Chapter 52 — Imperial Banquet, 8
The grand banquet had wrapped up hours earlier, but the Imperial Castle's winding corridors still carried the faint, fading pulse of the night's revelry—like the echo of a party that refused to fully die. Massive chandeliers dangled from arched ceilings, their candles burned down to stubs, casting a soft, golden haze that pooled on the polished marble floors and climbed the tapestried walls. The laughter of nobles had trickled away into the dark, leaving only the occasional whisper of silk from a late-staying guest or the distant chime of a clock marking the witching hour. Banners of imperial gold hung limp in the still air, their edges frayed from years of triumphs and trials, whispering secrets to the shadows.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis trailed the steady clip of his father's boots down the hall, the sound rebounding off the stone like a heartbeat too loud for the quiet. Darius Von Noctis strode ahead—tall and unyielding in his formal black coat, silver threads tracing the seams like veins of moonlight, his cloak swaying heavy with each step. The duke's back was ramrod straight, but there was a stiffness to it now, a tension that hadn't been there amid the banquet's forced cheer. The air between them stretched taut, thick with the unsaid things that had simmered since the Emperor's words and Sylan's bold interruption—truths cracked open like old wounds, bleeding fresh in the open.
They halted on a wide, deserted balcony, the cool night wind sweeping in through open arches like an uninvited guest, tugging at Darius's cloak and ruffling the edges of Sylan's hair. From this high perch, the capital sprawled below like a living map—a sea of twinkling lanterns and torchlit streets weaving through the dark, spires stabbing the star-pricked sky, the whole empire glittering like a hoard of scattered jewels under the moon's indifferent gaze. The thin silver sliver hung low, a curved blade slicing the horizon, casting long shadows that danced faint on the balcony's stone balustrade.
For what felt like ages, neither man broke the quiet—just the wind sighing between them, carrying the distant toll of a city bell.
Then Darius spoke, voice low and rough, like gravel shifting under weight. "You grasp what you dropped in there? Back with the Emperor?"
Sylan kept his eyes on the city lights, hands gripping the cool marble railing, the stone biting into his palms. "I laid out the facts."
"The facts?" Darius wheeled toward him slow, crimson eyes—mirror to his son's—narrowing in the moonlight, shadows carving deeper lines into his weathered face. "You figure that's on you? A slip of a boy caught in a trap? You were five, Sylan. A kid huddled in a box on wheels while killers closed in."
Sylan's fingers dug harder into the rail, knuckles paling under the gloves. "If I hadn't been in that seat... she'd be standing here. Breathing. Laughing at some dumb joke I never got to hear."
Darius's breath hitched—a raw, jagged sound that shattered the stillness, human and unguarded. The duke who'd stared down armies and never flinched at court suddenly looked... worn, the years etching cracks in his iron mask, his broad shoulders sagging just a fraction under the cloak's weight.
"She threw herself in the path for you," he rasped, voice thick as smoke. "That's not dying because of you, boy. That's choosing life for the one she loved most."
Sylan didn't fire back. The words slammed into his chest like dull punches, thudding deep but glancing off the armor he'd built over years of silence and sidelong stares. The soldier in him screamed to clamp down, stay stone; the kid buried underneath clawed to roar, to demand why it had to be this way.
Darius closed the gap, boots scraping faint on the stone. "We never pinned it on you. Amanda and I—" His voice snagged on her name, cracking like thin ice, and he cleared his throat rough. "We turned the knife on ourselves. I picked that damn route through the valley, figured the shadows were clear. Misread the board. And your mother... she couldn't let go of the blame I carried. Wouldn't forgive me for putting you both in that rolling coffin."
He dragged in a breath, long and shuddering, rubbing a hand over his face—callused palm scraping stubble, as if wiping away the grime of unspoken years. "When Eileen... when the light went out in her, Amanda froze solid inside. Turned her heart to winter to keep from shattering again. I chased that chill because... hell, what else was there? Living with the hole she left? We couldn't face you without seeing her—tiny hand stretching from that wreck, her laugh echoing in the empty spots."
The confession dangled there, heavy as a dropped gauntlet, cutting the wind to nothing.
Sylan swallowed hard, the city's glow blurring at the edges of his vision; he blinked fierce against the sting. "So all those years... it wasn't hate for me. You were hating the mirrors."
