Chapter 19 — The Aetherial Crest, 4
The evening meal at the Noctis estate always followed ritual. Silver platters rolled out on silent carts, servants lined the hall with mechanical precision, and Amanda Von Noctis presided at the long dining table with the icy composure of a queen. Sylan sat near the end of the table, a distant figure, half-shadowed by the chandeliers' dim light. His crimson eyes flicked between his mother and father, cataloguing every gesture, every moment of inattention.
Eight days. Eight days to tear open the forbidden archives, wrench the Aetherial Crest from the Game's claws, and raise his numbers high enough to survive Elias Vaughn's blade.
[Objective: Secure Amanda Von Noctis's study key. Progress: 0%. Time remaining: Eight days.]
Amanda dabbed her lips with a silken napkin, then set down her glass of wine. "The Vaughns will be attending the Winter Court in three nights," she said, her tone clipped and cold. "Their boy—what's his name? Elias—he'll be tested for the Grandmaster's sponsorship. It will do the family well to observe."
Darius Von Noctis said nothing. He never wasted words on pleasantries. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, the harsh lines of his face carved as though stone itself had taken on human form.
Sylan ate little. The soldier in him demanded efficiency: conserve energy, remain alert. The son in him demanded silence: any stray comment, any hint of insolence, would draw Amanda's ire. He knew the script too well—no, the Game. In the Game, Sylan Kyle Von Noctis was nothing more than a petty antagonist, a sneering fool. Tonight, Jin Soowhi's discipline had to smother every trace of that boy.
When Amanda's glass ran empty, Sylan made his move. "Mother," he said, his voice steady. "If we are to observe the Vaughns at Winter Court, perhaps it would reflect well on our family if I challenged a lesser noble beforehand. To show that the name Noctis still commands respect."
Amanda's hand froze midway to her goblet. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, cut across the table. For a heartbeat the entire hall seemed to still—the servants halted, the chandeliers hummed with silence.
A test. Every word to Amanda was a test.
Her lips curved in a faint smile, one that never reached her eyes. "And do you believe yourself ready for that?"
Sylan inclined his head. "I believe it will prove useful."
The silence stretched. Then Amanda dismissed him with a flick of her hand, as though swatting away a gnat. "Ambition suits you better than cowardice, at least. We'll see."
That was enough. He had planted the seed of capability, reshaped the image she carried of her weakling son. More importantly, it bought him time.
Hours later, the corridors of the Noctis estate hushed into stillness. Torches guttered low against the marble walls, casting long shadows across paintings of ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow every trespasser.
Sylan's boots made no sound. The soldier in him counted every step, matched his breathing to the rhythm of silence. His crimson gaze scanned each junction, memorizing guard rotations, the faint shift of torchlight that betrayed movement.
Virelle Thren emerged from the gloom like a phantom. Her gray dress swirled about her ankles, her pale face drawn taut with nerves. Yet her hand was steady as she pressed a small iron key into his palm. "West wing service hall," she whispered. "The servants use it to unlock her study for cleaning. I had to bribe three of them to even touch it."
Sylan closed his fingers around the key. The cold iron bit into his palm, grounding him. "Good work."
Virelle's gray eyes searched his. "My lord… if she catches you—"
"She won't." He cut her off gently but firmly. Doubt was poison. "Stay near the service wing. If anyone comes, distract them. Spill something, make noise. You know how to vanish when it counts."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She bowed once, then slipped back into the dark.
[Objective update: Acquire Amanda Von Noctis's study key. Progress: 40%. Risk: Guard detection. Recommended action: Stealth.]
The west wing loomed like a different world from the glittering halls of the main estate. Shadows clung to the ceilings, heavy drapes muffled the moonlight, and the air smelled faintly of old parchment and ink. Amanda Von Noctis's dominion—her private sanctum, her fortress of control.
Sylan moved with the precision of a soldier infiltrating enemy lines. His mind replayed every lesson drilled into him: hug the wall, minimize silhouette, keep three points of contact when pausing to listen.
At the end of the hall, a pair of guards stood at attention outside the double doors of Amanda's study. Their armor gleamed faintly, ceremonial but functional, and their hands rested on the pommels of polished blades.
Two guards. Expected. The Game loved symmetry.
Sylan pressed his back against the wall, weighing options. Direct combat was impossible—his numbers were too low, his strength still far beneath a noble guard's. He needed misdirection.
From the far end of the hall, a crash echoed—the distinct sound of porcelain shattering. A servant's cry followed, high-pitched and apologetic. The guards stiffened, exchanged a glance, and one broke formation to investigate.
Virelle.
Sylan slid forward in the gap. His breath was steady, his heartbeat slow. One guard remained, back turned, half his attention on the noise down the hall.
In three strides, Sylan closed the distance. He pressed himself flat against the wall beside the door, the key already in his hand. Timing was everything: the sound of footsteps fading, the remaining guard's head angling away—
Click.
The key turned, silent as a whisper.
The door opened just wide enough for him to slip inside.
Amanda Von Noctis's study was a cathedral of order. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with scrolls, ledgers, and tomes bound in leather. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface immaculate save for an inkwell, a quill, and a crystal paperweight shaped like a serpent. Moonlight filtered through the drapes, casting pale silver across the polished wood.
Sylan closed the door soundlessly behind him. His crimson eyes scanned the room, cataloguing details with a soldier's efficiency. The key was only part of the puzzle. Blood was the true prize—and blood would not be left lying carelessly in a drawer.
He moved first to the desk. Locked. Of course. He ran his fingers along the edges, testing for mechanisms. His soldier's instincts tugged at him: no wasted movement, no hesitation. But the Game twisted everything into ceremony. Amanda would hide the ritual phrase, perhaps even a personal blooded sigil, within reach but not obvious.
He found a drawer with faint scratches along its lock—used often. He bent, ear close, manipulating the handle with slow care. Click. The drawer slid open.
Inside lay neat stacks of parchment, a wax-sealed letter, and a small vial—half-filled with dark liquid.
Blood.
Sylan's hand hovered over it. His crimson eyes narrowed. No—too simple. The Game didn't reward shortcuts. This vial was bait, a trap for anyone foolish enough to believe Amanda careless.
He replaced the drawer silently, returning to scan the shelves. His fingers trailed over spines of tomes until he found one out of place—a volume pushed slightly further in than its neighbors. He tugged it free.
A hollow thump echoed. Behind the row, a small compartment revealed itself, containing a silver key on a chain.
The study key. The real one.
[Objective complete: Acquire Amanda Von Noctis's study key. Progress: 100%. Remaining objective: Obtain Amanda Von Noctis's blood sigil. Time remaining: Eight days.]
Sylan slid the silver key into his coat. The tension in his shoulders eased—but only slightly. He still needed blood, and blood meant risk. Amanda's hand, Amanda's presence.
He turned back toward the door, already calculating his exit path, when a faint sound froze him in place.
The scrape of heels against marble.
Amanda Von Noctis.
The door handle turned.