Chapter 44 — First Volume, Epilogue 4 — Lunch with Mother and Father, 2
The grand halls of the Noctis estate had fallen into a gentle hush, the kind that settled after a storm—calm on the surface, but with echoes still rippling through the air. Servants glided like quiet ghosts along the marble corridors, their footsteps muffled on thick rugs woven with silver threads, carrying trays of half-empty goblets and crumpled napkins. The faint, lingering scent of roasted herbs and spiced wine from the dining hall clung to the walls, a reminder of the meal that had ended not with warmth, but with the sharp edge of expectations.
Sylan walked the length of the passage at an unhurried pace, one gloved hand trailing lightly along the carved stonework—intricate reliefs of wolves mid-hunt, frozen in eternal chase. His reflection ghosted beside him in the tall, polished windowpanes: golden hair pulled back into a neat tail that caught the late afternoon light, crimson eyes no longer dulled by fatigue but simmering with a low, steady burn of contemplation. The fresh tunic hugged his frame comfortably, free of the arena's grit, but the weight of the lunch conversation pressed heavier than any armor.
He'd navigated the meal without a fatal misstep—a win in itself, given how Amanda Von Noctis could turn a simple glance into a verdict, a pause into a prosecution. Her voice looped in his head now, cool and commanding: You will attend the Imperial Banquet. It wasn't a request; it was a chain, disguised as honor.
'The banquet, huh,' he thought, rounding the corner toward his private study, the heavy oak door coming into view at the hall's end. 'A glittering cage full of backstabbing nobles, silk-tongued snakes, and the Royal Family's polished doll. Can't wait to smile through the poison.'
He pushed the door open with a soft creak, stepping into the sanctuary of his study—a room lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound tomes and rolled maps, the air thick with the musty scent of old paper and polished wood. A wide desk dominated the center, cluttered with inkwells, quills, and scattered parchments yellowed by candlelight. The moment the latch clicked shut behind him, the air hummed faintly, like distant thunder.
Blue glyphs shimmered into existence, etching lazy patterns across the empty space before snapping together into a hovering mask—curved beak glinting dull, glass lenses empty as voids. The Plague Doctor coalesced from the haze in a burst of static snow and warped, echoing laughter, perching casual as a raven on the desk's edge. His long coat tails draped over the wood, fluttering faintly despite the still air, as if stirred by some unseen breeze from beyond the veil.
Plague Doctor: "You look like someone pissed in your tea. Let me guess—Mommy Dearest ordered you to polish your boots and grin for the court?"
Sylan didn't spare him a glance, crossing to the sideboard instead, where a crystal decanter of chilled water waited beside a stack of leather folios. "Something like that," he muttered, pouring a measure into a plain tin cup—cool against his palm, a simple anchor. He took a slow sip, the liquid cutting sharp down his throat, then leaned back against the desk's edge, arms folding loose across his chest. "Alright, spill it, Plague Doctor. Why the hell do I even have to drag myself to this banquet? The dust from the duel hasn't settled. I beat Elias fair and square. Kid himself stood up and called me his equal—his rival. Isn't that enough glory for one bastard son?"
The Doctor cocked his masked head, the motion jerky, birdlike, those hollow lenses catching the light from the mullioned window and throwing it back like twin black stars.
Plague Doctor: "Enough for you? Sure, soldier. Pat yourself on the back and call it a day. But for them? Not even close."
Sylan's brow furrowed, crimson eyes sharpening. "'Them' who?"
Plague Doctor: "The system. The world itself. That rickety narrative backbone still convinced you're just a speed bump for the heroes."
He unfolded from his perch with a fluid slide, long legs unfolding like a spider's, his cane materializing in one gloved hand. It tapped the floor once—tok—then again—tok—a off-kilter rhythm like a clock with a slipped gear.
