Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

The palace doors closed behind Roxail with a soft thud that echoed like memory. The marble beneath his boots gleamed as it had in his youth, but no warmth remained in its polished surface. The air of dust and secrets, and the walls watched with unseen eyes.

Servants stood at distance — their heads bowed low, their hands trembling as they clutched their trays or brooms — and not one dared meet his gaze.

Darmire led him down those vast, hollow halls. The younger prince's golden hair caught what little filtered through the tall windows. His steps were soft, careful, as if he feared waking something slumbering in the shadows.

The royal guestroom opened before them — dark-paneled walls, tall veiled windows, the scent of aged cedar. The fire in the hearth burned low, as if unsure whether to welcome or warn.

"Please", Darmire said, voice gentle, "have a seat."

Roxail lowered himself into the chair opposite his brother. The room's silence pressed upon him, heavier than his travel-worn cloak.

Darmire's smile wavered, sensing the distance in his brother's eyes — a gaze of a man who returned to find his home no longer his.

Trying to push back the cold air, Darmire spoke, his voice lighter than he felt. "Tell me of the northern outers. Of the lands you saw, the halls where you studied. I've dreamed of seeing such places."

Roxail answered each question. His voice calm, measured. He spoke of snowfields that stretched beyond the horizon, of scholars with voices like wind, of nights so quiet he heard his own heart. But with every word, the room only grew colder, the silence deeper.

Darmire felt his hope dim. This was his brother — and yet the space between them seemed wider than the empire itself.

He fell silent.

Roxail lifted the tea to his lips, took a small sip, and set it down again. The taste, like the room, was hollow.

His gaze drifted to the door, waiting.

Darmire noticed.

"Who are you waiting for?" he asked, though he feared the answer.

Roxail turned, a faint, soft smile brushing his lips. "Mother. Father."

Darmired stilled. His breath caught. His sky-blue eyes darkened, clouds covering their usual light.

Roxail felt it .—the shift, the weight that fell between them.

"You don't know..."

 "About what?" Roxail's voice remained steady, though something trembled.

Darmire lowered his head into his hands. His shoulders sagged beneath burdens too long carried.

"Mother is gone. They say sickness took her. Three moons later, Father followed. His heart could not bear the loss. The court hid it — they said the empire needed stability, not mourning. I wrote you. I tried. So many letters. None returned. In the end, I thought... perhaps you had chosen another path. A life without this place."

The words hit like a silent storm. Roxail's mind reeled. His heart screamed into the stillness, but his face — cold, composed — betrayed nothing. His eyes stayed dry, his hands still. The palace walls had ears. And so he sat as a statue might, hollow yet unbroken.

At last, his voice came, quiet and edged. "No letters reached me. None. And now, I return... to this."

Darmire opened his mouth, grief rising — 

But the door creaked.

Slowly, almost lazily, it swung wide.

She entered.

Empress Semantha.

Her dark eyes gleamed beneath her veil. She was dressed too finely for so simple a meeting — as if the night itself were a celebration. A fan twirled in her slender fingers, its lacquered edge catching the firelight like a blade

"My dear Xa," she said, her voice smooth, sweet, too sweet.

She crossed the room, each step unhurried, precise, as if on a stage.

Without waiting, she reached for him, cupping his face in her gloved hands. The scent of rare perfume clung to her.

"So tall. So handsome. My little boy returns at last."

Before he could answer, before he could pull away, she leaned closer — eyes sharp, smile soft — and spoke low, as though sharing some secret only he could hear.

"Welcome home, Xavier."

And with that, she turned, the fan snapping shut like the final word in a game he did not yet understand.

Her skirts whispered across the floor as she left — the room colder for her passage, the shadows longer.

Silence fell again, heavier than before.

Roxail looked at Darmire.

Darmire was already watching him, those sky-blue eyes now dark, unreadable — the color of a night sky heavy with unseen storms.

And in that glance, Roxail saw it. A truth unspoken. A sorrow too deep for words.

But neither spoke.

The palace had ears.

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