The following morning, as the June sun gently pierced through the tall windows of the dining hall, a golden light flooded the space, revealing the remnants of a party that had consumed the night. The rays caressed the garlands of flowers hanging from the ceiling, their jasmine and honeysuckle petals slightly wilted, swaying in a warm breeze that filtered through the wide-open doors. The tables, still cluttered with half-empty glasses beaded with drops of warm wine, were scattered with crumbs of fruit cakes and forgotten orange zests. The air vibrated with an intoxicating mix: the sweetness of ripe melons, the tangy aroma of spilled wine, and the heady scent of roses blooming in the neighboring gardens, their blood-red corollas gleaming under the morning dew.
In this disordered setting, the students' faces bore the marks of a sleepless night, but also the glow of shared joy. Dorian, still dazed, found himself in Ki's suite, slumped in a worn green velvet armchair, his tousled chestnut hair falling over his half-closed eyes. The chamber of the princess of Qit, with its walls draped in dark red velvet embroidered with golden floral patterns and its silver samovar tarnished by time, offered a striking contrast between its austere opulence and the surrounding disorder. Ki slept peacefully on a sofa, a light linen shawl draped over her shoulders, her steady breath a soft melody in the silence. Perhaps they had shared a heart-to-heart conversation under the flickering light of the candles, or perhaps Dorian, lost in his thoughts, had sought refuge with her, an island of calm in the storm that still stirred within him.
Sven rested in Eléonore's suite, a space in sober tones of pearl gray and off-white, where piles of books lined sculpted shelves and delicate engravings adorned the walls, reflecting her love of order and reflection. Lying on a couch near the window, he seemed at peace, one muscular arm hanging loosely by his side, his disheveled brown hair catching the first rays of the sun. Eléonore, seated at her mahogany desk, leafed through a notebook with an absent air, her features drawn with fatigue but her gaze still sharp. Their complicity, woven in laughter and splashes by the pool, lingered in the air like an invisible breeze, an unexpected serenity after such a wild night.
In the center of the main lounge, Hélène lay on a damask sofa, her light dress still damp and clinging to her tanned skin. One leg hung carelessly over the armrest, and her golden hair, usually neatly braided, spread in a silky chaos around her sleeping face. This posture, so unlike the imperial elegance she embodied, revealed a rare vulnerability—an abandon that betrayed how much she had let herself be carried away by the party, forgetting for a few hours the crushing weight of her title.
Mero, on the other hand, had not closed his eyes. Sitting near an open window, he let the summer breeze caress his face, carrying with it the salty scent of memories from Sel and the earthy fragrance of the damp lawns. His red, burning eyes fixed on an invisible point beyond the verdant gardens, where the hedges trimmed in waves and the masses of violet lavender danced in the nascent light. The night had been a whirlwind of emotions—the thunderous laughter around the pool, the frenzied dances under the chandeliers, the splashes glittering like liquid stars—but a strange fatigue gripped him, mixed with a sense of incompleteness. His thoughts kept returning to Mandarine, to her raucous laughter that echoed like a distant storm, to her dark eyes that he hadn't seen in too long. The party was over, but what it left behind—strengthened bonds, amplified doubts—weighed heavily on his heart like a wave held back, ready to crash.
As the sun climbed in a cloudless azure sky, the servants bustled about the school with almost mechanical efficiency. Their straw brooms scraped the warm marble tiles, erasing the sticky traces of wine and the scattered confetti like faded petals. Others, in gray aprons, righted the overturned chairs, their feet creaking on the floor, and folded the crumpled tablecloths into neat piles. Their silent presence contrasted with the exuberance of the past night, as if order was reasserting itself over a now-extinguished chaos. The banners of the houses—deep blue for Sel, fiery red for Fer, pale gold for Qit—fluttered gently in the morning breeze, the only remnants of a celebration that was slowly fading away.
Mero, his eyes reddened from a sleepless night, observed this scene from a secluded corner of the room. Each gesture of the servants—a cloth sliding over a stained table, a silver tray carefully picked up—seemed to erase a fragment of the party, returning the school to its usual discipline. Yet, in his mind, the echoes of the evening persisted like a haunting melody: the joyful cries near the pool, Hélène's fleeting smile as she dove with unexpected grace, the complicity in the glances exchanged between Sven and Eléonore under the flickering lanterns. This contrast between the methodical cleaning and the tumult of his thoughts created a void within him, a sense of an aborted escape from the questions that haunted him.
The sound of the brooms, a rhythmic and muffled scraping, blended with the hushed murmurs of the servants, a background noise that seemed to come from another world. He wondered if this day would mark a turning point—not for the school, which would soon regain its austere brilliance, but for him. Mandarine, a persistent shadow in his mind, kept returning, her face superimposing itself over the blurry images of the night. Had he truly enjoyed the party, or had he lost himself in a labyrinth of doubts? The servants continued their tasks, indifferent to his fixed gaze, and he slowly rose, his legs heavy, determined to walk to dispel this inner fog.
