crying silently.
Him gripping the reins so tightly his hands bled.
A voice inside him screaming.
Run, Jane. Run.
Not away from danger.
Away from him.
The memory blurred again, like someone smearing ink across the page of his mind.
He blinked hard, nearly missing a turn in the road.
The present snapped back.
The carriage ahead continued at its calm pace.
His chest felt tight.
He slowed the mare slightly, steadying himself.
That night.
He remembered chasing her.
But he also remembered letting her go.
Why?
He could not remember the conversation that followed. Only the feeling.
Relief.
And agony.
The two emotions had twisted together so tightly he couldn't separate them.
He shook his head lightly, focusing forward.
The city grew busier as they moved deeper into the capital. Narrower streets. Overhanging balconies. Colorful fabrics draped between buildings. Children running with sticks. Merchants shouting prices.
Angel had chosen this deliberately.
No escort meant no control.
No control meant unpredictability.
Roric kept his distance as the carriage turned into the central market square.
He guided the mare to a side street and dismounted, tying the reins loosely near a water trough. He did not want to approach on horseback. That would draw attention.
He walked.
Blending into the crowd as best as a tall armored prince could.
He spotted the carriage stopped near a row of spice stalls. Angel stepped out first, adjusting his cloak. Rose followed, her attire plain enough to avoid recognition. Jane stepped down last, eyes wide as she looked around the market.
Roric stayed back, watching.
Angel spoke briefly to the carriage driver before the carriage rolled away.
Good.
No obvious anchor tying them to the castle.
Roric inhaled slowly.
This was the moment.
He moved through the crowd casually, pretending interest in a nearby blacksmith's display. The clang of hammer against metal rang sharply in the air. Sparks jumped. The smell of hot iron and coal dust filled his nose.
He let the noise steady him.
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