The throne hall was alive with activity. Courtiers bustled across the marble floor, parchment clutched in hands, voices hushed in reverence. Guards lined the walls, saints knelt in two perfect rows, and the queen sat quietly at Noctis's side, her eyes lowered as though even watching him too long would blind her.
At the center of it all, Noctis reclined on the throne. His presence filled the chamber, twilight radiance bleeding into the air, every decree he uttered reshaping the kingdom's order.
"Reduce the grain tithe," he commanded. "Feed the villages first. Any lord who withholds will bleed for it."
The scribes bowed and rushed to record it.
"Raise new schools in the northern provinces. Instruction will not be prayers to false gods, but doctrine of my haven. Let them learn to wield the light and the dark in balance."
The ministers fell over themselves with assent.
Hours passed in this rhythm—command and obedience, decree and submission—until the herald's staff struck the floor.
"My Sovereign, an envoy from the kingdom of Tharion Vale seeks audience."
The doors opened, and a man entered. Cloaked in fine silks, his hair bound with a golden clasp, his stride was steady. He carried himself with the posture of one who understood danger, and yet did not let it falter his decorum. When he reached the throne, he bowed deeply, not daring to look up until Noctis allowed it.
"Rise," Noctis said.
The envoy straightened and spoke with calm, measured tones. "By the command of His Majesty, King Veythros of Tharion Vale, I bring an invitation. One month hence, our kingdom will host the Grand Tournament of Steel and Flame. Champions from across the realms will gather. My king bids you attend, as one sovereign to another."
He produced an envelope sealed in crimson wax, holding it with both hands raised.
Noctis gave a faint nod. A guard stepped forward, took the letter with care, and approached the throne. Noctis accepted it, broke the seal, and read. His expression did not change.
He lowered the parchment and fixed the envoy with eyes like molten dusk. "Your king's letter is received. Tell him I will attend."
The envoy bowed again, perfect in his manners. "Understood."
He turned and left, steps measured, never hurried. He passed through the hall, through the gates, out into the streets where crowds still bowed at the sight of their new sovereign. His pace did not falter until he had passed the capital's walls. Only then did he spur his horse into a gallop, cloak whipping behind him.
That was not the king, he thought, cold sweat running down his neck. Reports said the king of this land was bedridden, weak and dying. I came here to confirm. Instead, I find a man cloaked in shadow and light, ruling as if he had always been sovereign. Who is he? What has become of the old king? I must return at once. My master must know—
The thought never finished.
A figure stood in the road ahead, motionless. The envoy leaned low, urging his horse to thunder past. He felt the wind break around the silhouette, the hooves pounding furiously—and then his vision tilted.
The world spun sideways. Then upside down.
He blinked, dust filling his eyes, and saw the ground spinning in circles. His horse was still running, but something was wrong. The rhythm was uneven, stumbling.
And then he saw it.
The horse's head lay a few strides ahead, eyes glassy. Its body continued forward in a staggering gallop before collapsing in a spray of blood.
The envoy's own eyes widened. Because he saw his body still riding, hands clutching the reins.
What…? Why is my body there?
His perspective twisted again, rolling across the dirt. His mouth worked, his tongue moved—yet no sound came.
Why… why can't I speak?
Then the truth landed like a guillotine. He was not a man anymore. He was only a head, rolling in the dirt, eyes wide, lips twitching in useless terror.
Footsteps approached. Black boots came into view. Then a hand reached down and lifted him by the hair.
Noctis's face filled his vision, golden pupils glowing faintly in the dusk.
"Did you think you could return to report?" Noctis asked softly, almost kindly. "That I have taken the throne while your king slumbers? That I am not the man you expected?"
The envoy's jaw worked, desperate to form a sound. Nothing emerged but the click of teeth.
Noctis smiled. "No. You will not return. Not whole."
The head quivered in his grip. The body lay sprawled on the ground beside the horse's corpse, twitching faintly.
Noctis opened his mouth, and his fangs gleamed.