Plague Doctor: "Picture it this way, Soowhi. You've already flipped one big script—toppling Elias Vaughn, the Empire's shiny pick for Sword Saint. You've clawed your way out of the 'disposable villain' box. But the world's lagging behind, still chewing on the old plot. It hasn't rewritten the map to fit you in yet."
Sylan set the cup down with a soft clink, the porcelain ringing faint against the desk's scarred oak. "And?"
Plague Doctor: "And it's scrambling to fix the glitch. That banquet? It's a hotspot—a nexus where the heroine, the golden boys, and every scheming faction pile in like moths to a lantern. Your invite isn't a courtesy. It's baked into the story's bones. Skip it, and the cracks start showing."
Sylan huffed a low, dry laugh, no real humor in it—just the bitter edge of recognition. "Narratively required. You say it like I'm still jigging to some hack writer's tune."
Plague Doctor: "Technically? Yeah, you are. Difference is, now you've got eyes on the puppeteer's hands. Makes you a walking threat they haven't clocked yet."
Sylan's eyes narrowed to red slits, a flicker of frustration tightening his jaw. He pushed off the desk, pacing a slow circuit around the room, boots scuffing soft on the woven rug. 'So even after snapping chains and spilling blood... I'm still knee-deep in their rigged game.'
He halted at the tall window, arms crossing again as he stared out over the estate's sprawling gardens. Afternoon sun bathed the lawns in lazy gold, hedges clipped sharp as blades, flowerbeds bursting with late-blooming roses that nodded in the breeze.
"Fine," he said at last, voice flat but resolute. "I'll show up. But if you think I'm gonna bow and scrape like some trained dog—"
Plague Doctor: "Wouldn't dream of it."
Sylan's mouth quirked in a ghost of a smirk, faint but real—the first crack in the tension since lunch.
Then, after a beat, his tone dipped, curiosity edging out the grit. "...Why tip me off, then? You could've let me stumble blind into whatever meat grinder they've got waiting."
The Doctor's beak tilted, that muffled chuckle bubbling out again, wet and hollow like rain in a tin drainpipe. "Because unlike this candy-coated cage of a world, I actually root for the underdog. Watching you win? That's my entertainment."
Sylan arched a brow, turning halfway from the window. "That so?"
Plague Doctor: "Also—" He jabbed the cane at the air, the system rippling like disturbed water under the tap— "*—keep a weather eye on one face in the crowd."
Sylan sighed, already bracing. "Let me guess. The heroine."
Plague Doctor: "Bingo, bright boy."
The teasing lilt faded, the Doctor's voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, still laced with that wry bite.
Plague Doctor: "Olivia Elana Monte Blanc—the Empire's darling, the beacon that burns away the rot, all that fairy-tale fluff. She's not gunning for you yet, but steer clear. No chit-chat, no dances, no lingering stares. She's holy venom in a halo of smiles."
Sylan's gaze turned steely, jaw setting like it was carved from flint. "Yeah, yeah. I clocked her in the arena—those eyes like painted glass. I know my hit list well enough."
Plague Doctor: "Do you, now?"
Sylan shrugged, leaning a shoulder against the window frame, the cool glass pressing through his sleeve. "Damn right. The bootlicking nobles who spit on our name. The whisperers in the shadows plotting our fall. The 'villains' this game keeps shoving in my path to keep the heroes shiny." He paused, gaze drifting down to the garden path below, where a cluster of maids gathered near the lily pond, their voices a soft murmur on the wind. "And yeah, the heroine—your walking plague in pearls."
There—Virelle among them, her dark hair catching the sun as she tilted her head back in laughter, light and free, the sound floating up faint through the open casement.
'At least one's still solid in this house of cards.'
Half under his breath, he tacked on, "Except Elias. He's... off-script."
Plague Doctor: "Oh? Do tell."
Sylan's smirk deepened, a glint of reluctant amusement in his eyes. "Kid's a brick. Thick as mud, blind to the knives. Straight out of the game's playbook—bless his heart."
