Chapter 47 — Imperial Banquet, 3
The Imperial banquet hall thrummed with a soft, elegant buzz—like the gentle hum of bees in a golden hive, all strings from hidden orchestras weaving through the air and mixing with the low ripple of laughter. Crystal goblets caught the light from the massive chandelier overhead—a frozen explosion of facets hanging from chains that seemed spun from pure sunlight—turning every sip of wine into a fleeting rainbow. Nobles draped in whites and scarlets drifted between clusters of high-backed chairs, trading words that sparkled on the surface but hid edges sharp as hidden knives.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis sat at the edge of the long table set aside for the ducal houses, his back straight as a drawn blade, but his mind wide awake and watchful. Every gesture was deliberate—fingers loose around the stem of his untouched goblet, shoulders relaxed just enough not to scream tension. The room's cozy warmth, scented with roasted spices and blooming lilies, barely registered; instead, his eyes flicked over the space like a scout mapping a new front: counting doorways tucked in alcoves, noting the paths of servants slipping through with trays, clocking the guards in their polished plate who stood too casual to be anything but coiled springs.
'The capital's a playground for masks,' he thought, propping his chin on one gloved hand, crimson gaze drifting over a knot of lords who smiled wide while their eyes traded barbs. 'Everyone here's grinning like wolves in wedding veils.'
You're not off base, Soowhi, the Plague Doctor's voice slithered in, a dry rasp echoing faint through the system's invisible thread. They'd devour their own kin if the vintage ran red instead of ruby.
Sylan let a ghost of a smirk tug at his mouth. 'You sound like you've crashed a few of these shindigs yourself.'
Oh, I've rubbed elbows in worse, came the muffled chuckle, laced with old shadows. Just... not wearing this beak.
Sylan opened his mouth for a quick jab, but the air shifted before he could fire it off—a subtle hush rippling through the hall, like the crowd had drawn in a single, held breath. Heads turned, fans stilled mid-flutter, and he followed the pull without surprise, already pegging the cause.
The grand double doors at the far end swung wide on silent hinges, admitting a figure who sucked the light toward him like a black hole in reverse.
Elias Vaughn stepped in.
For a heartbeat, the whole room seemed to dim—not from any trick of the lamps, but from the sheer gravity of attention snapping to him. He moved with the easy command of someone born to it, clad in a coat of flowing silver that hugged his frame without a wrinkle, subtle runes embroidered along the seams catching the chandelier's glow and throwing it back in faint, ethereal sparks. His hair, the color of storm-bleached ash, framed a face carved from quiet resolve—eyes steady as a drawn bowstring, not a flicker of nerves in the set of his jaw. No sword hung at his belt tonight, but the way he carried himself—each step measured, each breath even—made it clear as day: he didn't need steel to own the space; his presence was the edge.
A scatter of nobles dipped into hurried bows, spines folding like reeds in wind; others breathed titles like half-prayers under their breath. "The Empire's Next Sword Saint..." "Hysperion's own Justice..."
Sylan didn't rise. Not from some puffed-up ego, but because he knew better—standing now would just feed the show they all craved. He was seen plenty from where he sat.
Elias's gaze swept the tables like a searchlight, methodical, until it snagged on Sylan's. A spark of real amusement lit those calm eyes, quick as flint on steel. Then—brushing off a dozen outstretched hands from simpering courtiers like they were cobwebs—he cut straight across the polished floor, boots whispering silent over the marble.
Talks choked off mid-word, forks hovering forgotten over plates. The future Sword Saint halted right before the Noctis table and dipped his head in a nod that carried weight—respect, not show.
"Sylan Kyle Von Noctis."
Sylan lifted his chin, crimson eyes locking steady. "Elias Vaughn."
The pause stretched, thick with the hall's held breath. Then, like a shared secret breaking free, both men cracked smiles—real ones, the kind that crinkled eyes and eased shoulders, stripped of the room's oily polish.
Elias broke the quiet first, voice low enough for just them, resonant like a struck tuning fork. "Figured I'd find you holding court here. You've got half the Empire second-guessing whose hand the heavens favor now."
