Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 484. Visiting The Market V
"But I don't take them regularly anymore. Sometimes I drink them, sometimes I don't. It depends on the situation," he added.
Rose studied him carefully. "You said the headache began after battle," she said. "Was there injury?"
He frowned. "I do not remember."
"Do you have scarring?"
He shook his head.
"Any memory of being struck?"
Another shake.
Frustration flared in him.
"I do not remember," he repeated, harsher this time.
Rose's gaze softened slightly.
"I am not accusing you of weakness," she said quietly. "I am looking for patterns."
He exhaled slowly. "I understand."
She stepped closer.
"Would you permit me," she asked gently, "to examine your head later? Privately."
His pulse jumped.
Privately.
In the open street, that word felt heavier than a drawn sword.
He glanced instinctively around them.
No obvious castle guards.
But Pontus had ears everywhere.
He nodded once.
"Yes."
Angel shifted slightly, gaze sweeping the rooftops.
"If we are to continue this conversation," Angel said calmly, "we should keep moving."
Roric nodded.
They resumed walking.
Inside, his thoughts churned.
He had done it.
He had opened the door.
Not fully.
But enough.
Fear coiled in his stomach.
If Seraphine learned he had not taken the tonic…
If Darius suspected he was questioning loyalty…
If the fog returned and erased this clarity…
He clenched his hands behind his back.
No.
He would not drink it again.
Ever.
The market noise began to rise again as they approached another cluster of stalls.
Jane walked slightly closer to him now, though she did not speak.
He felt her presence like warmth at his side.
Conflicting instincts surged again.
Run.
Stay.
Protect.
Destroy.
But today, for the first time, the destructive voice felt weaker.
Faint.
Distant.
Like it was losing ground.
And Roric knew one thing with painful certainty.
If the tonic was the chain…
Then he had just taken the first step toward breaking it.
The thought did not feel triumphant.
It felt terrifying.
Breaking chains meant consequences.
They walked slowly through the market, letting the noise swallow the tension of their earlier conversation.
Angel asked about the outer trade roads, his tone light but precise.
Rose inquired about grain supply and winter storage.
Roric answered as the dutiful prince of Pontus should.
"The eastern trade road remains stable," he said calmly as they passed a merchant stacking crates of dried figs. "Bandit activity decreased after the last military sweep."
Angel nodded slightly. "And the northern pass?"
"Still volatile," Roric replied. "The mountain tribes prefer independence. We negotiate when possible. Suppress when necessary."
He heard how cold that sounded. Suppress when necessary.
That used to roll off his tongue without thought.
Now it scraped against something in his chest.
Rose walked beside them, fingertips brushing lightly across bundles of dried herbs displayed on a wooden table. The scent of crushed mint and wild thyme drifted upward.
"What are your most requested herbal remedies?" she asked casually. "In Euphorion, lung tonics are popular this season. Too much smoke from ironwork."
Roric considered. "Here, joint balms for laborers. And fever mixtures for children during the damp months."
"Any shortages?" she asked.
He glanced toward a narrow side alley where an old woman sat with woven baskets filled with crushed leaves.
"Certain medicinal roots," he admitted. "The marshlands have been difficult to access lately."
Rose hummed thoughtfully. "That often increases counterfeit production."
Roric gave her a sharper look.
"You suspect that here?"
She smiled faintly. "I suspect it everywhere."
He almost smiled back.
The conversation drifted naturally into commodities. Pontus steel exports. Salt trade along the eastern rivers. The recent surge in silk imports. Angel asked pointed but measured questions, each one revealing he understood far more than he showed.
Roric answered honestly. Mostly.
He felt strangely… lighter. Speaking without fog felt like rediscovering an old skill.
And yet, beneath it all, his attention kept drifting toward Jane.
She walked slightly behind them, quiet. Too quiet.
Sometimes she paused at a particular stall, eyes lingering not on the goods but on the street itself. On the angles of buildings. On the color of painted shutters. Nostalgia flickered across her face, soft and almost painful.
Other times she looked distant. Calculating.
Roric watched her carefully.
Her memory was intact.
He was sure of it now.
She was not confused.
She was pretending.
Pretending for survival.
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