Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

The palace halls were quiet—too quiet. No banquet laughter echoed tonight, no rustling silk from passing nobles. Only the occasional groan of the old marble beneath Roxail's boots and the brittle flicker of torchlight breaking the velvet hush.

He walked slowly, almost absentmindedly, hands behind his back, the collar of his coat turned up against the autumn draft leaking through the stone. The night air felt heavier inside than it had outside.

There was something about these halls.

The way the portraits hung just a little too perfectly. The way every curve of the columns looked sculpted not by artists, but by watchers.

Roxail paused at a corridor crossing, his eyes drifting upward to the towering glass window on the left wall. It reflected only him.

Or… at least, it should have.

He stepped closer. The flame of the wall-mounted torch beside him danced in the polished pane. So did his figure—composed, tall, cold-eyed.

But behind his own reflection… something else. A flicker.

He turned sharply—nothing. Only the passage, dark and yawning.

He moved on.

Each turn felt familiar, yet not. These corridors were his home once, years ago, but now they felt like tunnels through a sleeping beast—beautiful, silent, full of teeth. His footsteps tapped rhythmically, echoing longer than they should.

The paintings watched.

He reached the west side hall. Fewer candles lit this wing, and no servants walked here now. Roxail's boots moved quieter here, as if they, too, were holding breath.

He stopped at a tapestry—a large, faded weave of the late Emperor riding into battle, sword raised, flanked by loyal generals. Roxail's eyes lingered not on the Emperor's proud form, but on the face of the young boy sketched into the crowd below: a barely aged Xa, arms folded, eyes sharp even in thread.

He wondered if the weaver had captured his scowl accurately, or merely imagined it.

Further down the hall, he passed an open doorway into a dim chamber—its windows shuttered, its scent of old books and burnt oil drifting outward. His fingers twitched with instinct. The archive room. He used to sneak in here at night, years ago, to steal hours alone with forbidden records. A sharp nostalgia pressed at him. He resisted the urge to step in.

He descended the grand stairway with slow, deliberate steps, his boots echoing. The chandeliers above were half-lit. The central hall, where nobles once gathered earlier that evening, now stood still like an emptied theatre. All props, no actors.

He crossed the main floor, passing the two thrones on the dais—one velvet-cushioned for the reigning power, the other deliberately plain for the Crown Prince. He did not look at them.

A low breeze from under the tall entrance doors brushed his ankles. The scent of metal and marble was sharp tonight.

Then he turned, as if instinct guiding him, and walked toward the servants' hallway. Silent, narrow. It snaked behind the banquet hall and into the lower wings.

He entered the kitchen.

The room was dark save for a few glowing embers in the hearth. Pots gleamed in the faint light like relics in a tomb. Roxail walked through soundlessly, familiar even with the cold slate tiles underfoot. He remembered stealing bread here with Darmire, years ago, ducking behind barrels and slipping past sleepy chefs.

He opened the back door.

The air outside hit him like a memory—crisp, pine-scented, lined with frost. Autumn's breath.

The back garden stretched wide under the moonlight, dew glittering faintly on hedges and lawn. To the far left stood the imperial guest house: majestic, angular, its windows aglow with noble restlessness. To the far right, cloaked in vines and dust, loomed the forgotten glass dome—the old conservatory, abandoned since Lariette's death.

He looked at it.

He could feel the gravity of it pulling his gaze, but he didn't move that way. Not yet.

Instead, he stepped toward the guest house.

His boots crunched on the gravel path. Distantly, laughter rose—a high-pitched chuckle quickly silenced. Then nothing.

The guards at the front entrance noticed him, straightened quickly, and bowed. They said nothing. Their eyes avoided his.

He said nothing in return.

He passed through the main door.

Silence folded over him again.