[Skill: Devour — Activated]
The envoy's vision dissolved into darkness as his essence was consumed. His memories bled like wine into Noctis's mind: the politics of Tharion Vale, secret alliances with distant lords, whispers of rival kings, the plans surrounding the tournament. Every secret, every scrap of intelligence, every guarded confidence now belonged to the Twilight Sovereign.
The horse fell silent, its soul stripped away in the same breath.
Noctis stood alone on the road, the envoy's head no more than ash in his hand. He brushed the dust from his cloak and turned back toward the capital.
In the throne hall, none would know the envoy never returned.
And when he rode to Tharion Vale in a month's time, he would arrive not only as a guest—but as a hunter armed with their secrets.
The month passed with the swiftness of a blade drawn in silence.
The kingdom pulsed with new order: villages feeding instead of starving, grain moving down roads patrolled by twilight saints, and towns lit at night by the faint glow of faithless prayers now bent to Noctis's doctrine. Whispers spread through the land like wildfire—stories of a sovereign who had claimed not only throne and church, but also the grave itself.
Noctis sat at the heart of it all, the throne beneath him heavy with chains of loyalty that spread through city and field alike. Yet his gaze was not inward. His eyes were already fixed outward, toward the borders, toward the world beyond.
The summons of Tharion Vale had been accepted. Now the time to answer had come.
The capital streets were choked with people when he emerged from the castle gates. Thousands pressed forward, craning their necks to see their sovereign depart. Twilight banners rippled in the wind, their gold-threaded black cloth painting the skyline in eclipse hues. The saints marched at the fore, robes shimmering with the strange light that marked them as his remade guardians. Behind them came Veyra and the queen, their faces veiled, their presence silent but commanding.
Noctis himself strode at the center, wings folded close, cloak whispering against the stone. His presence silenced the crowd without a word. Farmers dropped to their knees. Nobles bowed their heads. Children pressed palms together in mimicry of prayers they no longer remembered.
He mounted a black steed that snorted smoke, a beast bound from shadow and soul. Its eyes burned pale, its body a fusion of horseflesh and essence, born of his will alone. The creature pawed the ground as if impatient to carry him.
A saint stepped forward, bowing. "Sovereign, the road to Tharion Vale is prepared. Your retinue is ready."
Noctis gave only a faint nod. "We ride."
The gates thundered open. His procession spilled out of the city like a tide of dusk, banners flying, saints chanting a low hymn that was neither holy nor profane but something balanced between. The people roared as they passed, the sound rolling like waves.
The journey across the borderlands was swift. Wherever they rode, rumors outpaced them—townsfolk whispering that the Twilight Sovereign himself was coming to the tournament, that the king of the dead walked beneath the sun. At night, they camped under black-and-gold pavilions, the saints taking turns chanting wards while Veyra attended to his needs.
On the twelfth day, they crossed into Tharion Vale.
The land here was green and rich, fields spreading wide under banners of crimson and steel. Soldiers lined the roads, not with hostility, but with the strained silence of men told to respect what they feared. They bowed as Noctis passed, though none could meet his gaze.
By the fourteenth day, the Vale Arena came into view.
It rose from the earth like a mountain of marble and iron, its walls carved with scenes of war and flame. Towers bristled with banners, crimson and gold snapping in the wind. The roar of tens of thousands already filled the air, a sound that shook the ground itself.
The Grand Tournament of Steel and Flame had begun.
Noctis dismounted at the outer gates. Trumpets blared, long and sharp. Courtiers in bright silks rushed forward, bowing until their foreheads touched the stone.
A herald cried out, voice cracking under the strain. "Behold! His Majesty, the Twilight Sovereign, King of the Reforged Kingdom!"
The crowd within roared louder, not with love, not with loyalty, but with awe and fear that threaded together until they were indistinguishable.
Noctis walked forward, each step echoing across the marble. The gates yawned open, spilling sunlight and sound into his path.
He entered the arena.
Tens of thousands of eyes turned to him. Warriors from across the realms stood in the sand, armored and armed, champions of every nation. Nobles filled the tiers above, their silks bright as fire. And at the highest dais, beneath a crimson canopy, sat King Veythros of Tharion Vale, his body frail but his crown steady.
