Chapter Five - Where Shadows Begin to Think
In the imperial palace where silence wears perfume and questions walk barefoot, a new lesson begins—one that is not found in books. As the young princes gather for their first class in ancient literature, whispers from the past echo through golden corridors. Among them, one child listens not to the words, but to what lies between them.
When shadows begin to think, even silence trembles.
Iswar walked ahead of me with determined steps, silent as always, and I followed him like a soundless shadow. I never liked these kinds of events, but they were never my choice to begin with.
When the door to the great hall opened, the servant's voice preceded us:
"His Highness the Second Prince, the Little Sun, enters now accompanied by his aide, Ayant Saynar."
Inside, only the Emperor was present.
I advanced with measured steps and bowed to him in elegant fluidity, my hair falling over my face like a curtain of midnight threads. In a clear voice, I said:
"I greet the Great Sun of the Empire. I wish you long-lasting glory and unending joy."
I felt none of those words. But I spoke them as one would recite a soulless prayer.
The Emperor looked at me with a half-smile and said, "Raise your head."
Directly behind me, Iswar spoke without bowing, his voice as cold as ever:
"I wish you health, Imperial Father."
The Emperor replied with a nod, indifferently:
"Thank you… my son. You may sit."
Without a word, Iswar walked to his seat on the left side of the long table and sat with cool confidence. I followed and stood behind him, like a well-trained shadow.
The hall was vast, bathed in golden light from tall windows, yet it felt uncomfortably cold. The columns bore intricate carvings of ancient battles, and the ceiling exuded grandeur devoid of warmth. On the walls, portraits of past emperors silently watched over the long table as if guarding it beyond death.
The servants moved like silent ghosts, wheeling food carts across the marble floor. Every wheel's creak seemed to scratch the silence.
Then came the announcement of the First Prince:
"His Highness the First Prince, Exander Haruth Eland, son of the Second Consort."
He entered lightly, a mischievous smile on his face, as if attending a party rather than an official meal.
The twins followed:
"His Highness the Third Prince, Light Haruth Eland, and Her Highness the Fourth Princess, Silan Haruth Eland, of the First Consort."
Light had dark black hair, his eyes gleaming like a flickering flame. Silan, with long blue hair cascading like winter sea waves, wore a blue-and-white gown adorned with golden accessories that reflected light like a wandering snowflake.
Then came Litia, the Fifth Princess, daughter of the Third Consort, just three years old. She wore a simple dress, her features still hiding untouched childhood.
The youngest prince did not attend, being too young.
The princes took their seats in order: Exander to the far left, followed by Iswar, then Light. Silan and Litia sat on the right. The scene looked meticulously arranged, like a secret theatrical performance.
Once the dishes were set, most of the servants withdrew, leaving only a few behind in case of request.
Finally, the Emperor spoke, not lifting his gaze from his plate:
"Begin eating."
---
From Another Angle
No one was watching. Or at least, no one cared.
The moment the Emperor busied himself turning a piece of meat on his plate, and the young royals were preoccupied selecting utensils befitting their rank, Ayant quietly stepped back from behind Iswar. With astonishing grace, he leaned toward the Second Prince's ear, so smoothly that any observer—if there were one—would assume he was merely adjusting the chair or straightening the cloak.
He whispered, in a voice as if sharing an amusing secret:
"Your Highness's food is poisoned. Don't worry—I've had worse."
Iswar didn't turn. His expression didn't change. His eye didn't even blink.
He merely cut a piece of bread with calm, raised it to his mouth, and ate it—as if nothing had been said.
Ayant smiled. A faint, indifferent smile—not one of a life-saver. Rather, the kind of smile one gives when watching a familiar scene in a play whose ending is already known.
He returned to his place as if nothing had happened.
But inside, things were far from still.
---
Inner Monologue – Through Ayant's Eyes
It's as if I've been here before… in this exact scene, with this light, these same faces—but in a different color of the world.
Not a coincidence. Not mere chance. But something like an invisible repetition, replaying silently through undiscovered layers.
I saw it. I don't know when exactly. Since the lesson? Since the dream I couldn't forget? Or before that, in a place I no longer remember?
It was a small motion—unworthy of attention. Yet it embedded itself in my eyes as a memory more than a moment.
The hand that trembled, the gown that twisted at an unnecessary angle, the glint on the spoon before it touched the plate. Signs… plenty of them.
I moved my eyes without turning my head.
I hadn't decided to watch her. I had been doing it for longer than I knew. Even before she arrived. Or maybe… before I was here.
