Chapter 48 — Imperial Banquet, 4
The Imperial ballroom glittered under its canopy of chandeliers, each one a frozen burst of stars—runic crystals strung on chains of enchanted silver, burning with a soft, golden fire that didn't flicker or fade. Music floated through the vast, vaulted space like a living thing: the gentle pluck of harps mingling with the breathy trill of flutes, backed by the steady, distant thump of drums that pulsed like a heartbeat under the laughter and the low buzz of secrets swapped over wine. The air smelled of sweet blooms and spiced meats, heavy with the perfume of power—nobles in their finest silks and velvets swirling like colorful eddies in a river of marble and gold.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis had claimed a spot near the western dais, tucked just enough in the shadows of a tall pillar to watch without being the main show. His posture stayed ramrod straight, but relaxed at the edges—like a sentry at ease but never asleep. Virelle lingered at his elbow, her black hair twisted into a neat coil that caught the candlelight just so, her simple gray dress looking almost elegant in the warm glow, the fabric hugging her frame without a single wrinkle. She poured a measure of deep red wine into his goblet with a steady hand, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners in a small, private smile.
{Enjoying the circus, Soowhi?} The Plague Doctor's voice slinked into his head, dry as old bones, laced with that mocking lilt.
'Not my brand of fun,' Sylan thought back, lifting the cup to his lips but not tipping it—letting the rich scent tease without committing. 'Too many grins hiding fangs.'
{That's the ticket. Keep that edge. This is the Empire's beating heart, after all—folks here'd pawn their own kin for a wink from the throne.}
He nearly let a smirk slip free at that, biting it back into a neutral line.
The opening stretch of the banquet had crawled by in a parade of stiff rituals: heralds barking names like auction calls, nobles trading compliments thinner than tissue paper, Amanda's icy pride on full display like a blade sheathed in frost for all the courtiers to admire from afar. But now the mood had thawed a touch—wine loosening tongues, music blurring the lines of rank—and the dance floor at the hall's center swirled with color, couples twirling under the lights like leaves in a gilded wind.
Sylan leaned in a fraction toward Virelle, voice low enough to blend with the strings. "Stick tight tonight. If anyone starts fishing about the estate or the Crest, play dumb as a rock—you hear me?"
She nodded quick, her fingers brushing his sleeve as she set the decanter down. "Yes, my lord." Her eyes darted to a cluster of ladies nearby, their fans fluttering like wary birds as they stole glances his way. "You pull eyes even when you're still as stone."
"Not the warm kind," he murmured, scanning the room once more—old habit, mapping the flow of bodies, the spots where trouble might pool.
A fresh wave rolled through the crowd then—a hush that spread like ink in water, pulling every head toward the grand staircase at the far end. The herald up top slammed his staff against the marble with a crack that echoed like judgment, the sound cutting the music clean.
"Their Imperial Highnesses—the Crown Prince Damian LeCroix and Princess Seraphina LeCroix!"
The orchestra dropped to a respectful whisper, strings trailing off like fading echoes.
Sylan shifted his gaze up, calm as ever. Descending the stairs arm-in-arm came a pair that looked carved from the same flawless marble—twins in every line and light, but worlds apart in their shine. Damian led with the easy stride of someone born to rule, his white hair gleaming like fresh snow under the chandeliers, catching every stray beam and tossing it back in sparks. His eyes, a sharp blue like chips of summer sky, held the steady weight of command—cool, assessing, the kind that sized you up without a blink. Seraphina matched him step for graceful step, her gown a shimmering fall of silver and deep sapphire that pooled around her like moonlight on water. Where her brother's presence burned hot as a forge, hers cooled the air around her—lunar, serene, pulling you in without a word.
{Royalty in the flesh,} the Plague Doctor noted, voice a touch drier than usual. {The Empire's matched set of shiny toys. Don't gawk too hard, Soowhi—might cramp your style.}
'I'm clocking them,' Sylan thought back, eyes narrowing just a hair.
{Of course. Wouldn't have it any other way.}
The twins hit the floor, and the hall bent to them—nobles folding into bows like wheat under a gale, spines curving low and deep. Damian traded a few polished words with the nearest cluster, his voice carrying smooth and sure; Seraphina offered smiles that warmed without reaching too far, her grace quiet as a held breath. As they wove through the throng, the crowd parted seamless, flowing around them like water around river stones.
Sylan figured they'd glide right past—another quick scan of the room's lesser lights. He figured wrong.
Damian's eyes snagged on their corner, lighting with a spark of recognition—and something sharper, like a hunter spotting fresh tracks. The Crown Prince nudged his path their way, deliberate, his sister a graceful shadow at his heel.
The air around the Noctis table went still as a held grenade. Nobles at nearby seats froze mid-sip, forks hovering, eyes wide as saucers.
"Lord Sylan Von Noctis," Damian said, stopping smooth before him, voice like polished steel—smooth, but with that unyielding ring underneath. "The one who crossed blades with the Sword Saint and walked away not just whole, but shaking his hand."