The Doctor's laugh rasped out, sharp and echoing, like glass shards in a gale—out of place, out of time.
Plague Doctor: "You like the lug."
Sylan shot him a sidelong glare, arms tightening across his chest. "Didn't say that."
Plague Doctor: "Didn't need to. That little 'just like the game' had fondness dripping off it."
Sylan turned from the window with a mutter, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's a fool, sure. But an honest one. That's rarer than a fair fight around here."
Plague Doctor: "Easy, trooper. Sounds like you're brewing a bromance."
"I said rare. Not worth a medal."
The laughter bubbled again, that unearthly warp twisting through the room like smoke.
Plague Doctor: "Lighten up—I'm yanking your chain. But for real, Soowhi: that banquet's no tea party. It's a checkpoint. Nail it, and you lock in your spot. Botch it, and poof—you're edited out like yesterday's draft."
"Edited out. Real cheery."
Plague Doctor: "Joking aside, recall what I laid out: rot chews through tales like acid on paper. If the heroine starts her 'cleansing' spree, scrubbing out the 'tainted' bits to fit her goody-two-shoes code... you'll light up like a bonfire."
Sylan's face darkened, the easy banter evaporating. "So she'll hunt me down."
Plague Doctor: "Down the line, yeah. But not tonight. First, she'll beam at you, clap your back for 'upholding the Empire's pride.' Classic bait—reel you in slow."
Sylan's jaw clenched, a muscle feathering under the skin. He could see it clear as day: Olivia's gaze from the coliseum stands, that serene mask hiding whatever churned beneath, like she held the script in her pocket and knew every line before he spoke it.
'So the saint's claws are out, after all,' he thought, the warning sinking like lead in his gut.
"Copy that," he said aloud, voice steady as stone. "I'll toe the line for now. Nod, grin, keep the halo at arm's length."
Plague Doctor: "Attaboy."
"Don't call me that."
Plague Doctor: "Then quit lining it up so neat."
Sylan groaned, dragging a hand down his face, the faint stubble rasping under his palm. "You're a royal pain."
Plague Doctor: "And you adore it."
"Not a chance."
Plague Doctor: "Keep spinning that yarn, Soowhi. It's adorable."
The mask stuttered then, edges fraying into static fuzz, the projection glitching like a bad signal.
Plague Doctor: "Anyway, clock's ticking—banquet's seven days out. Plenty of runway to nap, swing a blade, and hey—ease up on the poor maid before she starts limping permanent."
Sylan went rigid, cup halfway to his lips. "...How in the hells did you—"
Plague Doctor: "Perks of the gig, patron's eye in the sky. Relax—I fast-forwarded through the fireworks. Caught the cleanup."
Sylan squeezed the bridge of his nose, eyes pinching shut. "You're a nightmare."
Plague Doctor: "And you'd be worm food without me."
"Debatable."
Plague Doctor: "Heh. Chew on that one, grunt. Now go snag a pastry or something—you're pale as my sheets."
With a lazy twirl of the cane, the figure shattered into a swirl of glowing specks, drifting up to kiss the ceiling and wink out like snuffed embers.
The study plunged back into quiet, the only sound the distant tick of a mantel clock marking seconds like reluctant heartbeats.
Sylan blew out a long breath, thumbs digging into his temples in slow circles. 'That godforsaken plague doctor...'
But even as the gripe formed, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth—small, crooked, but there. The jabs didn't grate like they used to. If anything, they anchored him, a twisted lifeline in this web of faked fates and scripted sins. Reminded him he wasn't drifting solo in the fog.
He pushed off the desk, crossing to the wide window seat where sunlight pooled warm across a scatter of parchments and half-unrolled maps. One caught his eye amid the mess—the crisp vellum of the official summons, its top stamped with the imperial seal in heavy wax. Deep gold, it gleamed like captured fire, embossed with the Hysperion Empire's mark: twin swords crossed fierce over a roaring sun, rays fanning out like judgment.
