Chapter 49 — Imperial Banquet, 5
The massive crystal chandeliers hanging over the Imperial ballroom swayed ever so slightly, as if nudged by some invisible draft whispering through the high ceilings. One moment, the hall thrummed with the easy rhythm of nobles chatting over their wine; the next, Sylan Kyle Von Noctis felt a strange buzz ripple through him—not the steady, mechanical tick of the System he'd grudgingly gotten used to, but something alive, insistent, crawling up his spine like fingers of ice tracing his bones.
[Warning: Fate Thread — Active (Origin: Olivia Elana Monte Blanc)]
The laughter around him smeared into a thick, syrupy haze, the clink of goblets and rustle of silk gowns fading to a distant drone. Somewhere behind him, in the swirl of dancers and schemers, Olivia moved like a sunbeam cutting fog—her presence spreading slow and sure, wrapping the room in a warm, golden daze that made smiles linger too long and eyes glaze just a touch.
{Soowhi. Move. Balcony. Now. Don't let that thread cinch tight.} The Plague Doctor's voice cut in sharp, a blade through the haze, urgent under the usual rasp.
Sylan blinked hard, shaking off the fog like water from a duck's back. He twisted toward Virelle, who was already eyeing him with that quiet worry she wore so well—brown eyes sharp, reading him like an open book. "Come on," he murmured, voice low and steady, rising smooth from his seat without a fuss.
She didn't hesitate, didn't ask why—just fell into step beside him as he threaded through the clusters of tables and gossiping knots of nobles, their fans fluttering like startled birds. He kept his pace casual, unhurried, but his boots clipped firm on the marble, aiming straight for the tall arched doors that led out to the balcony overlooking the sprawl below.
The second they crossed the threshold, the ballroom's clamor slammed shut behind them like a dropped curtain. Cool night air rushed in, crisp and biting against their flushed skin, carrying the faint, clean scent of distant rain and stone-warmed earth. The empire unrolled beneath them—a glittering carpet of jeweled lights twinkling across the black velvet dark, spires and streets weaving into a tapestry that stretched to the hazy horizon. Overhead, the moon hung like a thin silver knife-slash, cold and watchful over Hysperion's beating heart.
Sylan let out a slow breath, feeling the unnatural hum ebb from his veins, uncoiling like a snake slithering back to its den. {Smart play. Thread's snapped for the moment. She's still sniffing around inside, though. Eyes open, Soowhi.}
He dipped his chin in a faint nod, gloved fingers grazing the smooth marble railing, cool under his touch. "Copy."
Then a voice drifted over—smooth, laced with easy amusement, too damn familiar to brush off. "...and that's when the blade just locked up, like I'd jammed it into a statue. Thought I'd finally met my match in marble."
Elias Vaughn.
The future Sword Saint lounged a few paces off, silver threads in his dark coat snagging the moonlight and throwing it back in faint glimmers. A noblewoman leaned in close, hanging on his every word, her eyes sparkling like she'd just heard the punchline to the world's best joke. Elias stood loose, one hand draped casual on the hilt of his sheathed sword—like it was an old friend, not a weapon—and the other cradling a goblet of wine, half-full and tilting lazy.
Sylan's mouth quirked into a slim smirk. He closed the gap easy, boots quiet on the stone, and halted just off to the side. "Pardon the interruption, my lady," he said, tone dry but edged polite, like a nudge rather than a shove. "Mind if I steal your storyteller for a beat?"
The woman jolted, blinking up at him like he'd materialized from the shadows—startled, but quick to recover with a flutter of lashes. Elias chuckled low, dipping a quick bow her way that creased his coat just so. "Forgive the vanishing act, Lady Renara. Seems the night's got other scripts."
"Oh—certainly, Sir Vaughn." She curtsied back, skirts whispering, curiosity burning bright in her eyes as she backed off, casting one last glance over her shoulder before slipping through the doors.
The balcony quieted further once she was gone, just the two of them now, moonlight pooling at their feet. Elias turned full to Sylan, that relaxed grin still holding, easy as breathing. "Been a spell, Lord Noctis. Starting to think you'd ditched your sparring partner for the feather brigade in there."
Sylan held his stare, crimson meeting blue steady. "Could throw the same your way, Vaughn. But nah—a room full of powder puffs couldn't hide you if you tried."
Elias's laugh rolled out soft, genuine, cutting the chill air. "Fair hit. You holding up alright?"
