11

The office was still again.

Deathly still.

No more footfalls. No more voices. The doors had shut like the lid of a coffin, sealing the space back into its unnatural calm. Only the sound of the fire—low, quiet, timid now—filled the corners. The lanterns flickered against the blackened stone like they feared the shadows clinging to the ceiling.

Yen sat at his desk.

Scrolls surrounded him, the ink bleeding where the shadow had touched. One seal of state had cracked down the center, the lacquer split like a vein. Parchments rustled under the slow drag of his fingertips, but he wasn't reading anymore.

He was thinking.

No, not thinking—stewing.

The brush still rested in his hand, splintered and warped from how tightly he had gripped it. He rotated it slowly between his fingers. Not absent-minded. No, Yen was never absent.

He was calculating.

Grinding his molars in silence.

Those women.

Those… things.

Dressed like her.

Speaking like her.

Smelling like her.

They had dared to mimic Lily's voice. Her voice, which trembled when she was scared. Which whispered his name like a spell when she wanted comfort. Her voice, broken and beautiful—not something to be rehearsed.

He could still hear the mockery in that girl's tone. "My lord." Said so softly. Too softly.

His hand flexed over the desk again. The brush cracked once more in his palm.

He closed his eyes.

And the image came easily—Lily, curled by the window, barefoot, talking to something that wasn't there. Laughing at nothing. Smiling in that strange, small way that made his chest twist. She had looked peaceful then. Fragile, but serene. Like a woman talking to ghosts, not her husband.

She had been smiling.

Not because of him.

That wasn't acceptable.

Yen opened his eyes.

The shadow was back.

It clung to the edge of the room like smoke thickening in corners, rising slowly from the base of the pillars like steam from a boiling pool. It didn't move unless he willed it to. But it was there. Always. Watching, like he did.

He stared into it.

It didn't blink. But if it could, it would've been holding its breath.

"She smiled," he said softly, not looking at anything in particular. "Lovely."

The shadow pulsed.

He leaned back in his chair, slowly. Resting his elbow on the carved armrest, his fingers tapped against his lips.

"I think she's hiding things from me," he said, barely louder than a breath. "or is she?"

No response.

His voice dropped lower. "She's speaking to you, isn't she?"

A shiver passed along the edges of the shadow.

Yen's head tilted.

He wasn't angry now. He wasn't loud. But his stillness was the kind that came before a blade was drawn. Cold. Measured. Intentional.

"I should burn that corner," he murmured. "Flood the room with light. Seal it shut."

The shadow twitched.

He raised a brow. "You don't want that?"

The air thickened like syrup.

"You're not loyal to me anymore," he continued, voice soft as silk, dangerous as broken glass. "You serve her."

A pause.

Then, slow—very slow—the shadow reached forward across the floor. A single tendril crept toward his desk. It moved like it was apologizing. Seeking forgiveness.

It brushed against his foot. A whisper of cool air.

He said nothing.

Just closed his eyes.

-----

He stayed like that for a while. Motionless in his chair, breathing deep, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. The ink on the dispatches had dried hours ago. The reports didn't interest him anymore.

He stood.

The movement was quiet. He rolled his shoulders once, then reached for the small carved drawer at the bottom of his desk. Inside was a box—black lacquer, etched with the Von Sumidra crest. He opened it.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, were the letters.

Her letters.

The ones she used to write him, back when she still had something to say.

She hadn't written in...months? Or years?

But he kept them.

He pulled one out now, unfolded it slowly, fingers brushing the worn creases. Her handwriting was delicate, almost trembling. The strokes were small. Careful.

"Will you return before the leaves fall? I miss the way your silence sounds when you read beside me. I think even the walls miss you. They've stopped whispering since you left."

Yen read the words again.

And again.

Then folded the letter back, precisely along the creases. He didn't put it away. Just held it.

He walked toward the window.

The one that faced the East wing.

From here, if he looked just right, he could see the top of their chamber balcony. The pale stone railing. The edges of the curtains dancing in the breeze. The room was still lit. Dimly. But someone was moving.

A faint silhouette passed in front of the window.

He knew that figure.

Too thin. Too slow.

He could already guess she was cleaning and fixing their room just to pass the time.

Yen clenched the letter tighter in his hand, eyes fixed on that window.

"She's stubborn," he murmured aloud.

The shadow on the wall stirred again.

"She should rest. Don't you think?"

He stepped away from the glass and sat back down then picked up a new brush.