Sylan let out a soft chuckle, genuine warmth edging it. "Come on—if the gods ever tossed luck my way, it came wrapped in thorns and midnight drills. But hey, maybe the scales tipped for once."
The line pulled a laugh from Elias—short, bark-bright, the real article that turned heads and widened eyes. "Same edge you had in the pit. Sharp as ever, humble in that way that sneaks up like a feint."
"Trade trick," Sylan said, shrugging light, though his eyes stayed keen. "Where I'm from, playing it low kept you breathing. Strut too proud, and you're just a target with a bullseye tattoo."
Elias hooked a hip against the table's edge, casual as if they were swapping stories over camp stew, ignoring the scandalized gasps from silk-stuffed onlookers whose feathers ruffled at the breach of form. "Odd creed for a duke's blood."
"Wasn't cradled in silk," Sylan replied flat, no bitterness—just fact. "Picked up the rough weave later. Learned quick how to turn its drag into drive when it counts."
For a stretch, they just sized each other up—not as rivals scripted by fate, but as two who'd stared down the same abyss and walked out marked but whole. The air between them crackled, not with sparks of hate, but the solid hum of two souls spotting their own reflection.
The nobles nearby leaned in, confusion buzzing like flies on fruit—Rivals by the stars, they thought, fated foes. Yet here the pair sat, trading words easy as old squad mates, the tension bleeding out into something dangerously close to camaraderie.
Virelle hovered a step back at Sylan's shoulder, her brown eyes darting over the crowd like a watchful bird. She caught the edges of the jealous mutters—duke's daughters sighing over his easy grace, marquess's sons hissing curses at his stolen spotlight. Her face stayed smooth as fresh linen, but a tiny, fierce smile pulled at her lips, pride blooming quiet in her chest.
Elias clocked her then, his calm gaze shifting polite. "Your attendant?"
Sylan nodded once, crisp. "My anchor. She's pulled more weight than half the grunts I've run with—loyalty like steel, through the muck."
"Then I stand in her debt," Elias said, voice warm with truth, dipping his head to her. "For holding the line while the storms hit. Must've been rough waters."
Virelle curtsied smooth, skirts whispering. "You do me too much kindness, Sir Vaughn."
The moment passed light as a breeze through wheat—stirring the air, but leaving no trace beyond a faint ripple.
Elias swung back to Sylan, eyes narrowing playful, smile holding. "Straight talk now: in the arena, blade to blade... you really figure you had the drop on me?"
The hall seemed to lean in, the orchestra's swell hanging uncertain, strings quivering like they felt the weight.
Sylan didn't blink, holding the stare level. "Didn't figure at all, Elias. Figuring's for chess boards—duels are gut calls. I chose: take the win, or go down swinging proof I could."
The truth hit solid, ringing through the quiet like a struck bell.
Elias paused, then huffed a soft laugh—the kind born from seeing your own steel mirrored back. "You'd carve a hell of a knight. Maybe outshine me in the oaths."
"Long shot," Sylan shot back, but the warmth in his voice undercut it. "I'll pocket the nod, though."
From there, the words flowed easy—not the stilted dance of titles and flattery, but the straight talk of fighters who'd bled the same air. They picked apart the duel like old bones: the split-second hum of a strike's arc, the knife-edge of timing that turned block to breach, the raw buzz of staring death down and spitting in its eye. Elias unpacked Radiant Severance—not as a toy for smashing skulls, but a tool for cleansing rot, a blade that cut to heal, which Sylan swallowed with a mental snort at the irony in a world drowning in its own filth.
Sylan fed back scraps from his soldier days—how you read a foe's breath for the tell, the hitch before the swing; how grinding discipline could flip blind panic into a scalpel's slice. Their back-and-forth pulled shadows from the edges: even the Emperor up on his dais flicked a glance their way once, his lined mouth twitching in what might've been approval, a rare crack in the royal stone.
Midway, Elias's voice dipped, losing its polish. "That clash with you... first time fear bit real, Sylan. Not the drop—not pride. But what it said if I folded."
Sylan cocked his head, curious. "And what'd it say?"