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The school's gardens, bathed in brilliant sunlight, offered a vibrant tableau under the June sky. The fresh morning air carried the heady scent of scarlet roses and lavender in full bloom, their pale violet stems quivering in the breeze. The lawns, a deep green and glistening with dew, stretched like a carpet to the hedges trimmed in elegant arcs, while masses of white and pink peonies bordered the paths of clear gravel. Mero walked slowly, his boots crunching softly on the sun-warmed stones, as bursts of laughter echoed in the distance. A few groups of students, boys and girls in rumpled tunics, continued the party in their own way, giggling and exchanging exaggerated stories under the dappled shade of ancient oaks, their branches laden with bright green leaves.
For Mero, this joviality sounded like a distant, almost unreal echo. His fatigue, a weight that made each step heavy, created a chasm between him and their carefree laughter. He felt apart, a discordant observer in a symphony he could no longer follow. Their voices faded as he ventured down an alley lined with slender cypresses, their pointed tops cutting into the blue sky. The shrill song of cicadas, nestled in the foliage, and the busy hum of bees around the flowers took over, a natural melody that should have soothed him. But a persistent tension followed him, a knot in his chest that he couldn't undo. Was it Mandarine, whose absence weighed heavier than ever? The choices he always put off? Or the exhaustion that clouded his senses, turning every thought into an inextricable tangle?
He stopped near a fountain nestled in a grove, its white stone basin shimmering in the sunlight. The water spouted in a graceful jet, its droplets catching the light in fleeting rainbows before falling back with a soothing murmur. The weeping willows surrounding it let their branches brush the surface, their tender green leaves quivering in the breeze. This corner of the garden, with its vibrant colors and soft sounds, offered an almost tangible serenity, but it slipped past him without reaching him. He stared at the dancing reflections in the water, seeking an answer in their ceaseless movement, but his mind remained trapped in its shadows.
Further on, the atmosphere changed as he passed the buildings under construction. The sounds of hammers striking wood and saws biting into beams resonated in the air, a sustained rhythm that contrasted with the languid softness of the gardens. The fire from the previous year, which had reduced parts of the school to ashes, seemed a distant memory under this brilliant sky. The new structures rose with a brutal vigor: freshly cut oak beams, still fragrant with sap, supported walls of blond stone, their rough surfaces glinting in the harsh light. Workers, bare-chested in the heat, labored with methodical precision, their brief shouts punctuating the clamor of tools.
Mero paused to observe, a mix of satisfaction and melancholy in his gaze. He had played a role in this project, his ideas and efforts crystallizing in these emerging facades. The blackened ruins, fragile and haunted by the past, gave way to a new solidity, a symbol of resilience that resonated within him. The roofs, still half-covered with red tiles, gleamed like embers under the sun, and the windows, still empty of glass, offered a view of a pure blue, limitless sky. These buildings would be ready for the next school year, a tangible renewal for the school—but for him? Was it also a new beginning, or just another step in a quest he didn't yet understand? The workers continued their labor, their figures blurred in the dust kicked up by the wind, and he resumed his walk, his mind whirling like the golden grains around him.
The ballroom soon loomed before him, its large windows catching the morning light in dazzling reflections. Mero stopped abruptly, a shiver running through him as a memory surfaced with brutal clarity. It was here, during his first year, that Mandarine had burst in unexpectedly, a storm in his ordered life. He recalled her daring smile, her perfectly styled black hair that contrasted with her usually sea-tousled locks, and that kiss—impulsive, burning—that had sealed a bond he could no longer define. The room, silent under the June sun, seemed to vibrate with that moment, its blond stone walls and polished parquet floor holding the imprint of a night when the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
He entered, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. The soft light filtered through the windows, casting moving shadows on the floor where they had danced, laughed, and shared that gesture that had changed everything. The white linen curtains, stirred by the breeze, brushed the walls like ghosts, and the air carried a faint scent of wax and sun-warmed wood. Today, the distance between them seemed an abyss, deepened by silences, doubts, and responsibilities that had accumulated like waves on a shore. This memory, precious as it was, held a new bitterness—what remained of that bond? What did that kiss mean now? He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze lost in the golden rays, as if the room could whisper an answer.
Exhausted, Mero returned to his suite, his heavy steps echoing on the warm tiles of the corridor. The deep blue walls, adorned with embroidered waves and silver shells glinting in the light, enveloped him like a familiar sea. Without even removing his clothes, still damp from the pool, he collapsed onto his canopy bed. The azure linen welcomed his weary body, and sleep engulfed him almost instantly, a welcome oblivion after a night of wakefulness. The sounds from outside—the distant laughter of students, the shrill song of cicadas, the murmur of fountains—faded away, and his mind, finally at peace, plunged into a deep and gentle void.
The next morning, the tender light of dawn filtered through the light curtains, its rays dancing on the marine patterns of the room. Mero opened his eyes, his body still numb but his mind clearer, a fragile peace settling over him like a rising tide. The warm breeze slipped through the slightly open window, carrying the salty scent of Sel and the sweet perfume of the blooming gardens. He inhaled deeply, ready to let this tranquility envelop him—when suddenly, a strange sensation washed over him. A light, almost ethereal hand caressed his face, gently brushing his cheek. He jolted upright, his heart pounding.
