Chapter 45 — Imperial Banquet, 1
The six days after the duel dragged on like embers in a dying fire—slow, steady burns that left everything warmer but no less fragile. Each morning dawned the same at the Noctis estate, pale gold light spilling over the stone towers and manicured lawns, painting the world in hues of promise and pressure. Each night blurred into the next, Sylan Kyle Von Noctis's body humming with the restless thrum of power coiled tight under his skin, like a storm waiting for the sky to crack.
He trained alone, in the dim underbelly of the manor—a forgotten chamber once meant for sharpening blades and mending armor, now his private forge for something far deadlier. No sparring dummies or watchful eyes; just the echo of his steady breaths bouncing off the vaulted stone ceilings, and the sharp, metallic whisper of the Crest stirring to life. The walls down here were scarred with ancient runes, faded scratches from long-dead mages, but they woke for him now—faint pulses like veins under stone, responding to the call he didn't fully understand yet.
'Again,' he told himself, clenching his jaw as the twin forces surged through him. One a blaze of holy light, pure and searing, like sunlight through stained glass; the other a gnawing void, dark and endless, hungry as the edge of a black hole. They twisted in his blood, pulling against each other like rival tides, and his old soldier's gut screamed for control—line them up, make them march. But the Crest? It chuckled in his veins, a paradox that defied ranks and orders, daring him to bend or break.
He thrust his palm out flat, fingers splayed. The air warped, buckling like heat over desert sand. A soft, ethereal hymn swelled from the empty room—no source, just the sound blooming in his chest—twining with a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated the floorboards like distant thunder. Light and shadow tangled, bleeding into one another until the lines between them smeared away, collapsing into a single, iridescent throb that hung in the air like a held breath.
"Hallowed Divine Abyss," he breathed, the words tasting of ash and starlight.
The ground trembled under his boots, fine cracks spidering out from his feet in a web of colorless flame—neither white-hot nor pitch-black, but something in between, a void that burned without heat. For a split second, the whole chamber blurred at the edges, reality folding like wet paper, and Sylan's heart slammed against his ribs. Then it steadied, the pulse snapping back into him with a jolt that left his knees weak. Sweat traced a cold line down his temple, dripping onto the stone with a faint sizzle, but when he blinked the haze from his eyes, they glowed—not with the wild exhaustion of a man pushed too far, but with the quiet fire of control. He was starting to get it, this impossible dance: not forcing the powers to kneel, but weaving them together, letting them clash just enough to spark something new.
But he knew the line when he hit it. Jin Soowhi's hard lessons from blood-soaked fields had drilled it deep: push past your edge, and hubris buries you quicker than any bullet. He exhaled slow, deliberate, watching the glow fade from his palm like dying coals. The air settled, heavy with the ozone tang of spent magic, and his shoulders dropped, the tension uncoiling inch by inch.
Soft footsteps padded behind him from the shadowed archway—light, familiar, cutting through the chamber's lingering hum like a cool breeze.
"My lord, you've been down here since the sun came up," Virelle's voice said, gentle but laced with that quiet edge of concern she couldn't quite hide anymore.
He turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. She stood framed in the doorway, a lantern swinging soft from one hand, its warm glow pushing back the gloom just enough to catch the loose braid of her black hair tumbling over one shoulder. Her brown eyes held that steady warmth, but worry flickered in them like candleflame, and the light traced the soft curve of her cheek, the tiny scar on her wrist—a faint white line from some long-ago kitchen mishap, proof she was a worker, not just a shadow serving the mighty.
He nodded once, short and easy, stepping back from the cracked floor. "Had to dial in the Crest's hum. That void pull—it sharpens every time I call it up. Feels like it's testing me, seeing if I'll slip."
Virelle crossed the threshold, setting the lantern on a dusty workbench with a faint clink. Dust motes swirled in the light, lazy as drifting snow. "You should rest, my lord. The banquet's breathing down our necks."
There was more in her words than polite duty—a thread of real fear, maybe, or that quiet ache of someone left behind when the world pulled you away. Sylan held her gaze a beat longer, reading the lines around her eyes, the way her fingers twisted in her apron.
'She frets like a squad mate watching your back,' he thought, the realization settling warm in his chest. 'Not some servant scripted to nod and fade.'
He reached out on impulse, thumb grazing her cheek—rough skin against her softness, a touch that lingered just shy of too long—before he pulled back, clearing his throat. "I'll crash soon. Six days is plenty to sync with its beat. Won't walk into that snake pit half-cocked."
She paused, lips parting like she might argue, then murmured, "And... about the other thing."
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, eyes glinting. "You mean that?"
Color flooded her cheeks, but she didn't drop his stare, chin lifting a fraction. "I... I only meant—"
"Easy, Virelle." His voice softened the cut, turning it gentle. "Not here, not now. If Mother sniffs it out—or gods forbid, Father—I'll shield you from the fallout. You don't pay for my fire."