"That the Empire's 'justice' might not chain to one pair of hands."
The raw edge of it landed square in Sylan's gut, unexpected and deep. 'So he hauls it like a yoke, not a throne,' he clocked, respect sharpening.
Intriguing, the Plague Doctor noted, voice low in his skull. First of your "hero" pack to clock you as more than a plot rug to wipe boots on.
'He's solid,' Sylan thought back, simple. 'Green around the edges, sure. But solid.'
Solid lads like him? First to the wall in tales like this, the Doctor warned, wistful under the bite. Keep him in your sights. Could forge your best shield... or the shank you never clock.
'We'll play it out,' Sylan fired back.
The chat meandered on, loose and true. Elias spun yarns of drilling under the Imperial Knights—the bone-deep grind of oaths that demanded your marrow, not just your word. Sylan tossed veiled bits from his ghost life—tales of "fields a world away from these spires," blurring the lines of foxholes and frag rounds into something this realm could swallow, without spilling the truth of where he'd really bled.
Elias hung on every word, nodding slow like he caught the shadows unspoken. "You've shouldered real war," he said at last, quiet conviction. "It sticks—not as dirt, but as bone. You wear it plain."
Sylan smiled faint, tipping his goblet in mock salute. "And you've shouldered the weight of eyes. That's a war all its own—crowds heavier than any pack."
The quiet after felt earned, the kind hammered out in shared scars.
Across the sprawl, Amanda Von Noctis tracked it all with eyes like chips of winter ruby—unblinking, her son trading laughs with the Empire's anointed, swimming in the tide of stares and sighs. Darius at her elbow beamed wide, rumbling low about bloodlines and triumphs that'd echo for ages. Amanda just nursed her wine, the goblet's rim staining her lips a deeper red.
He's turning sharp, she mused, the thought cool as a blade drawn quiet. Too bright, too wanted. Light draws the knives.
The orchestra shifted gears—a lilting waltz to cue the Emperor's big lift. Elias pushed off the table, smoothing a wrinkle from his cuff with a grin. "Duty's bell," he said. "Don't look too at ease up there, or they'll swear we scripted this little chat."
"I'll fake some sweat," Sylan quipped, smirk matching.
Elias paused at the turn, thrusting out his hand—palm up, open. "Next round, Sylan Von Noctis... no crowds. Just open sky and honest steel."
Sylan gripped it hard, clasp sealing like a pact. "Bank on it, Sword Saint."
The shake rippled another murmur-wave through the hall, but the pair let it slide off like rain on oilskin.
Elias melted back into the throng, weaving toward the dais with that same unhurried stride. Sylan eased into his seat, exhaling slow through the lingering half-smile, the knot in his chest loosening a fraction.
'Kid's straight-up. I could get used to that.'
You would, the Plague Doctor drawled, amusement threading the rasp. Echoes the greenhorn you buried under all that scar tissue and side-eye.
'Could be,' Sylan allowed, gaze drifting. 'Or hell, maybe he's the last clean slate in this den of fakes.'
Virelle sidled up quiet, her face soft with that gentle glow she saved for him alone. "My lord... you seemed at ease with him. Happy, even."
"Was," Sylan said plain, no frills. "Worth crossing blades with again—not for glory or grudges, but to sharpen what we've got."
The strings surged, golden banners stirring as footmen darted with fresh platters, the Emperor's herald winding up for the big call.
Sylan shifted his stare to the dais, crimson eyes thoughtful, tracing the lines of power strung taut across the room. The feast was just warming up, but already the threads pulled tight—pacts whispered in alcoves, fates tangling like vines on a trellis.
And from the hall's fringe, where sunlight pooled like spilled honey, a pair of golden eyes—Olivia Elana Monte Blanc's—lingered on him, unblinking, her smile soft but laced with something sharper, like she knew the shape of his next step before he took it.
The system twitched faint at his vision's edge, a glitchy pulse, as if her watch alone stirred its code.
But Sylan let it slide—for the moment.
He raised his goblet, eyes locked on the Emperor, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.
'So this is how power tastes,' he thought. 'Golden, poisoned, and sweet.'