Noctis's gaze lifted to him, pupils narrow slits of gold.
The tournament had summoned him as a guest. But he had not come to watch.
He had come to claim.
The arena thundered with drums and horns as champions from every realm marched across the sands. Banners snapped in the wind, colors gleaming, weapons raised high. Names were shouted from the herald's lips and answered by roars from the crowd.
But when the final gate opened, silence fell.
Noctis entered.
His aura exploded outward like a storm unleashed. Black and gold twilight surged across the coliseum, pressing against stone and soul alike. Champions staggered where they stood, weapons lowering against their will. Nobles in the tiers above leaned back as if a wave had struck them. Even the kings gathered on the royal dais felt it — their own sovereign auras instinctively rising in defiance, only to collapse beneath the pressure.
The crowd whispered, voices tight with awe and unease.
"Who is he?"
"The Twilight King…"
"His power… it silences even kings."
At the high dais, King Veythros of Tharion Vale shifted on his throne, his frail hands tightening around the arms of the chair. Confusion flickered in his eyes, and he leaned to an attendant. "That man—he is not the one I expected. Who is he?"
The attendant bowed low, whispering urgently. "Sire… they call him the Twilight King. A sovereign risen from the southern lands. His march here has turned every court's eyes."
Veythros sat back slowly, unsettled. By the time Noctis reached the center of the arena, the king rose from his throne to save face, forcing a voice of welcome into the air.
Behind Noctis came his saints. Fourteen of them, robes flowing, eyes burning crimson. They walked in two even columns, their steps perfectly measured. Sunlight fell on them in full, yet they did not burn, did not falter. Gasps rippled through the stands at the sight — saints, walking untouched beneath the holy blaze of day.
They endure the light, the crowd thought. Truly saints… chosen and set apart.
For it was true. They were not shadows made flesh, but remnants of sanctity reshaped. Their divine resistance made the sunlight harmless, their holy lineage allowing them to walk in radiance where no corrupted creature could.
Noctis did not slow, his wings folded like a cloak, his aura pressing on all corners of the arena. The saints followed, radiant and terrible, crimson eyes fixed ahead as if the light of the sun was beneath their notice.
King Veythros's voice rang out, brittle but commanding. "Behold! The Twilight Sovereign, King of the Reforged Kingdom!"
The announcement rolled across the coliseum, loosening the silence just enough for the heralds to shout, for the crowd to cheer in stuttering bursts. Yet the sound was thin, uneven. The awe in their throats still weighed heavier than the joy of spectacle.
Attendants hurried to the sands, bowing deeply, and guided Noctis toward the royal dais. He ascended the steps with slow inevitability, as though climbing a throne already his.
King Veythros stood to meet him. "We welcome you, Sovereign of Twilight. May you find honor in our tournament."
Noctis's gaze lingered on him, golden pupils narrowing like blades. His lips curved faintly — not in warmth, but in acknowledgment, a predator granting recognition.
He took his seat among the sovereigns. Behind him, the saints arrayed themselves in silence, their presence as heavy as his own.
The drums resumed. The horns blared. The crowd roared again — yet beneath it all, the truth was undeniable. Every king, every champion, every noble in that arena knew:
The Twilight King had entered, and the balance of the tournament had already shifted.
The sun had dipped by the time the day's parades ended. The arena emptied of its roar, and the city of Vale flared to life with torches and banners. At the palace adjoining the coliseum, tables had been set across a hall vast enough to seat kings and warriors side by side. Chandeliers of gold and crystal swung above, each gem catching the flame until it seemed stars themselves hung overhead.
The Banquet of Sovereigns and Champions had begun.
The Entrance
Courtiers in silks the color of fire led the way, announcing names as they echoed down the marble. One after another, monarchs, princes, and high lords entered — each with their retinues, each basking in the glow of their banners. Murmurs rippled, rivalries sparked in glances alone, but all paused when the herald's staff struck the floor for the last time.
"His Majesty, the Twilight Sovereign of the Reforged Kingdom!"
Noctis entered.