Her breath caught, unspoken words hanging in the lantern's glow, but he pressed on, quieter still, like sharing a foxhole secret. "Tell you what: after the banquet, I already floated it with her—I'll hole up in the royal inn for three nights, 'networking' or whatever lie she buys. We'll steal that time. No eyes, no walls closing in. Just us."
Her eyes widened, the worry cracking into something brighter—a real smile, the first unguarded one since the arena's roar, lighting her face like dawn breaking fog. "Yes, my lord."
"Good." He let out a breath he hadn't known he held, the soldier's armor sloughing off for a heartbeat, leaving just Sylan—tired, human, tethered. "Now go rack out. Dawn hits early tomorrow. We're rolling for the capital."
She nodded, scooping the lantern with a soft rustle of skirts, the light bobbing as she retreated up the narrow stone stairs. He watched the glow climb, flickering on the rough-hewn walls until it swallowed into shadow, leaving him alone with the chamber's chill.
One last glance at his hand—the Crest's afterimage shimmering faint on his skin, like heat haze over coals.
'Balance, not breaking them to heel,' he reminded himself, flexing his fingers until the glow winked out. 'That's the play to outlast this storm.'
---
Morning broke heavy with ritual, the estate stirring like a beast rousing from slumber. Servants swarmed the courtyards in orchestrated hush—polishing the black-lacquered carriages until they gleamed like obsidian, pressing the Noctis wolf into fresh wax seals with heated irons, unfolding layers of velvet cloaks and gold-threaded sashes from cedar chests. The air hummed with aristocracy's perfume—rosemary oil and beeswax—but underneath lurked the sharp tang of oiled steel, pommels and hilts glinting in the guards' grips.
Sylan stood before the full-length mirror in his dressing chamber, a sea of polished oak and crimson drapes, while Virelle fussed at the cuffs of his formal coat. The garment hung heavy on him—raven-black wool trimmed in blood-red silk, the house sigil embroidered at the shoulder in threads that caught the light like living flame, roaring wolf jaws parted mid-snarl.
"You look every bit the duke's true heir," Virelle murmured, her voice a soft thread as she smoothed a stubborn fold, fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric.
He met her eyes in the glass, a wry twist to his mouth. "Let's hope the parents buy the act."
As if the words had summoned them, the double doors swung wide on silent hinges, admitting Amanda Von Noctis like winter royalty sweeping a throne room. Her gown cascaded in folds of frozen burgundy, stiff silk whispering with each step, and her golden hair was piled high in a crown of braids that screamed command without a word. Her crimson eyes swept the room sharp as a falcon's, cataloging every detail. Trailing her came Darius Von Noctis, a wall of muscle and mirth, his broad frame filling the doorway, laughter already rumbling in his chest like approaching thunder.
"Look at you, boy—rumors given legs and teeth!" Darius's voice crashed out, booming off the walls as he strode forward, clapping a meaty hand on Sylan's shoulder with enough force to make Virelle sidestep quick, her breath hitching.
Amanda's gaze slid over them all, pausing on Virelle for a heartbeat—a look cold as a blade's edge, slicing without drawing blood. "See he doesn't soil the name tonight, girl."
Virelle dipped low, skirts pooling like spilled ink. "Yes, my lady."
Sylan's crimson eyes narrowed just a hair, heat flickering behind the calm, but he held his tongue, rolling his shoulders under the coat's weight. "No stains on the honor, Mother. You have my word."
Amanda's mouth curved—not a smile, but a scalpel's assessment, measuring his steel against hers. "See that you keep it. The banquet draws generals, lords, even the royal blood. The Empire's eyes turn our way now. Fail, and we all bleed for it."
Darius barked another laugh, clapping Sylan's back again, oblivious to the frost in the air. "Fail? After laying the Sword Saint's pup low? Let 'em gawk—House Noctis stands tall, and my son's the spike in its crown!"
Sylan dipped his head, the nod polite as protocol. "They'll etch the name in their memories. Count on it."
His parents swept out as quick as they'd stormed in, the door easing shut with a finality that echoed. Virelle let out a breath she'd been holding, shoulders sagging a fraction as she turned back to him, hands stilling on the coat's hem.
"Your mother... she chills me to the bone sometimes," she admitted, voice a whisper, eyes flicking to the door like it might swing open again.
Sylan chuckled low, dry as autumn leaves. "She chills the world—that's her shield and her sword."
Then, softer, as he caught her hand in his—warm, steady—he added, "Don't let her frost sink in too deep. It's not aimed at you. Not really."
She nodded, but he spotted the faint shake in her fingers as she fastened the last silver clasp at his throat, the tremor of someone caught in crosswinds.
'Hang tight just a bit more,' he thought, gaze drifting to the tall window where sunlight poured in like liquid fire, gilding the distant hills. 'Soon, you won't bow to shadows like her.'
A subtle buzz hummed at the corner of his mind—the System flickering awake, unbidden.
[Plague Doctor:] "Heh, suiting up for the silk-and-daggers show now, Soowhi? Word to the wise: the arena's swapped sand for marble, but the kills come quieter."