What's strange… is that I wasn't surprised. I felt relief. As if something had returned to its proper course.
I smiled, with no apparent reason.
When lies try to appear innocent, they become the loveliest thing on the table.
And all I must do… is watch. Nothing more.
For a moment, I wished I could detach from this body, or shut something inside… the sound of knives on porcelain, the servants' footsteps, the swaying of decorations in the air, the smell of seasoned meat, the sliced fruits, the echo of the Third Prince's breath, even the Emperor's heavy inhalation… everything heard, smelled, and seen with painful clarity.
It's annoying.
I can't mute the senses… I can't mute anything.
It's as if I live without skin, without a barrier between me and the world. Air stings. Light crowds. And everything around me is too much.
(Silent Pause)
Maybe that's why… I liked Iswar's voice. It doesn't move much. It doesn't make noise. Even his thoughts, I believe, are quiet.
Then he lifted his eyes to the maid pouring something into the side dish.
He didn't look long. It was enough that she made the same mistake twice for it to become a sign.
He smiled to himself—a small smile, like a sword's glint.
Then, without moving his lips, without drawing anyone's attention, he gave an internal command:
"Raphael… the maid, third from the left. Now."
No sound was heard.
No shadow seen.
But something in the air changed.
As if the curtains moved without wind, as if a single moment lost its weight.
At the farthest corner of the hall, where silver dishes were stacked and the servants retreated after service, the maid didn't turn around. She simply stopped—and vanished.
No screams, no resistance, not even hesitation.
Raphael cannot be seen. Cannot be smelled. Cannot be anticipated.
But he exists when told: Be.
---
When the Emperor straightened in his seat, he set the cup aside, then let his gaze drift over the faces of his children—without resting on any of them in particular. He spoke in his deep voice, as though tossing a question into the air with no real expectation of a reply:
"How are you faring these days?"
Silence reigned for a second, as if everyone performed a quick internal tally.
Then the First Prince cleared his throat, leaned slightly forward with his usual smile, and replied cheerfully with polite flair, waving his hand lightly as if the question didn't merit much seriousness:
"I fare as the good do, Your Majesty… always moving upward."
Ayant moved lightly, placed his right hand behind his back, the other over his chest with elegant subtlety, and said in a cold tone:
"It doesn't matter, in any case."
His response sounded like it came from Iswar—but anyone who knew better might guess Iswar himself couldn't care less about the question.
The Third Prince, Light: He lifted his eyes to the Emperor with no clear expression and said in a calm tone:
"As one should, Your Majesty."
A short reply, ambiguous—revealing nothing, hiding nothing.
Princess Silan:
She smiled with a noble bow and said in a voice perfectly composed:
"I'm well, Your Majesty… we thank you for your kind concern."
Her reply felt finely woven from threads of high etiquette—nothing more, nothing less.
Princess Litia: She exclaimed joyfully, her face bright:
"I'm very happy today, thank you for asking, Daddy!"
She giggled softly, then looked around as if she'd forgotten she was speaking before the Emperor
---
The Emperor emptied his final glass slowly, then raised his head and looked toward the end of the table—to his second son, who stood like a refined shadow bowing slightly behind the chair.
"Well done."
It was a single word—faint, almost vanishing—but within it lay the formal seal marking the end of the meal.
The princes raised their eyes to him in silence. No one responded. Their gazes differed: Laet examined his fingernail, Selane wore a slight smile, and Letia seemed ready with another childish question.
The Emperor leaned back, rising with composed grace.
Eiswar moved to stand, and Aiant followed with a single step back—like peeling himself away from the wall of time.
Yet before any of them stepped beyond the hall, Aiant turned slightly toward the servants, his eyes sweeping the spaces where bowed hands had stood, and he thought to himself:
"It's troubling… when the senses stay this alert. The scent, the sound, the fabric shifting—everything speaks."
And in a silence more eloquent than words, his gaze dropped to an empty chair at the far end of the hall.
A chair that once had a maid standing behind it.
He said nothing. Made no sign. Didn't look her way when she vanished.
But he whispered inwardly, following the prince's footsteps outward:
"Perfect stillness… means only one thing: the real unease has begun."
He cast a sidelong glance at Eiswar. The prince smiled for a moment, as if he understood the secret, yet asked no question.
And as the columns of the corridor welcomed their elongated shadows, the hall behind them still trembled from the echo of their absence.
He didn't finish the thought.
He just walked.