The hall stiffened. Candles seemed to gutter as his aura spilled through the chamber, muted compared to the arena but still undeniable. Kings shifted uneasily, their attendants bowing more deeply than custom demanded. Behind him came the fourteen saints, eyes crimson, faces calm, their robes catching the candlelight as if woven from dusk itself.
The nobles whispered, voices hushed. "That is him…"
"The one who silenced the arena."
"He walks with saints—true saints, untouched by the sun…"
Noctis gave no bow, no gesture of recognition. He walked as if he had always belonged here, the saints fanning out behind him like a wall of silent judgment. The courtiers who had approached to guide him faltered, then regrouped, rushing to lead him toward the dais where the sovereigns sat.
At the head table, King Veythros rose from his throne. Frail though his body was, his crown burned steady in the torchlight. He lifted a goblet in thin fingers.
"Welcome, Sovereign of Twilight. Tonight, no realm stands apart. Tonight, kings and champions alike feast together, that we may honor the bonds of contest and the flame of steel."
The hall answered with cheers, though many were brittle, too thin to mask the unease in their voices.
Noctis inclined his head the barest fraction, his eyes never leaving Veythros's.
The Banquet Begins
Food flowed like rivers. Golden platters bore roasted game dripping with spice, bread still steaming from ovens, fruit piled high in gilded bowls. Wine poured red as blood, sparkling clear in crystal decanters.
Noctis sat among sovereigns, his chair set between Veythros of Tharion Vale and the Queen-Regent of Onareth, a stern woman armored even at the feast. His saints stood behind him, silent as statues, crimson eyes fixed on the hall.
The champions sat at lower tables, their laughter loud, their boasts louder. Already knives of rivalry gleamed between words: northern warriors mocking the desert lords, knights sneering at monks, archers from the isles trading barbs with jungle hunters.
Through it all, Noctis ate little. He sat with one hand resting on the armrest, his gaze drifting, his presence alone enough to keep those nearby careful with their words.
Testing the Sovereign
At length, the Queen-Regent of Onareth turned to him, her eyes sharp. "Sovereign of Twilight. It is said your kingdom was reborn only this year. Tell me—how does one raise a throne so swiftly?"
Her tone was polite, her question not. Several kings leaned closer, eager for his answer.
Noctis sipped from his goblet, then spoke. "A throne is not raised by years. It is raised by will. The land bows to the one it cannot defy. That is all."
The Regent's lips tightened. Across the table, the King of Ashara chuckled into his wine. "Well spoken. Many kingdoms here are old, but age does not guarantee strength."
The Frost-Born of Gravenholt slammed a fist on the table, meat flying from his plate. "Words are wind. In the arena, we shall see if your will cuts flesh."
Noctis turned his gaze on him, golden pupils narrowing. "Flesh is easy to cut. What matters is whether your soul endures."
The northern king met his eyes for only a heartbeat before he looked away, muttering into his beard.
The table shifted, courtiers hiding smiles or covering their discomfort with hurried sips of wine. King Veythros lifted his goblet again, trying to smooth the air. "Peace, friends. Tomorrow steel will speak for us. Tonight, let the feast bind us."
Whispers in the Hall
Yet the whispers continued. Nobles leaned close, speaking behind fans or into jeweled hands.
"His aura pressed even the kings down."
"Look at his saints—walking under torches as if daylight itself meant nothing."
"Crimson eyes… yet holy robes. Are they truly saints, or something remade?"
The saints heard but did not respond. Their silence was heavier than words.
One champion from Onareth could not resist. He stood, goblet in hand, voice loud. "Twilight Sovereign! Will you enter the lists? Or will your saints fight for you while you sit in shadow?"
The hall hushed. All eyes turned.
Noctis did not rise. He only looked at the man.
"I will enter," he said. His voice was quiet, yet it cut across the chamber more sharply than any shout. "And when I stand in the arena, you will understand the difference between shadow and sovereignty."
The champion flushed, sat down heavily, and did not speak again.
