Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

The morning light slipped through the tall windows of Roxail's chamber, falling in pale stripes across the polished floor. He stood before the mirror in silence, dressed in the robes chosen by the empire's finest tailors — black trimmed with silver, the crest of the imperial house glinting at his chest.

The man who gazed back at him felt like a stranger.

The robes fit perfectly, every fold and seam a master's work. The insignia shone with honor. But behind the fine cloth, behind the polished boots and combed dark hair, was a face harder than the boy who had left these halls four years ago. His eyes — once bright with dreams — now watched himself with unreadable calm.

Is this what they wish to see? he wondered. The imperial prince returned. Or a ghost dressed in their colors?

He stepped out into the corridor, his boots soft on the ancient stone.

The palace was awake.

Servants hurried past, bowing deeply, but few dared meet his eyes. They moved like shadows, their faces tense, their steps careful. The scent of incense and polished wood filled the air. Banners of crimson and silver lined the halls, flowers fresh at every corner. Yet all felt hollow, as if this beauty was meant for someone else.

He passed tapestries older than himself, doors carved with the history of kings. But the halls felt smaller than he remembered — or perhaps he had grown beyond them.

The walls seemed to watch. Or listen.

He paused at a window, looking out over the palace gardens.

And for a moment — brief as a breath — he saw a memory.

Two boys racing across the grass, laughter echoing. His younger brother's bright hair catching the sun, a voice calling his name. His mother's hand, soft on his shoulder, guiding him gently back from mischief.

The warmth of it struck him, and then the pain.

"Brother."

Roxail turned.

Darmire approached, dressed in light gold and white, the crown prince's colors. His smile was warm — too warm, perhaps — as if trying to melt the ice between them.

"The hall looks well, does it not? I thought... it would please you, to see it ready for tonight."

Roxail inclined his head, his voice even. "It does. The empire's heart beats strong."

They walked a little way together.

Darmire spoke of the preparations — the music, the guest lists, the work of the chefs. His words flowed easily, trying to bridge the chasm that neither knew how to cross.

Roxail answered politely, but the weight in his chest did not lift. The distance between them had grown too wide, the years too long.

They fell into silence.

At a turning of the hall, Roxail felt eyes upon him.

He glanced up.

There, above them on a high stair, stood Empress Semantha.

Draped in dark silk, her fan half-raised, she watched them. Her gaze glinted in the morning light — unreadable, sharp, almost amused. The fan hid her mouth, but her posture spoke of ease, as if this moment belonged to her alone.

Roxail met her gaze. A chill ran through him, though he could not say why.

After a heartbeat, he turned away.

When he looked back, she was gone.

The brothers parted then, each to his own duties, each to his own thoughts.

And the palace waited.