(~a calm, cinematic orchestral piece fit for a nostalgic autumn, or maybe the credits of a bygone era~)
In the forests of the Isle of Ivako sits a palace entangled by wildlife: a ruin long surrendered by those whose names wilted away like the leaves of autumn.
Such a golden age hasn’t been forgotten, of course, far from it-but in the year 2294, only graphic novels and historians bother with a past so distant, so cold.
Had Miko and Rumi not read one of those very novels, they wouldn’t be able to name what this old building even was.
“The Imperial Akamatsu Hall,” Miko says, stopping under a tree with Rumi by her side. “I thought it’d look a bit bigger than this… or maybe the rest of the place is just buried somehow?”
“But that looks like the main entrance, if anything. Don’t think the rest of the place could’ve gone underground, could’ve all just collapsed over time.”
In the minds of artists, the Imperial Akamatsu Hall retains its significance as the hilltop fort where Ivako’s royalty once ruled from, but with the monarchy long lost in the modern-day Republic, all that remains of their history today are ruins: ancestral homes of a family name now equal to the masses.
To enter this building would be illegal-dangerous, even. Preservation “efforts” have perhaps been made, but there’s no guarantee that the floorboards inside remain stable, or that the interior remains free from mould and grime.
But from here, if they can just erase the overgrowth, then their view would be what a subject of Ivako would’ve seen over a millennia ago: a time when Sarozankans still called the island a vassal of their own.
That person in the distant past would’ve likely been trembling-no commoner would turn up here without an appointment with the monarchs, and no appointment with the monarchs would end without some consequence.
Or at least, that’s what the novels would have Miko believe.
Truth is, the truth of what once transpired on these grounds has long been buried.
Not by the failures or oversights of any one person, but simply by entropy.
By the inevitable breezes of time that leave no corner of history spared.