Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

The great hall glowed with life.

Candles in tall golden stands bathed the room in warm light. Crystal chandeliers sparkled like captured stars. Laughter mingled with the soft strains of stringed instruments, filling the air with cheer that felt both familiar and distant.

Every noble house of the empire seemed gathered there, dressed in their finest, voices weaving together in endless chatter. The banners of the Astarian house hung high, proud and unyielding.

Roxail entered with steady steps.

The hall quieted, just for a breath, as heads turned and eyes followed him. The imperial prince had returned — a figure from memory, now flesh and blood again.

Whispers rose behind fans, behind goblets raised in toast. Handsome, colder than before. Changed. Or perhaps exactly as they feared.

Roxail moved through them, calm, composed. But beneath the fine robes and the weight of their gaze, he felt apart — as if watching it all from beyond a glass wall.

A few approached — sons of dukes, of counts — men who once called him friend. They smiled, offered hollow words of welcome, raised glasses in his honor.

Roxail answered them as was fitting, his voice smooth, his smile faint. The warmth between them had long since cooled.

Then, she came.

Without warning, without introduction, she was suddenly at his side.

"Prince Xavier," came her voice, soft and confident, her smile as bright as any jewel in that room. "How long it has been! You haven't changed at all."

Roxail stilled.

The name she spoke — Xavier — stirred only faint echoes. Her face did not summon any memory.

He inclined his head, polite but puzzled. "My lady… forgive me, but I do not recal—"

Before the moment could darken, Darmire appeared — light where the air had grown heavy.

"Brother," he said with a warmth that tried to bridge every unspoken distance, "allow me to present Lady Vivienne Therdane. The crown princess."

The pieces slid into place. Roxail's unease vanished behind the mask of courtly grace.

"The honor is mine, Your Highness".

Vivienne's smile deepened, but something behind it glinted — something no one else seemed to see.

When Darmire turned to greet another noble, Vivienne leaned in slightly, her voice lowered so only Roxail could hear.

"But surely, you remember me," she said, light as silk. "The student council president of Xyeris Academy?"

For a breath, the music and laughter seemed to fall away.

It struck him then — the voice, the persistence, the shadow that had trailed him through those years far from home.

Darmire, unaware, still smiled, proud of the scene before him.

Roxail's answer came smooth as water. "Ah… no, I do not recall any lady of the crown princess's name at Xyeris."

Her smile wavered, only for a heartbeat.

He felt the weight of the room — of eyes watching, of judgments forming. The walls themselves seemed to listen.

He met Darmire's gaze — a silent message passed between them: I need air.

With calm steps, he withdrew, slipping through the crowd like a shadow.

The night was cool, the stars sharp in the clear sky.

The main gardens were bright with lanterns and the steady presence of imperial guards. Roxail turned from their path, seeking the dark, the quiet.

The back garden greeted him like an old friend — overgrown, forgotten. At its heart, the Roszen greenhouse stood, a relic of a gentler time.

The door's rusted handle yielded beneath his hand. The lock, long defeated by age, gave way.

Inside, the dome rose above him, broken and streaked with moss. Moonlight spilled through the shattered glass, casting silver over the ruin within.

Vines coiled like serpents along cracked stone. The chairs and tables where once Lariette had laughed were gone, swallowed by time.

Roxail's hand brushed the wood of a single chair, worn and weathered, where she once sat. He stood behind it, as she once did, and let his eyes follow where hers had always fallen.

And there — hidden in the clutch of vines, half-swallowed by shadow — a box.

A box forgotten. Or perhaps left behind for him to find.