Darius barked a laugh—raw, half-shattered, half-free, echoing off the arches like a ghost finally unchained. "Hate's the easy road, son. It's the climb back to forgiving your own damn skin that takes a lifetime of blisters."
He scrubbed his face again, eyes shining wet in the moon's pale wash—crimson depths raw, unguarded, the duke's armor sloughing off in chunks. "You scrapped every day to prove your worth—drilling till your hands bled, turning yourself into the Empire's perfect blade, the son we could brag on. But you didn't need to earn a damn thing, Sylan. We were the failures. The ones who looked away when you needed eyes on you."
The words landed like a mace to the knees—Sylan's throat burning, chest tight as a drum. He wanted to snap something back, to fill the void with soldier's grit or noble's pride, but nothing came. Just the raw ache of truths too long buried, clawing free at last.
{...I'll sit this one out, Soowhi.} The Plague Doctor's whisper ghosted in, softer than a sigh, the usual bite dulled to something almost gentle. {Earned your quiet tonight.}
Darius edged closer then, and for the first time in more years than Sylan could count, his hand landed on his son's shoulder—grip firm as a vow, but trembling faint, like holding something fragile after too long gripping steel. "That stand you took in the arena... facing Vaughn down, no flinch, no fold... I saw you there. Not her shadow, not the echo of what we'd lost. My boy. Standing tall where it counted."
Sylan's voice scraped out at last, cracking on the edges. "Then why... why hold it all in till now?"
Darius's exhale rattled, heavy with the weight of roads not taken. "Cowardice, plain. Owning it out loud? Makes the ghosts real. And I figured... gods, I thought there'd be time. Endless stretches to mend the rips, say the words before the clock ran dry."
The hit landed square—harder than any arena swing, cracking something deep in Sylan's ribs. He searched his father's face, hunting for the unyielding duke who'd stormed courts and crushed foes without a blink. What he found was just a man—lined with regrets, eyes hollowed by the years, reaching across the chasm with hands that shook.
A sliver of tension uncoiled in Sylan's chest then, small but real—like a knot loosening after too long pulled tight. "And Mother?"
Darius sighed, the sound dragging long, weary. "Amanda's a war in her own skin, son. Eileen was her sun—brighter than her own blood. Losing that? She walled it off, swore off the soft spots that could break her twice. You stir that up in her—the what-ifs, the might-have-beens. She's warring herself, not you. Give her the rope. Time loosens what swords can't."
Sylan dropped his gaze to the railing, fingers tracing the cool grooves in the stone. The words didn't magic away the years of frost and distance, but they sketched a path across it—faint, but there, a bridge waiting for feet to test it.
"I'll... give it a shot," he murmured, voice rough around the edges.
Darius nodded slow, like the weight of it all settled easier on his shoulders. His eyes caught the moonlight, shimmering faint—crimson pools raw, unguarded, the duke's mask shattered for the night. "That's more than I deserve."
They stood there a spell—father and son, stripped of ranks and raiments, just two men on a cold stone perch with the wind weaving between them. The distant city clock tolled low, a mournful note that hung in the air. For the first time in forever, the quiet didn't bite; it breathed, easy and open.
After a stretch, Darius pivoted toward the shadowed hall, cloak swirling faint. "Come on. Dawn's creeping. You've hauled enough weight for one turn of the stars."
Sylan paused, the word catching in his throat. "Father."
Darius half-turned, brow arching.
"Thanks."
For a heartbeat, the duke's stern lines cracked—softening into a faint, bone-tired smile that reached his eyes, warm as a hearth after storm. "Sleep sound, Sylan."
His boots echoed fading down the corridor, swallowed by the dark.
Sylan slumped against the railing, letting out everything in a long, shuddering rush—the knot in his chest unwinding, tears pricking hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the city's glow to golden smears.
{You played that hand better than most souls I've watched shuffle off.} The Plague Doctor's voice drifted in, quiet as a shadow, the sarcasm shelved for once.
'You said you'd pipe down.'
{I fibbed.}
Sylan huffed a laugh, wet and ragged, swiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. 'Yeah... figured.'
He tipped his head back, staring up at the moon's thin curve slung over the empire like a watchful blade. For once, the night didn't crush down on him like a boot on his throat.
It felt—oddly, impossibly—like the first page of something new.