Chapter 46 — Imperial Banquet, 2
The carriage eased to a gentle stop before the colossal gates of the Imperial Royal Castle—a fortress that looked like it had been hammered straight from the gods' own anvil, splitting the sky with its sheer, unyielding height. Walls of marble shot through with veins of pure gold caught the morning sun and threw it back in blinding waves, each massive pillar etched with statues of long-dead celestial knights and forgotten kings, their stone faces frozen in eternal triumph or grim resolve. The air itself hummed with old magic—thick, ancient, and brimming with the kind of pride only an empire's beating heart could muster, like the breath of history pressing down on your shoulders.
Even Sylan, who'd stared down the smoking craters of battlefields where gods had clashed and left nothing but ash and echoes in his old life as Jin Soowhi, couldn't stifle the low mutter in his head. 'So this is Hysperion's crown jewel... flashy enough to make sin look holy.'
Beside him on the tufted bench, Virelle craned her neck toward the window, her brown eyes going round as saucers, drinking in the sight like a kid peeking into a fairy tale that had spilled off the page. "M-Master Sylan... oh, look at that mural—"
The massive painting sprawled across the outer wall like a dream woven in pigments: angels swooping down from storm-torn skies, swords of pure light slashing through shadows to cradle humanity in their glow. It was stunning, the colors so vivid they seemed to pulse with life, but Sylan's sharper gaze—honed by years spotting tripwires and feints—picked out the cracks beneath the polish. Halos frayed at the rims like worn thread, faces smudged just enough to blur the holy fire in their eyes, as if the long-dead artist had whispered doubts into the brushstrokes, questioning if divinity was ever that clean.
A familiar rasp slithered into his thoughts, laced with that ever-present smirk. {You look half-dazzled, Soowhi. Careful—gawking too long at Empire pretty-paint might pickle your brain. Or worse, trick you into swallowing their hero tales whole.}
Sylan rolled his eyes, the motion hidden in the carriage's sway. 'You sure flap your beak a lot for a guy who cowers behind a bird mask.'
{Touché, soldier. But come on—even I'd tip my hat to their stagecraft. They know how to sell the dream. Presentation's half the con.}
The gates groaned open on massive hinges that sang like low bells, sunlight flooding the approach in a cascade of molten gold as the line of waiting carriages lurched forward. The air thickened with scents that screamed wealth—heady perfumes of jasmine and sandalwood, the crisp rustle of silk gowns, the faint metallic tang of oiled armor polished to a mirror shine.
Up ahead, in the lead carriage emblazoned with the Noctis banner—a coiled dragon gnawing its own tail in endless fury—rode Amanda and Darius, their presence alone enough to part the crowd like a blade through mist.
Sylan's own ride trailed close, sleeker and less ostentatious, but the stares it drew were heavy as chains. Nobles clustered at the sidelines, feathers and jewels glinting as they leaned in, whispers buzzing like flies on a fresh kill. Some dipped heads in stiff bows of respect; others hid sneers behind painted fans, their eyes slitting with old grudges. House Noctis—the "disgraced" pack, the butt of court jokes for years—now dragged every gaze like a lodestone, all because one bastard son had left Elias Vaughn eating dirt.
"Is it always this... packed?" Virelle whispered, her fingers twisting the ribbon at her wrist—a nervous tic she couldn't quite shake. Her black hair gleamed soft in the sun slanting through the window, and beneath the lace at her collarbone, the faint, hidden mark of the Noctis crest—the one he'd traced there in a stolen moment—pulsed warm against her skin, invisible to all but him.
"Only when the big dogs catch a whiff of fresh meat," Sylan murmured back, keeping his voice low, easy.
She blinked up at him, confusion creasing her brow. "Meat, my lord?"
He flashed her a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes but softened the edge for her sake. "Power's just blood in fancy cups, Virelle. Nobles flock where it spills—lapping it up, fighting over the drops."
The carriage jolted to a halt at the foot of the grand entryway, a liveried butler in crisp imperial blues swinging the door wide with a bow that scraped the gravel. "Lord Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, welcome to the Imperial Banquet. His Majesty and the Royal Family eagerly await your presence."
Sylan stepped down first, boots hitting the stone with a solid crunch, his black uniform sucking in the light like a shadow given form—tailored sharp as a blade, militaristic lines cutting against the sea of frilled robes and embroidered finery around him. Virelle followed quick, her simple maid's dress—gray wool edged in subtle silver—transformed just enough with a brooch at her throat to pass muster without screaming for attention. She kept her head modestly lowered, steps measured and graceful, but there was a quiet strength in her poise that snagged glances anyway, like a plain stone in a river of gems.
{Tsk, tsk, Soowhi. You sure she's just arm candy on staff?}
'Zip it, Doc.'
{I'm only saying—the way she shadows you? If glances could absolve a lifetime of bad deeds, you'd be sainted on the spot.}
Sylan bit back a snort, schooling his face to neutral as they started up the sweeping marble staircase to the castle's maw. Every few treads, he felt the weight of eyes boring in—curiosity from the young bucks, envy from the sidelined lords, outright venom from the old guard who still nursed grudges against House Noctis like fine wine. Whispers chased them up the steps, hushed but sharp, slicing through the air like hidden daggers.
