Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

he corridors of the east wing lay breathless beneath the candlelight, shadows swaying gently against the stone as if listening.

Steps echoed—unhurried but deliberate. The silence around them stirred, rippling like a black pool in the moonlight.

Roxail didn't stop walking. Not when the flame flickered. Not when he caught the slight movement of curtains in the corner of his eye. But his gaze flicked. His chest tightened.

It was the third night since his return. And already, he felt it in his spine: eyes. Not just watching—but waiting.

He turned a corner.

Nothing.

He exhaled, jaw firming. Then without knocking, his hand turned the handle to his younger brother's room.

Inside, warm air met him. Steam still lingered faintly in the golden-lit chamber. Darmire stepped out from the washroom, towel draped over his neck, blonde hair damp and curling against his temple.

He blinked at the sudden visitor. "Brother?"

Roxail didn't answer. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click. Then turned the lock.

A pause.

He moved to the windows, drew them shut one by one, latched them. The room dimmed.

"...Did something happen?" Darmire asked.

Still no answer.

Roxail's eyes combed the room like a hawk. He walked to the curtains and untied the thick decorative rope. The weight of it coiled heavily in his hand. He placed it on the desk—then opened a drawer.

The dull clink of metal. A letter opener. Slim. Harmless in appearance, yet his grip on it said otherwise.

Darmire's brows furrowed.

"…Are you—" his voice caught in his throat, "Are you going to kill me?"

The rope stilled in Roxail's fingers.

He turned slowly. His eyes met Darmire's. The silence between them thickened.

Then a long sigh escaped him. Roxail set the rope down on the table beside the blade.

"Why would I kill my own dumb brother?" he said flatly.

Darmire huffed in half-relief, half-annoyance. He jabbed a finger toward Roxail's unreadable face.

"Well, your eyes say otherwise. Like you were ready to wrap that rope around my neck."

Roxail gave the faintest upward twitch of a smirk—wry, not amused.

But then— click.

Both brothers froze.

It came from the balcony.

A metal turn. Too soft for a mistake. Too precise to be the wind.

Roxail's posture snapped upright. He crossed the room in swift, silent steps and motioned Darmire down.

"Stay," he whispered, sharp as a blade.

Without question, Darmire dropped beside the bed, breath shallow, heart thudding.

Roxail pressed against the wall beside the balcony door, curtain rope now wound tightly in his grip.

Another click.

Then… nothing.

Stillness.

Seconds passed. Long enough to count the breaths between them. Then the handle released.

A faint rustle. Soft, swift footsteps—retreating.

Roxail sprang.

He flung the door open and stepped into the cold.

There—just at the edge of the garden's shadows—a figure. Black robe. Hooded. Silent. They darted like smoke into the night.

Roxail cursed under his breath, his foot slamming the balcony rail. His fists clenched. He looked down over the marble railing, the silver grass below swaying, untouched.

He had been seconds too late.

Behind him, Darmire rose from the floor cautiously. His eyes shifted from the open balcony door to his brother's back—tense, unmoving.

Roxail leaned forward, his palms pressed hard against the cold stone railing. Shoulders rising and falling with heavy, controlled breath.

Darmire stepped out. The cold nipped his bare feet, but his concern outweighed the chill.

He paused a few steps behind.

"…You're not going to jump, are you?" he said, trying to sound light, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.

"Two shadows." Roxail murmured.

The wind brushed past them both.

In that quiet, standing beneath the moonlight, they said nothing more. But the tension between them—unspoken and uncertain—lingered, like smoke refusing to fade.