Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 496. Who? I
He raised it toward his lips…
And paused.
His mind moved quickly.
If he swallowed only part…
Would she notice?
Her gaze sharpened faintly.
"Roric?"
He forced a small breath.
"Just letting it cool," he said lightly.
She stepped closer.
"It's not hot."
The dilemma tightened around his chest.
He needed the sample.
But he could not afford the influence again.
Not tonight.
Not when clarity had just returned.
The cup hovered inches from his mouth.
And Seraphine waited.
Her gaze did not blink.
Not once.
Roric could feel it like a blade resting lightly against his throat. Not pressing. Not yet. Just… there.
The porcelain was warm against his fingers. The scent of the tonic rose sharply now, metallic beneath the sweetness of herbs.
He forced his breathing to slow.
If he hesitated too long, she would know.
If he swallowed it, he might lose everything he had just gained.
Think.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the small oil lamp on his desk.
Toward the curtain near the open window.
Toward the shadow pooling beneath the heavy wooden cabinet.
A thought sparked.
He lowered the cup slightly and gave a faint, almost embarrassed smile.
"You always worry too much," he said gently.
Seraphine's expression softened.
"I worry because I care."
He nodded once.
"I know."
He lifted the cup again.
This time he tilted it.
But instead of swallowing, he let the liquid merely touch his lips.
He made the faintest motion of drinking.
Then he coughed.
Lightly.
Just enough.
The cough tipped his wrist slightly, and a thin stream of tonic slipped over the rim.
Not onto the floor.
But into his sleeve.
The inner lining of his tunic had a narrow seam fold. The liquid soaked quickly into the fabric hidden against his arm.
The rest of the tonic he allowed to wet his mouth without swallowing. He held it there for a second.
Then turned slightly as if steadying himself, bringing his other hand to his lips.
He bent forward, coughing again.
The movement concealed his head turning toward the desk.
He spat the remaining liquid into the small ink basin behind the stack of parchment.
The dark liquid swallowed the tonic instantly, masking the scent.
He straightened slowly.
Seraphine stepped closer immediately.
"Are you alright?" she asked, concern tightening her tone.
Roric wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It's… stronger tonight," he said quietly.
Her eyes sharpened faintly.
He lifted the cup again, now mostly empty, and tipped it fully to show her.
Only a thin residue remained.
"I drank it," he said softly.
Seraphine's gaze moved from the cup to his face.
She stepped closer still.
Close enough that he could smell her perfume, lavender and something darker beneath.
Her fingers lifted to brush lightly against his cheek.
"Good," she murmured.
Her eyes searched his.
Looking for fog.
Looking for dullness.
Roric forced his shoulders to relax.
He slowed his blinking deliberately.
Not too slow.
Just enough to appear slightly subdued.
He let his gaze soften artificially.
A faint sigh escaped him.
"The headache is easing already," he said.
It was a lie.
But she wanted to hear it.
Seraphine studied him for several seconds.
Then… a ripple.
It brushed against her wards again.
Sharper this time.
Her hand stilled against his face.
Her gaze flicked subtly toward the wall.
There.
Again.
Someone had touched her magic.
Her pupils narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Roric noticed the shift.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, tone mild.
She recovered instantly.
"No."
But her attention had split.
The shadows along the ceiling trembled faintly.
Not her summoned ones.
Something else.
Testing.
Probing.
Her jaw tightened just slightly.
Her gaze returned to Roric.
He appeared calmer now.
More compliant.
The slight heaviness in his posture satisfied her.
Still within reach.
But the disturbance unsettled her.
She moved away from him slowly, fingers drifting from his cheek.
"Rest tonight," she said gently.
"I will."
She picked up the empty vial and examined the residue inside.
Satisfied.
Or so she believed.
As she turned toward the door, another faint pulse brushed her wards.
More deliberate.
Her lips thinned.
Someone was searching.
Very carefully.
Very quietly.
Who?
Angelus? Or someone else?
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