"Breathing," Sylan said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "That's the win tonight."
They drifted to the railing side by side, leaning in sync—elbows on stone, gazes out over the endless sparkle below. Their shadows stretched long in the moon's pale wash, light and dark twisting like old rivals turned easy allies.
Virelle hung back a respectful step, her presence a quiet constant—hands folded neat at her waist, eyes tracing the pair with that soft watchfulness. She caught the subtle beats in their talk: the nod of heads that said I see you, the easy lean that spoke of respect earned in sweat, not silver spoons. Under the banter lurked that spark of competition—not the biting kind, but the brotherly shove that pushed you sharper.
Elias shattered the hush first, voice dropping thoughtful. "You carved through that arena like it was butter. Meant every syllable back then—not many bounce my swings and keep their feet."
Sylan's eyes slid his way. "You sell folks short too quick, Vaughn. That's a fast track to surprises you don't want."
"Could be," Elias allowed, swirling his wine once before sipping, the liquid catching red in the glass. "Or maybe I just hadn't crossed paths with someone who made me question my own edge till you showed up."
Sylan smirked faint. "Guess we both walked away schooled, then."
{He's straight as an arrow. Rare bird in this flock. Hell, I might even warm to the kid.} The Plague Doctor's tone held a grudging note, almost fond.
Sylan didn't bite aloud, but a flicker of amusement ghosted his face. Elias clocked it, arching a brow. "Muttering to ghosts again, Noctis?"
"Just chewing on thoughts," Sylan said smooth, shrugging it off.
The breeze stirred then, lazy and cool, hauling in the faint whine of violins and muffled chuckles from the hall. For a few breaths, the balcony felt like a stolen pocket—calm, almost real, the world's grind holding off at arm's length.
Then it twisted.
A itch prickled at Sylan's nape, slow and wrong—like eyes in the dark, or the air turning syrupy. Colors sharpened odd through the glass doors, too vivid; even Elias's outline in the reflection shimmered a hair off, like heat haze over coals.
He snapped straight, spine locking. "You catch that?"
Elias frowned, hand drifting instinctive to his sword's hilt. "Yeah... off. Like the whole room just sighed wrong."
{She's tugging again. The Heroine. Her pull's laced in the tune now. Hang outside a tick longer—let it fizzle.}
Sylan's grip tightened on the rail, knuckles paling under the glove. "How deep does her web go?" he breathed, barely audible.
{Farther than the script planned. She's not just riding the Game's rails anymore, Soowhi. Starting to steer her own turns.}
"Fantastic," Sylan grumbled, low enough for only the night to hear. "One masked headache wasn't plenty?"
Elias shot him a sideways look, clearly snagging the tail end. "What masked headache now?"
"Story for another lifetime," Sylan said, mustering a tight smile. "One best cracked over something stronger than this swill."
Elias chuckled, setting his goblet on the ledge with a soft clink. "Fair enough. But if it's got anything to do with how you keep dodging the grave, sign me up for the tale someday."
"Deal," Sylan said. "For now, just glad I won't have to test that luck against you with an orchestra cheering."
Elias barked a real laugh, clapping him light on the shoulder. "You figure I'd pull punches just 'cause there's fiddles scraping?"
"Nah," Sylan said level, meeting his eyes. "Figure you'd swing true regardless, Sword Saint. Music or mud."
The balcony caught the echo of their old clash then—blades ringing silent, the ghost of steel on steel humming between them like a chord held too long, waiting to resolve.
Virelle edged in a step, her voice a soft anchor. "My lord, the tune's shifted again."
Sylan twisted back toward the doors, peering through the glass. The light spilling out carried a subtle gold sheen now—faint, like pollen on the wind, enough to raise the fine hairs on his arms and set his teeth on edge.
{Your cue to shift, Soowhi. Her strings are questing—wants you looped back in the fold.}
"Yeah," he muttered, pushing off the rail. "Let's bail before the next bar turns hex."
Elias straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Into the wolf den again, then."
"You lead, Sword Saint," Sylan said, smirk flashing.
Elias laughed once more, gave him a solid clap on the back, and strode ahead through the balcony doors. Sylan fell in behind, Virelle matching his stride—her quiet steadiness a shield against the creeping hum of the banquet's glow.
As the doors swung shut with a soft click, the marble balcony dropped back to hush—only the wind sighing low, hauling away the last faint threads of gold that winked out like snuffed sparks.