Every stare in a ten-foot radius snapped to them, the weight of it pressing like a thumb on a bruise.
Sylan rose fluid, dipping into a bow that hit the mark—respectful, but not groveling, spine straight as honor demanded. "Your Highness."
Damian smiled, easy and real, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You carved through that duel like a storm given form. Even Elias Vaughn's been singing your praises. The Empire's backbone needs more like you—unbending, but sharp."
"My thanks, Your Highness." Sylan's words came even, polite as protocol, but he sank back into his seat almost casual, turning halfway to Virelle like the chat was a quick weather check, not a spotlight moment.
The quiet that crashed down after could have shattered crystal.
For the first time in who-knew-how-many powdered years, the Crown Prince got brushed off mid-sentence—like he'd tossed a line to a fish that swam right past the hook.
Damian blinked, surprise flashing quick before it melted into something like delight—a low, genuine laugh bubbling out, the sound warm and unforced, turning a few more heads in the hush. "You're... a breath of fresh storm in this stuffy air."
Sylan glanced up, one brow arching just enough. "Just keeping it honest, Your Highness. Crowds aren't my favorite dance partner."
{Oh, that's gold,} the Plague Doctor purred in his head, glee thick as honey. {You just handed the future Emperor the back of your hand like he's a tavern crony.}
Seraphina's mouth curved soft, her voice slipping in like silk on skin. "Brother, maybe Lord Sylan favors truth over the usual tango."
Damian shot her a look, still chuckling, eyes dancing. "Maybe so." Then, leaning in a touch: "Most pups in this pen would trip over their boots to dazzle the Crown. You? Not a flicker."
"I hold the throne in respect," Sylan said plain, no fluff. "But I bend knee to the Empire's need, not its mirror shine."
The beat after hung heavy, the air thick enough to chew. Then Damian threw his head back and laughed proper—full and ringing, the kind that pulled smiles from reluctant faces and set the nearby nobles shifting awkward. "By the gods, that's a line worth etching! Honesty like that? Rarer than a dragon's tear in this snake pit."
Seraphina tilted her head, studying him like a book cracked to a surprising page—her blue eyes cool but curious, picking at the edges of his words. "You talk like a man who's tasted true battle, not just tourneys."
"Seen my share," Sylan replied, gaze drifting a hair distant, the ghosts of old fires flickering behind his eyes for a breath. "One way or the other."
She caught the shadow in it, the unspoken weight, and let it lie—no prodding, just a nod that said she heard the echo. Instead, she edged closer, voice dropping to a murmur that cut the crowd's noise. "Then you grasp peace's price tag. That alone lifts you above the powder and poses."
Her nearness stirred the room's underbelly—the stares from every angle sharpening, courtiers and counts alike weighing the gap between princess and duke's son like it was a ledger entry, ripe for scandal or scheme.
{Careful treading, Soowhi,} the Plague Doctor warned, tone dipping low. {You're stacking headaches quicker than badges.}
'Just words,' Sylan thought, calm as a still pond.
{Sure. And that mountain's just a hill with attitude.}
Virelle stepped in smooth then, dipping a quick curtsy with the decanter in hand. "Your Highnesses, more wine to warm the evening?"
Seraphina's smile bloomed kind, genuine. "Please, thank you."
As Virelle poured—steady pour, no spill—Sylan sized up the pair proper. They were the Empire's poster children, alright: beauty that turned heads, brains that turned plots, authority that turned men to statues. But under the gloss, he caught the cracks—restlessness in Damian's easy stance, like a wolf pacing a too-small pen; a quiet storm in Seraphina's serene gaze, eyes that saw too much and said too little. The Crown Prince looked at him not from on high, but level—like sizing a sparring partner, not a pawn.
Damian leaned in a fraction more, voice dropping conspiratorial. "Straight question, Lord Sylan: ever thought of the Imperial Knighthood? Caliber like yours? We'd carve a spot, no questions."
Sylan held the stare even, unflinching. "I back my house and the Empire's spine already. That's load enough for now."
"Talk like a man who prizes his leash long," Damian said, nodding approval, eyes glinting respect.
Seraphina's voice wove in after, soft but slicing clean: "Or one who eyes crowns sideways."
The line pulled a ripple of chuckles from the eavesdroppers—light, but laced with that courtly edge—but no bite in her tone, just the keen spark of someone who'd nailed a truth.
Sylan let a faint smile ghost his lips. "Cages rattle me, Princess. Crowns? Sometimes they're just the fanciest bars."
Her eyes widened a tick—surprise flashing quick—then, out of nowhere, she laughed: clear and bright as a struck bell, the sound rippling out and yanking more stares, a few jaws slack in the wake.
Damian shook his head, grin splitting wide. "Noctis runs hot in the veins, alright. No lash from me for truth tonight—I drink to it."
{You've got the royals hooked,} the Plague Doctor noted, wry as a bent nail. {Bravo, breaker of thrones.}
'Wasn't aiming for that.'
