"Ha… ha ha… ha ha ha…"
The laughter began as a low ripple—soft, mocking, but not cruel.
It moved through The Crystal Room like an echo with a will of its own, bouncing between the mirrored walls until it filled every reflection. Each note sharpened into the next, rising into a sound that felt too alive, too aware.
From the darker edge of the chamber, the shadows deepened—stretching upward, swelling into shape. The light from the lavender garden bent as if drawn toward it, until the silhouette thickened into form, substance, and flesh.
Footsteps—measured, unhurried—tapped against the crystal floor.
And then he appeared.
An elegant man stepped forward, his presence drawing every reflection toward him like iron to a magnet.
He wore a mask—sleek, sculpted, and gleaming with golden that caught the faintest glow of violet light. It covered the upper half of his face, branching into twin horns that curved gracefully back, almost merging with his dark hair.
The strands beneath were slightly disheveled where the mask met his temples, a hint of imperfection that only deepened his allure.
His hair itself was a deep chestnut, glinting bronze at the ends beneath the crystal light. His eyes—what little could be seen of them beneath the mask—were dark, yet within that darkness shimmered a scatter of gold, like distant stars glimpsed through smoke. They gleamed with amusement, mischief, and something far than either of those things.
The rest of him was a study in regal balance: a tailored suit of rich brown silk and golden brocade, its embroidery glimmering faintly like veins of sunlight trapped in fabric. The coat's edges bore an ancient sigil stitched so finely it seemed almost alive when the light struck it. His gloves were a dusky gold, his boots polished to mirror sheen.
And the mask—
The mask looked alive. Its surface caught the reflections of the room and fractured them, turning the air around him into ripples of molten gold. The horns rose like a crown forged by illusion itself.
Elira's breath drew in quietly, though she kept her composure. Her gaze locked on him, sharp and steady.
'So you finally came out to show yourself,' she thought, her mind a blend of suspicion and deep curiosity. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—a smile calculated, precise, knowing.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her through the gleaming slits of the mask, as though amused by her calm. The air seemed to hum again, the mirrored walls catching fire with soft reflections of gold and violet.
Elira straightened her posture, her gloved hand lowering to her side. 'So this is the face he shows.' she thought. 'Gold instead of flesh. A crown of horns instead of reason. Always the dramatist, Lord Stag.'
The man's laughter gentled into a grin as he stopped a few paces before her, his voice curling through the air like smoke.
"Ah," he said softly,
"Lady Rothermere… You are truly something amazing ... ha ha.. " he spoke giving a light chuckle. But it actually felt a but bitter.
He took a step closer, his reflection splitting into a thousand versions of himself upon the mirrored walls—each one slightly distorted, each smile a little more unreadable than the last.
But as he regarded her, a memory flashed behind his eyes—
the moment his composure had cracked for the first time in years.
—◇—
This afternoon at crystal room.
"Apologise to hinder you, my Lord "
Lan steped outside the door saying.
A pair of eyes under mask took a glance up from book..
"Come in"
Voice came clear and precise.
The voice that broke the silence was clear, measured, and precise.
"My lord," Lan said, stepping forward with a graceful bow.
"Her geace Lady Elira Rothermere sent this token—specially for you. She wished me to deliver it in person, with the message that she seeks to make a deal."
He extended a wooden box, its surface wrapped in a fabric that resembled living moss—soft, cool, and faintly glistening under the amber light.
For a moment, the chamber held its breath.
Behind the stag mask, the lord's eyes gleamed—not with surprise, but with a flicker of unmistakable amusement. A slow, knowing light danced in their depths.
To this day, none had ever dared to send him a token. None had even imagined doing so.
And yet, here it was—offered in calm defiance, wrapped in quiet mystery, carrying the name of a woman who had already begun to unravel the unseen threads of his world.
'Lady Rothermere,' he thought, the name rolling in his head with lazy familiarity. 'I knew you would reach out to me someday… but who could have guessed it would be this soon?'
A mischievous smile curled at the corners of his lips, half-shadowed beneath the stag mask. He rose leisurely from his couch, setting aside the book he had been reading—a leather-bound tome older than most histories —and stretched with the unhurried grace of a predator who already knows the outcome of the hunt.
Then his gaze fell upon the object in Lan's hands.
The fabric that wrapped the wooden box shimmered faintly—green-gray, soft as breath, alive with a subtle pulse beneath the light. It resembled moss yet moved almost imperceptibly, as though the fibers themselves were still growing, still breathing.
His eyes glinted through the narrow slits of the mask, pupils contracting with intrigue.
'Even this…' he thought, stepping closer, "even this living fabric is almost impossible to find."
He reached out, fingertips brushing the strange, damp softness. The touch sent a shiver up his arm—it was cool and supple, the texture neither plant nor textile, but something between.