Sylan didn't twitch, keeping his face smooth as he adjusted his cuff. 'I know the drill. Every grin's a potential gut punch—I'll scan 'em all.'
[Plague Doctor:] "Smart play. And keep that shadow of yours glued tight—true blues like her? Rarer than honest dice in this game."
The link fizzled out, leaving a faint whiff of scorched air, like lightning's ghost.
---
Far across the rolling plains, the imperial capital thrummed with preening pomp. Streets thronged with silk-clad crowds, banners of imperial gold snapping from every lamppost, fountains bubbling crimson wine into marble basins where children dipped cups with wide-eyed glee. Palace bells pealed three times, deep and resonant, tolling the hour when the great hall would open its jaws to swallow the Empire's elite.
In the perfumed hush of Marquis Duelmont's tea hall—a velvet-draped nook overlooking the grand avenue—noblemen lounged over steaming silver samovars, voices weaving gossip like spider silk.
"You catch the tale? That Noctis whelp put the Sword Saint's golden boy flat!"
"A fluke—or sorcery. Darius sires beasts, not boys."
"Fluke or not, the court's buzzing. He'll kneel before the royals themselves tonight, mark my words."
The chatter layered on—envy masked as awe, awe laced with dread—each sip of jasmine brew fueling the fire.
At the room's edge, by a tall casement framing the bustling square, sat a young woman in flowing white, her posture serene as a statue's. Olivia Elana Monte Blanc—the Empire's shining gem, the blessed heroine whose very presence seemed to hush storms and mend fractures. Her hair fell in waves of spun sunlight, catching the window's glow like a halo etched in gold; her blue eyes, though, stared distant, fixed on some horizon beyond the glass, as if peering through veils no one else could pierce.
A subtle shimmer ghosted across her sight—a translucent rune, visible only to her, blooming like frost on a pane.
[System Notification: Unknown Variable Detected — "Sylan Kyle Von Noctis"] [Warning: Event Trajectory — Unstable.]
The glyph pulsed once, then melted away. Olivia blinked, a faint crease forming between her brows, confusion rippling the calm like a stone in a still pond.
"Sylan Von Noctis..." she whispered, the name rolling off her tongue like a half-remembered verse.
It tugged at something buried in her chest—not a clear memory, not budding warmth, but a vague echo from a dream she'd chased through sleep but never caught. Her attendant leaned in, voice a soft murmur at her elbow. "My lady? The carriage awaits—shall we make ready?"
Olivia's lips curved in a faint, practiced smile, the mask slipping seamless into place. "Yes. I want to lay eyes on this... rival of the Sword Saint myself."
Outside, the bells tolled once more, their bronze voices rolling over the city like a gathering tide.
---
Back at the estate, the grand carriage waited in the courtyard like a sleeping beast—black lacquer polished to a mirror sheen, the Noctis wolf crest carved deep into its paneled doors, silver inlays gleaming under the midday sun. Guards snapped salutes as Sylan descended the steps, his cape swirling in a crimson arc, face set in the cool composure of a man marching to measured war.
Virelle stood off to the side, her gown a simple cut of dove-gray wool—elegant in its restraint, chosen with care to dodge Amanda's sharper judgments. She lifted her eyes to him, brown depths swirling with equal parts pride and that quiet, gnawing worry, like a handmaiden sending her charge to shadowed fields.
"My lord... you ready?" she asked, voice steady but soft, the words carrying on the crisp air.
"As a grunt stepping into no-man's-land," he replied, lightening it with a half-grin to ease her furrow. Then, lower, just for her: "Stick close in the crush. If the air turns sour, you ghost out first—no looking back."
"But—"
"No buts. Swear it."
She swallowed, then nodded, resolve hardening her chin. "...I swear."
He extended his hand; she slipped hers into it—small, warm, a lifeline against the chill of what lay ahead. For a breath, the bustling yard faded—the clop of harnessed horses, the rustle of grooms—leaving only that simple clasp, grounding him to flesh and beat, not crowns and schemes.
Then he released her, stepping up into the carriage's shadowed maw, drawing the heavy velvet curtain aside for one last sweep of the manor: towers stabbing the sky like defiant spears, home and haunt in equal measure.
'Home,' he thought, settling into the cushioned bench as the door clicked shut. 'And the front line all over again.'
The horses stamped, impatient; wheels ground over gravel. The estate shrank in the window's frame, swallowed by the golden blur of fields and forests rolling past.
Silence draped the compartment, broken only by the carriage's sway and the muffled thunder of hooves. Then, slinking in like tendrils of fog, came that familiar rasp in his skull.
[Plague Doctor:] "This shindig'll probe deeper than your blade work, Soowhi. It'll yank at the chains this world wraps 'round souls."
Sylan's eyes cracked open, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. 'You mean the saint?'
[Plague Doctor:] "Dead on. Beware the heroine—for her grins hide corners where even daylight treads light."
The carriage rattled on toward the capital, toward crystal chandeliers and veiled daggers, toward the first quiver of fate bending once more.