Sylan plucked it up, turning it slow between thumb and forefinger, the wax warm from the light.
'A week till the banquet. A week to stare down another den of vipers.'
His smirk sharpened, eyes glinting red as fresh blood.
'Bring it. Let's see what fresh hell this world's got queued up.'
---
Later That Evening
The sun had surrendered to the horizon hours ago, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading crimsons beyond the estate's high walls, when Sylan finally emerged from the study. The corridors lay dim and hushed now, lit by sporadic wall sconces that threw soft pools of amber light against the dark-veined stone, shadows stretching long like fingers reaching for secrets.
He nodded to the handful of servants he passed—quick bows and averted eyes their only reply—until his own chamber door loomed at the passage's end, heavy oak banded in iron.
It swung open on silent hinges, a faint creak the only greeting.
Virelle was already inside, bent over the four-poster bed, smoothing the fresh linens with careful hands—crisp white cotton tucked neat at the corners, pillows fluffed just so. She straightened at the sound, brown eyes lifting to meet his, softening instant with that quiet relief she wore like a second skin. "My lord, you're late. You haven't touched a bite since lunch."
"Got caught up," he said plain, easing the door shut behind him, the latch clicking soft like a held breath.
She tilted her head, a small frown creasing her brow—concern, not scold. "You say that too much lately."
He paused in the doorway, then let a low chuckle slip free, the sound easing some knot he hadn't named. "Fair point. Guess old habits die ugly."
As he shrugged out of his coat and sank onto the bed's edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, Virelle crossed the room quiet, kneeling at his side with the easy grace of someone who'd mapped his rhythms long ago. "Is something eating at you?"
Sylan glanced down, her face level with his now—lamplight gilding the edges of her dark hair, pulling hidden reds from the black. "…You could say that."
Her brows knit tighter, worry shadowing her eyes. "The banquet?"
He blinked, caught off guard, a faint huff escaping. "Word travels fast."
"I overheard Lady Amanda with the head maid," she confessed, voice dropping soft, like sharing a stolen sweet. "Murmurs about 'proper showing before the court.'"
Sylan exhaled slow, rubbing a hand along his jaw. "Of course."
Virelle bit her lip, hesitation flickering before she pressed on. "If it's risky... you shouldn't step foot near it."
A real smile cracked then—not the soldier's tight mask, not the noble's polite curve. Just something plain, human, warmed by the fierce spark in her voice. "Wish it worked that way," he said quiet, reaching to tuck a loose strand behind her ear, his fingers lingering a beat on her cheek. "But I'll pull through. Always do."
She frowned deeper, unconvinced, rising a touch to fuss at his rumpled collar—fingers deft, brushing his skin in a graze that sent a quiet spark down his spine. "You say that every time. Like it's a promise carved in stone."
"And it is."
She fell silent, hands stilling on the fabric, then murmured, "Then... at least promise you'll come back whole."
He held her gaze— the way the low light framed her, turning her eyes to polished chestnuts, her calm a steady harbor in his storm. "Always," he breathed, the word heavy with truth.
A faint shimmer danced at the edge of his sight—the system winking alive, blue text blooming discreet.
[Affection: Virelle Thren +5] [Plague Doctor: "Good. You'll need her steel more than ever."]
Sylan's lips twitched, a half-roll of his eyes. 'You never clock out, do you?'
Plague Doctor: "Not when the plot's twisting again."
The glow winked out, leaving the room to the hush, broken only by the first soft patter of rain against the leaded panes—drops racing down the glass like tears held too long.
Sylan leaned back in the armchair by the hearth, boots stretching toward the dying embers, eyes drifting to the darkened window where the capital's distant lights pricked the horizon like wary stars.
One thought lingered, quiet but edged like a whetted blade:
The banquet isn't just politics. It's war.