"What kind of token," he whispered, voice low with curiosity, "do you send me… when even the wrapping itself is a forbidden miracle?"
His gloved hand traced along the moss-like weave, savoring the feel, the subtle vibration beneath his skin. A quiet laugh escaped him, almost reverent.
"This is… ecstasy."
Even through the polished mask, the flush that touched his ears betrayed his fascination. The Stag's mask hid many things—but not wonder he felt now.
He drew a steady breath and, with ceremonial care, undid the clasp of the wooden case.
The moment the lid opened, the air in the room seemed to change. A sound—soft, crystalline, like the sigh of a winter wind—escaped the box. A faint shimmer of darkness spilled out, rippling across the floor like liquid shadow.
And then he saw it.
He froze. For a heartbeat, his mind failed to catch up with his eyes.
"Heavens…" he breathed. The word barely escaped him, reverent, disbelieving.
Inside the box lay a folded length of cloth that drank the light around it—black as night, yet laced with a subtle inner sheen, like stars buried beneath glass. It shimmered faintly when he moved, reflecting not light, but memory.
He blinked once, twice, before the name broke from him in a whisper.
"Obsidian Weave."
The air around him stilled. Even Lan's breath caught, his reflection trembling faintly in the mirrored walls.
Theodore—Lord Stag—stared at the impossible gift. His voice dropped into a whisper that trembled with disbelief.
'It can't be… The Obsidian Weave—woven once in the Age of Dominion, cursed by its own beauty. The cloth that toppled empires, drove kings mad, and drowned duchies in rebellion. The very reason half of the royal archives were burned.'
His fingers hovered above it, hesitant to touch.
'Whole armies slaughtered for this… half the Empire still hunts for its remnants in the dark.'
And yet here it was. Quiet. Still. Resting before him as if waiting to be claimed.
He reached out at last, fingertips grazing its surface. The fabric was impossibly smooth, neither warm nor cold—just endless, infinite. It seemed to hum faintly under his touch.
His pulse quickened.
"I'm… holding a legend," he murmured, almost to himself. "A relic that should not exist."
His laughter came soft and disbelieving, echoing against the vaulted ceiling. "Lady Elira… what exactly are you?"
For the first time in a decad, the immortal calm of Lord Stag faltered—shaken by wonder, pierced by curiosity.
With the utmost care, Lord Stag set the wooden box upon the velvet-draped table, its surface reflecting the faint glint of candlelight. His movements were slow, deliberate—almost ceremonial—as though he were handling a sacred artifact, not an object of mortal craftsmanship.
He lifted the cloth from within, the weight of it lighter than breath yet heavier than reverence, and unfolded it as one would reveal a holy relic once belonging to the goddess Aetherra herself.
As the final fold unfurled, the air seemed to still.
The fabric spilled like liquid shadow—rippling and swaying, capturing light and swallowing it whole. It shimmered with the illusion of a night sky seen through water; pitch-black waves streaked with starfire, gliding through the air as if reality itself were its loom.
Lan's breath hitched. Neither he nor his master could look away. Their reflections danced faintly upon the mirrored walls—two men ensnared by the beauty of something forbidden.
And then—
A faint sound.
Something slipped free as the last fold unfurled—a soft flutter against the velvet table.
Lord Stag blinked, eyes narrowing.
"....?... A letter?"
The object was small, fragile, and strangely pale—a slip of parchment, its color standing out like a shard of moonlight in the ocean of black silk.
The only thing in the entire room that dared to hold an alabaster shade.
He inhaled slowly, then, with precise gentleness, refolded the cloth—each crease neat and reverent, as though returning a deity to her shroud. When it lay perfectly still once more, he crouched and reached for the letter that had fallen.
The paper was sealed with a single dried strand of lavender—an ancient gesture of peace, or remembrance, depending on who you asked. Its scent lingered faintly, sweet yet mournful.
He broke the seal.
The parchment opened with a soft rustle, and in the center of the page was a single line.
No flourish. No signature.
Just words that froze the room itself.
«To, Lord Theodore Armand.»
For an instant, the silence was absolute.
The corners of his smile faltered. Then dropped—entirely.
It was a rare, impossible sight. The ever-amused, eternally untouchable Lord Stag looked as though he had seen a ghost—not a memory, not a threat—but something alive and terrifying.
His breath grew uneven beneath the mask. The glint of mischief that always shimmered in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something darker—recognition.
9
Lan glanced up in confusion. He could not understand what in those few words had stripped his master's composure.
But the air around Theodore had changed—heavy, tense, almost trembling.
For the first time since Lan had known him, Lord Stag looked neither amused nor composed.
He looked haunted.
It was his name... real name, which no one knew other Tham him and Ren.