{Precisely why it stuck. Chaos by accident—your specialty.}
The mirth ebbed, and the orchestra picked up again—violins easing into a waltz that wrapped the room in golden sway, slow and inviting. Damian pivoted a touch, offering his arm to Seraphina with a flourish. "Shall we claim the floor, sister?"
She took it graceful, head dipping. "Lead on, brother."
But at the edge, Seraphina twisted back for one last look at Sylan, eyes lingering like a question half-asked. "Savor the night, Lord Noctis."
"And you the same, Your Highness," he replied, voice even, face a locked book.
The twins melted into the dancers, white hair and silver skirts flashing under the lights—untouchable, radiant, the room bending to their rhythm.
Whispers ignited then, crackling through the crowd like dry brush under sparks. Nobles huddled closer, voices pitching urgent.
"Did you catch that? He brushed off the Crown like a bothersome fly!"
"The Noctis pup, chatting the Prince down..."
"And the Princess—laughing at his barbs!"
Virelle let out a soft breath, the barest curve touching her mouth as she leaned in. "My lord," she whispered, "you've got every lord here green with envy or white with worry."
Sylan raised his glass again, this time letting the wine wet his lips—tart, bold, cutting clean. "Means I'm hitting the mark, at least."
{You're stirring a hornet's nest,} the Plague Doctor threaded in, sarcasm dripping. {But damn if it's not a sight.}
'You told me to breathe natural.'
{Natural's one thing. This? You're scripting a royal crush arc without a pen.}
Sylan tuned out the jab, eyes drifting to the dancers. Damian and Seraphina moved flawless—synced steps, effortless turns, her gown flaring like a comet's tail, his hair a white banner in the whirl—picture-perfect, the Empire's dream made flesh.
For the first time that night, the system stirred under his skin—a low buzz, like a wire humming hot. A ping chimed soft in his skull:
[Affinity Update: Crown Prince Damian LeCroix — 10 → 15 (Intrigued)] [Affinity Update: Princess Seraphina LeCroix — 5 → 18 (Curious)]
He went still, goblet halfway down. 'You've got to be joking.'
{Ah, so the tickers tick for blue bloods too,} the Plague Doctor mused, almost thoughtful. {Fresh wrinkle. Or the Game's improvising.}
'Perfect. Just what I needed—royals racking up hearts like it's a tavern tally.'
Virelle caught the far-off cast to his eyes, tilting her head. "Trouble, my lord?"
Sylan blinked it away, shaking his head with a faint huff. "Nah. Just... tuning out the racket."
She smiled, knowing, like she saw the gears turning. "Not used to the spotlight beaming quite this bright, are you?"
"Nope. In the trenches, praise waited till the dust cleared—and even then, it came with a bill."
She didn't push, but the quiet understanding in her gaze said plenty—steady as ever, his rock in the swirl.
The evening ground on: wine pouring freer, laughs rising looser, pacts sealed in clinking glasses and murmured nods. Sylan's role held simple—reserved but rock-solid, polite without bending, a shadow that drew light without chasing it.
When the herald called the final raise, Damian lifted his chalice high from the dais's heart, voice carrying clear over the hush. "To Hysperion—and to the surprises that forge its fire anew!"
His gaze cut straight to Sylan across the sprawl, a flicker of a smile there—respect laced with the promise of clashes to come.
Seraphina tapped her glass to his, the chime bright. "And to plain speech. A gem rarer than any in these halls."
The echo rolled out, nobles lifting in chorus.
Sylan matched the motion, face smooth as slate.
[System Notification: "Royal Notice" Triggered.] [Warning: Fate Thread linking detected — Olivia Elana Monte Blanc approaching within proximity.]
The alert hit like a gut punch, twisting his insides cold.
'Of course—right on cue.'
{Oh-ho,} the Plague Doctor hummed, low and eager. {Heroine's inbound. Lights up, Soowhi. Don't let her snag you in her saintly web.}
Sylan breathed out measured, setting his cup down easy as he twisted toward the grand archway. There, gliding through under the Hysperion crest of crossed suns, stepped a young woman whose hair fell like sunlight shattered through rose-tinted glass—Olivia Elana Monte Blanc.
Her arrival washed the room like a holy wave—soft, glowing, pulling every eye without a demand, the air around her humming faint with that unnatural grace.
Murmurs bloomed instant, rippling out:
"The Empire's Saint..."
"His Majesty's own light..."
"The next Crown's jewel..."
Sylan's crimson eyes slitted just a touch.
'Game on.'
{You bet,} the Plague Doctor murmured. {Word from the wise: steer wide. That girl's no beacon—she's a story-sucker, pulling threads till you're the moth.}
As Olivia's emerald gaze locked on his from across the divide, something old and fake shivered in the system's guts—a glitch in the code, like fate itself hiccuped.
[Fate Thread: Active.] [Warning: Destiny Route Attempt — "Main Storyline Reconnection" in progress.]
And Sylan Kyle Von Noctis smiled faint, the ghost of defiance curling at the corner of his mouth.
'Let's see who's pulling the strings this time.'