"Is that the one? The kid who tangled with the Empire's Sword Saint heir and walked away grinning?"
"Scarcely twenty, and he's stealing Vaughn's thunder—"
"House Noctis dragging itself from the gutter at last—"
The words dripped honey over hemlock, sweet on the tongue but burning all the way down.
Ahead, Amanda twisted her head just a fraction, her face a flawless mask—unreadable as carved ice. Her gown flowed in waves of deep violet slashed with black, a bold thumb in the eye of the Empire's gold-and-white palette, screaming defiance without a shout. She pinned Sylan with a single glance—brief, assessing—then snapped forward again, chin high.
Darius, ever the thunderclap, slung a grin over his shoulder, eyes twinkling with rough pride. "Easy on the swordplay tonight, eh, son? My ticker's still patching from the last show—though hell, another scandal might just spice the blood, hah!"
Sylan let a small smirk crack, the corner of his mouth lifting. "No guarantees, Father. But I'll aim for diplomacy."
Virelle muffled a giggle behind her palm, the sound light as birdsong, cutting the knot in his chest just a hair.
They crossed the threshold into the Grand Hall—a cavernous wonder that swallowed sound and spat back echoes, vaulted ceilings lost in a haze of glittering chandeliers dripping crystal tears, walls sheathed in murals of glass that shattered light into rainbows across the polished floors. Noble houses clustered at long tables draped in imperial damask, seats doled out by rank and favor like cards in a rigged deck. At the heart, on a dais of veined onyx, loomed the Emperor—a titan in robes of pristine white slashed with imperial crimson, his face a map of hard-won years, eyes like polished obsidian that missed nothing.
Flanking him stood the Crown Prince, all cool poise and measured smiles, his stance easy but coiled, like a serpent coiled in sun-warmed grass, watching the flood of arrivals with the patient grace of a hunter gauging the herd.
And there, at the hall's far curve where a shaft of sunlight framed her like a living icon, stood Olivia Elana Monte Blanc.
The Heroine.
Her golden hair tumbled in perfect waves, catching the light like threads of captured dawn; her gown—pale ivory laced with threads that shimmered like captured stars—hugged her form with an otherworldly grace, as if woven from the stuff of legends. The instant Sylan's gaze snagged on her, the world glitched—a subtle warp in his vision, like static bleeding over a clean lens, the air around her humming with an unnatural pull.
[WARNING: INTERFERENCE DETECTED — "HEROINE AFFECTIONAL FIELD" ACTIVE]
'Ah, hell no,' Sylan thought, jaw tightening under the skin.
The Plague Doctor's voice dropped in, stripped of its usual jab—grave now, like a briefing before a suicide run. {There she hangs... the tale's beating pulse. Tread light, Soowhi. One curve of those lips, and the whole damn script starts folding around you like wet clay.}
'Copy that,' Sylan shot back, ice in his mental tone.
He could sense it already—that insidious tug in the air, a false warmth slinking toward his ribs like smoke under a door. It wasn't real affection, just the world's oily nudge, the narrative's invisible hand shoving him toward the "right" path, the one where villains fell and heroes shone.
But Sylan's mind—forged in the grind of real wars, tempered by the Crest's wild dual heart—dug in like roots in stone. He didn't drift closer. Didn't let his eyes linger past that first, assessing beat. Instead, he pivoted smooth, boots clipping steady on the marble as he cut straight for the Noctis table, a low island of black velvet amid the sea of gaudy silks.
Amanda and Darius claimed their seats with the fluid authority of wolves staking territory, their mere nearness enough to hush the cluster of lesser lords at the adjacent benches, conversations dying like snuffed wicks.
The herald's voice boomed from the rafters, amplified by unseen magic, rolling through the hall like thunder in a bottle: "Presenting the esteemed guests of House Noctis—Duke Darius Von Noctis, Duchess Amanda Von Noctis, and their son, the Imperial Duel Champion, Lord Sylan Kyle Von Noctis."
A ripple swept the room—murmurs swelling to a wave, scattered applause pattering like rain on glass from the fair-weather fans, while sneers slithered under breaths from the grudge-holders in the shadows.
Sylan tuned it out like battlefield noise, sliding into his chair with posture ramrod straight, crimson eyes scanning the room calm as a sniper's scope. Virelle took her post a respectful step behind him, hands clasped loose at her waist—the picture of devoted shadow, unassuming but unbreakable.
The Emperor lifted his chalice high, the heavy gold catching the chandelier's blaze like a small sun. "To the rising flames of our youth—to warriors and visionaries who shall fan the Empire's eternal blaze!"
Glasses chimed in a cascading peal, crystal kissing crystal; strings swelled from hidden alcoves, violins weaving a melody light as spun sugar. The banquet unfolded in a whirl of plated delicacies and flowing vintages, laughter bubbling gilded and forced.
But under the shimmer of candleflame and the veil of perfumed smoke, Sylan felt the undercurrents—the stares like pins, the tension coiling tight as a tripwire, schemes fermenting in every sidelong glance and honeyed toast.
And threading through the System's quiet hum, the Plague Doctor's whisper slunk in once more: {This, Soowhi, is where the real game's afoot. Don't let that heroine's grin blind you—her light's the kind that chars worlds to ash.}