Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

The soft knock at the door had barely faded when Roxail opened it, his sharp gaze meeting the figure waiting beyond.

Sir Darick, the new imperial butler, stood in the dim corridor, his face composed but his eyes alert — too alert for this hour.

"Your highness," Darick spoke quietly, bowing his head. "Forgive the intrusion, but the Crown Prince... Prince Darmire has collapsed in the banquet hall."

For a heartbeat, Roxail simply stared, as if the words had not yet reached him. Then, without another breath wasted, he strode past the butler, his steps swift and silent like a shadow racing through the palace.

The corridors blurred. Down the grand staircase, past the golden pillars and the flickering torches. The murmur of voices grew louder as he neared the banquet hall — voices thick with fear, with curiosity, with false concern.

Roxail pushed through the gathered nobles, their silks and jewels parting like water before him. And then he saw it.

Darmire — pale as winter, sprawled on the floor like a fallen star. Empress Semantha knelt beside him, her hands cradling his head, fingers stroking his face with trembling tenderness, tears glistening on her cheeks.

The Crown Princess Vivienne was weeping softly, hands clasped to her chest, her slender shoulders shaking.

Chancellor Grey knelt at Darmire's side, pressing a glass of water to his lips — though no true effort was made to help him drink. Around them, nobles whispered, watching, waiting. No guard had moved. No physician had been summoned.

A stage. All of it.

Roxail felt his teeth clench, his jaw tight with fury he did not show. The hall had fallen silent at his approach, the weight of his presence cutting through the pretense like a blade.

"Call for the doctor," Roxail said, his voice steady, commanding — no louder than necessary, but impossible to ignore.

Grey hesitated, then rose slowly, stepping back under Roxail's piercing gaze.

Roxail knelt. His hands, sure and gentle, took Darmire's head from the Empress's lap, laying it flat upon the marble floor. Before words or protests could form, Roxail pressed his brother's chest, sharp and firm. He slapped Darmire's pale cheeks, once, twice — enough to jolt, not to harm.

"Water," he called, and at last a servant broke from the frozen crowd, bringing a glass. Without hesitation, Roxail splashed the cold water across Darmire's face.

Then, seeing no response, he drew back his fist and struck — not hard, but enough.

Darmire gasped, eyes snapping open, breath rushing back to him like a tide.

The nobles exhaled as one — soft sighs of relief rippling through the hall.

Roxail's face betrayed nothing. He rose, his gaze sweeping across the stunned faces of Semantha, Vivienne, and Grey.

LATER;

The physician wiped his hands, stepping back from the bed where Darmire now rested, propped against pillows, his skin no longer deathly pale.

The doctor met Roxail's eyes, nodded once, and at Roxail's quiet word, took his leave.

Roxail turned back, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. He watched his brother in silence for a moment, the shadows softening the sharpness of his features.

Darmire's sky-hued eyes met his, searching. "So… what happened?"

Roxail let out a breath, kicking off his shoes and folding his legs comfortably on the bed, facing Darmire with a small, almost boyish smile.

"Oh, nothing much," he said lightly. "You were served a little too strong a dose for your age — in your juice, no less. You fainted. But don't worry. The noble guests are staying in the guest palace for the night, reassured that the Crown Prince is alive and not poisoned."

It wasn't the explanation that surprised Darmire. It was the change in Roxail — the warmth, the ease, the quiet patience in the way he sat, as if they were two boys again, sharing secrets at bedtime.

The tension in Darmire's chest loosened, and a soft, surprised laugh slipped from his lips.

Roxail tilted his head, a faint blush touching his cheeks. "What are you laughing at?"

Darmire smiled, his voice low but warm. "At you, brother. I thought you were a ghost tonight — cold and distant as the moon. But now look at you. I don't know whether to thank you or ask what trick you're planning."

Roxail chuckled, the sound quiet but real. "No tricks tonight, Darmire. Not tonight."

And yet, as he leaned back, his eyes drifted to the window — where the moonlight poured in, silver and cold. His thoughts returned to the letter hidden in his coat, and the warning that still echoed in his heart.

Not all shadows fall from night…