Amorphous: A Trace in Ashes

Chapter 11 – Pale Eyes, Dark Games

No moon remained above, and the air was growing colder still. The skies outside barely hinted at dawn. Not a single servant patrolled this wing of the imperial guesthouse, and Roxail had chosen it precisely for that reason. A corridor far enough from the nobles' rooms, a chamber no longer used, and a fire that hadn't been lit in seasons. It was quiet, vast—and empty.

Until it wasn't.

The door creaked softly.

The man stepped in without hesitation.

He didn't bow.

They locked eyes for a moment. Then, with the practiced ease of one who'd never needed permission, the man dropped himself onto the velvet sofa across from Roxail, arm thrown over the backrest, legs crossed, shirt collar loose. His platinum blonde hair was tied low, framing a sharp, handsome face and a grin that suggested something between mockery and amusement.

Roxail didn't even blink.

"You're late," he said.

"You're early," the man replied, tilting his head. "Or too eager."

The silence between them was thick, laced with familiarity that could have been rivalry… or something worse.

Roxail's eyes narrowed. "You were at the banquet. So tell me. What did I miss?"

A pause. Then the man chuckled.

"Where do I begin?" he said, voice low and dry. "Your crown prince collapsed. Nobles panicked. Some prayed. One dropped his wine. Another… I believe, chuckled."

"Names," Roxail said flatly.

The man waved a lazy hand. "Oh, they'll slip. In time. But you asked for color, not detail. So here it is—"

He leaned in just a little.

"Your Empress? Busy entertaining alliances. Chatting away. Not one eye turned."

"Vivianne?"

"Draped on the arm of Lord Henric, laughing at his every word. Rather… animated. Charming, even."

"Grey?"

"Ah, now there's a shadow glued to your brother's heel. Like a ghost waiting for its turn."

Roxail leaned back, arms crossed. "So no one helped?"

"Oh no, they helped. Some knelt, some poured water… none screamed. And none summoned a physician. Odd, isn't it?"

"Hmm," Roxail hummed. A chill settled in the corners of his coat. "And the shadows?"

At this, the man's grin faded into something quieter.

"One for him. One for you."

Roxail nodded once. "They were careful. One entered. One fled."

"And both failed."

They fell into silence.

Then laughter.

It broke out between them, slow at first, then deeper. Both laughing in that hollow chamber like old friends trading jokes. But there was nothing warm in it. Their faces, in the early light, remained unreadable. Only the gleam of their eyes betrayed a simmering knowledge.

"Well," said the man at last, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "You haven't changed. Still sharp. Still playing."

"And you?" Roxail asked.

"Still winning."

"Only in dreams."

"Dreams make the world bearable."

Their laughter slowed into breath.

More words followed. Plans not detailed. Words not meant for the walls to listen. They spoke in symbols, left things unsaid, nodded in silence. It was as if half their conversation happened outside the room—off the edge of the table between.

Finally, as the sun touched the edge of the sky, they stood.

"Until next time," the man said, his voice now smoother.

But before Roxail could turn, the man plucked something from his pocket and tossed it casually across the space between them.

Roxail caught it in one hand.

A black rook.

Their eyes met.

The man's grin widened.

"The knight hasn't made his move yet. Don't let your pawns go to waste."

Roxail said nothing.

He gave a single nod and walked out of the chamber, the soft click of the door closing behind him.

The man stood there alone in the morning silence, shadows curling behind him like wolves.

He murmurs to himself scratching the back of his neck.

"Dammit, I forgot to warn him of--"

A pause.

He turns sharply.

No one, just silence.

-Odd silence.