Alaric sat by the window, staring at the moonlight on the gardens, his thoughts tangled and silent. The palace memories fluttered at the edges of his mind, fragile and distant, like a dream fading at dawn. He felt the familiar weight in his chest — the emptiness that no lesson, no praise, no obedience could fill.
The soft sound of footsteps interrupted him. Isolde stood in the doorway, hands folded, her brown eyes steady. She hesitated only for a moment before speaking.
"Master Alaric… may I ask you something?" she said softly.
He didn't answer.
"Why do you feel… empty?" she asked again, her voice gentle, curious, patient.
Alaric's eyes flicked toward her, and he realized for the first time that someone might see through the mask he wore for everyone else. He wanted to turn away, to say nothing, to hold the emptiness tightly where no one could reach it.
But something in her presence made him pause.
"I… I don't know," he admitted finally, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I perform. I obey. I follow the rules. I smile. I study. I appear… as I am expected. And yet…" He trailed off, the words caught in his throat. "…I feel nothing."
Isolde stepped closer, her presence calm and grounding, like a small anchor in a storm. "And what is it you truly wish for?" she asked. Her voice didn't demand an answer. It simply waited.
Alaric pressed his hands to his knees, staring at the moonlight. "I… I wish I could feel what I used to. Laughter… warmth… belonging. I wish…" His words broke, unfinished, because he could not say it fully. He could not say that he wished for a world that had been taken from him.
She nodded slightly, understanding, though she did not pry further. "Sometimes," she said softly, "we carry places with us. Even when they are gone, even when no one else remembers them. Perhaps… it is not emptiness, Master Alaric. Perhaps it is memory, waiting for the right moment to be felt again."
He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to measure if she spoke truth or mere comfort. But for once, he didn't push her away. He let the quiet of the room settle around them, felt the faintest tug in his chest, a stir he hadn't allowed himself in years.
And in that stillness, for the first time in a long time, Alaric Thornewood realized that perhaps emptiness was not a trap. Perhaps it was a space — fragile, waiting, and patient — for something he had long forgotten: a spark of himself, waiting to be remembered.