Above, the Watchful World

Chapter nine ـ When We Laughed in Silence

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Laughter fades, but its echo lingers. Iswar steps into an empty room and laughs—silently—with someone who is no longer there.

---

With the old dust still clinging to memory, both Iswar and Ayant chose silence as their companion in the training yard.

They exchanged only fleeting glances, swallowed by the vastness of the sun and the harshness of movement.

Their clothes were lighter, their steps more deliberate—as if each of them was unloading a weight too heavy to speak of.

Even the sounds of clashing wood or sliding feet failed to break the still wall that had risen between them.

There was no harshness, no show of dominance.

The training felt more like an ancient ritual performed for survival than any form of competition.

When the session ended, neither commented.

They simply walked away in silence, as though what had just happened was nothing more than another chapter in a long book of shared endurance.

Then came dinner.

No changes.

No movements.

No emotions.

Just silence—but not just any silence.

It was an uneasy, tense kind of stillness, as though all the whispering voices in the palace were just background noise, irrelevant to their inner worlds that had sunk into a maze of fading hues.

They entered the hall and left everything to the servants, as usual.

The servants, too, flowed with the mood, behaving as if their masters' affairs were none of their concern.

---

The servants withdrew as always, leaving behind two warm plates, two chairs facing each other… and an atmosphere too dense to digest.

Ayant sat as though the weariness had slipped from his body onto the table.

He lowered his head slightly, then began twirling the knife between his fingers in a slow, circular motion.

He said nothing.

And I didn't answer anything either.

Until—for reasons I still don't understand—I decided to speak.

"What's wrong?"

My lips said it before my mind could justify the question.

A small word, almost trivial… yet at that moment, it felt like rain falling in a dry summer.

Ayant looked up at me, his eyebrows lowered as if bearing all that had remained unsaid.

Then, while sliding the knife slowly across his napkin, he replied,

"I'm a little upset... maybe more than a little."

Unconsciously, a soft "pfft…" escaped me—barely audible.

But for Ayant, it was enough to ignite the moment.

The knife slipped from his fingers, and he stood suddenly, as if struck by electricity:

"I swear you just mocked me!"

I looked at him in genuine surprise.

"Me? When?"

I hadn't even finished the sentence before I burst into laughter.

A real laugh, long and unfiltered, the kind I hadn't let out in ages.

"Pfft?! Haha... Look at your face, Ayant!"

He sat down abruptly, burying his head into the table like someone wishing to disappear.

"This is embarrassing... I'm acting like a child."

I reached out instinctively and ran my hand through his messy golden hair—the way my mother used to do with me when I was his age.

"It's alright... You are still a child, after all," I said quietly.

He slowly raised his head, his eyes slightly widened, filled with something unclear between frustration and fragility.

"Look who's talking," he muttered, in a tone that resembled a smile too shy to come out.

I sighed lightly and reached for a piece of stale bread.

Ayant, unusually, chuckled.

It was short—but real.

We finished our meal, leaving behind some crumbs on the table… and a whole lot of comforting silence.

---

What Iswar tells us before that choking silence

Since what happened in the basement, a weightless heaviness lingered in the air.

Expressions began slipping from Ayant against his will, creeping across his face like someone tripping inside himself.

Sometimes... I think he resembles me a great deal.

Perhaps that's exactly why he searched for a friend like himself—and found none.

Oh... wait.

I almost recall the scene that brought him and his father—the Marquis Sayanar—together on his visit to us five years ago.

A conversation I wasn't part of… yet it never left me.

And every time I gaze into his eyes for too long, I think of that man again—

That first, and only, friend who believed in me… despite everything.

I felt a twinge of sorrow for him.

Or maybe, I was just seeking an excuse to draw a new line between us,

one that would let me see the loop repeating.

That's why, when the dinner table emptied of servants,

I suddenly realized—I cared for this child more than I thought.

But… when did that begin?

I don't know. Maybe from the very start, when he was just curious and enigmatically present.

His childish behavior tonight made me feel a kind of ease I hadn't tasted in years.

I laughed. I actually laughed.

Only one phrase left my lips in a whisper, as though interrogating myself:

"When was the last time I laughed sincerely?"

But I quickly shoved all such thoughts aside.

Found myself in bed, turning to the wall,

as his voice came from behind me:

— "Good night, Iswar… I hope you dream sweetly."

I replied, hiding a faint smile in my pillow:

— "You too."

Perhaps... I felt a bit embarrassed.

Because I, too, had begun acting like a child.

---

Though their views differ, the moment they shared remains vivid, alive—filled with a beautiful joy that may never return.

For now, Ayant speaks his side:

This... is unfair.

I never enjoyed Iswar's mockery of me, and yet… his laugh was real.

I hadn't heard it sound that clear in a long time.

I left his room breathing heavily.

In the corridor, I pulled at the strands of my hair from below, then lightly bumped my forehead against the wall like someone quietly scolding himself:

"Damn it... if I grow soft, I'll lose again."

How silly that action was.

But afterward, I felt balanced again.

I regained my composure, and before heading to sleep, I gave the palace a passing glance,

as though the night needed my eyes to be complete.

And when I entered my room, a strange sensation washed over me—

as though the air had been breathed by someone else.

Gentle breezes moved through, not resembling the cold of the windows.

Without hesitation, I drew my sword.

But I didn't keep the blade raised long.

The moment I saw him, I sheathed it again smoothly.

It was Rakael—

Leader of the Shadows in the Shira unit.

He bowed to me exactly as Raphael once did before,

his voice steady and sharp as he uttered the old greeting:

"I wish you a smooth path to the Shira of the Underworld."

I let out a soft sigh and allowed myself to return to my true form.

I sat on the chair without much caution and asked with intentional coldness:

"What brings you here?"

He answered without delay:

"I've found him."

His words…

Echoed in my ears like a melody the night had long rehearsed for me.

And against my will, a smile drew itself on my face—

clear, uncalculated.

Rakael waited for no response.

My smile was enough to assure him he had completed his mission perfectly.

Still, I said, covering my face with my hand like a child hiding unfamiliar joy:

"I was sure I picked the right man for the task."

For some reason, he looked somewhat relieved.

Maybe he didn't know why I sought that person.

Maybe he didn't care.

But he said, as he adjusted his white hair covering and lowered his golden eyes with respect:

"I'm happy for you... I hope your path stays smooth, my lord."

Moments later, he left the room without a sound,

leaving behind a silence I hadn't known I'd missed.

I stood.

Snorted lightly, then mumbled as I headed for a bath:

"I've found you... finally."

---

After the bath, Ayant sat by the window,

his cup in hand—not to drink, but to feel its weight.

The moon hung high in the sky,

but its reflection in his eyes seemed closer than ever,

as if its light visited only his room.

He sat in complete stillness,

leaning back into the chair with a slowness akin to forgetting.

He wasn't thinking.

Wasn't dreaming.

Wasn't remembering.

He simply was.

His breaths were faint—barely audible.

Even his heartbeat seemed to fade bit by bit,

as though his chest was preparing for a final stillness,

or as if his heart had surrendered to an indescribable calm.

And in the presence of that moonlight...

he didn't feel cold, nor lonely.

It was as if something else was watching him too—

passing through the light,

passing through him,

and then disappearing.

He looked enchanted by a scene that didn't exist—

a scene that wasn't his.

And yet, he couldn't look away.

He simply...

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