Closing the Feast
The banquet stretched into the night. Music played, dancers spun, wine flowed, but the center of gravity in the hall never shifted. Every glance, every whisper, every nervous laugh circled back to the man in black and gold and the saints with crimson eyes.
By the time the torches burned low, King Veythros stood once more. "Sovereigns, champions, lords and ladies — tomorrow, the contests begin. Tonight, we rest. May the Flame bless our steel."
The hall cheered. Cups clashed. Yet the cheers rang hollow against the weight of twilight that still lingered in the chamber.
Noctis rose at last. His saints moved in perfect rhythm, following him as he turned toward the exit. He did not look back.
The banquet was over. The tournament would begin with dawn.
And in every heart that had sat in that hall, one thought burned: the Twilight King would not come to watch. He would come to claim.
The arena blazed with firelight. Drums pounded from the walls, horns screamed, and the crowd's roar was like a storm breaking against stone. The first duelists stepped onto the sand — a knight of Onareth in shining silver, and a barbarian of Gravenholt, shoulders broad as a gate. Their weapons clashed before the herald's voice even finished his announcement.
Steel rang out. Axes struck shields. Sparks spat into the air as cheers shook the coliseum. Nobles leaned forward in their seats, kings narrowed their eyes, and champions at the lower tables shouted wagers over goblets of wine.
But on the high dais, one man alone looked bored.
Noctis reclined in his chair, shoulders sinking into the carved backrest. His wings shifted lazily, catching torchlight on their gold-black feathers. Around him, the saints stood stiff and silent, eyes fixed on the duels with the patience of stone. Yet their master's gaze wandered.
He turned his head and found Veyra seated a few places down.
She felt it. A prickle along the spine, the weight of being watched. She turned — and saw his golden eyes fixed on her. For a heartbeat she froze. Then he lifted a hand and patted the seat beside him, a simple command.
Veyra rose, bowed faintly, and crossed the dais. She sat, smoothing her robes, her voice low enough for no one else to hear. "Is there something you need, my Sovereign?"
"Yes," Noctis replied, his tone calm, almost amused. "I have an itch on my thigh that refuses to leave me. Help me rid myself of it."
Her lips curved in a knowing smile. She bowed her head. "If the Sovereign has need, then I shall obey."
She glanced around. Every eye in the coliseum was fixed on the duel below — sparks flying, men shouting, blades clashing. The roar of the crowd drowned everything. Quietly, Veyra slipped from her chair and lowered herself beneath the long banquet table, its heavy cloth falling like a curtain to hide her.
Noctis spread his posture slightly, leaning back with the languid air of a man utterly unconcerned. He looked once toward the combat below — the knight now forcing the barbarian back with ringing blows — before lowering his gaze to the table before him.
From beneath came Veyra's whisper, hushed and teasing. "Here?"
"No," Noctis murmured, his lips barely moving. "More to the right."
A pause. Then again: "Here?" Her voice had a playful lilt, the obedience of a servant mixed with the daring of a confidante.
"No. Upward."
Another pause. "Higher still?"
"Yes. That is the spot."
She let out a soft chuckle. "This bump… were you bitten?"
Noctis's smile was faint, enigmatic. He gave no answer.
"Perhaps poisoned, then," she whispered. "I should inspect more closely."
The crowd below roared — the barbarian had landed a brutal strike, splintering the knight's shield. The clash of steel covered the faint shift of the table above.
Minutes passed. The duels came and went, one after another — desert lords clashing with isle archers, monks against painted tribesmen. Each bout drew cries of excitement from the masses. Yet at the high dais, the Twilight Sovereign reclined further into his seat, his body tilted at a different angle than before, his expression one of composed ease.
Every so often, the table trembled faintly. But in the thunder of battle, no one noticed.
By the seventh duel, whispers spread in the stands about the quality of fighters, wagers rising and falling with each strike. By the eighth, chants rang out, names shouted with glee. Noctis barely heard them. His gaze drifted lazily across the sand, his golden pupils half-lidded, his aura steady.
At last, the ninth and final match ended in a chorus of cheers. Trumpets blared to mark the day's close. The crowd leapt to its feet, clapping, stomping, their voices echoing into the night sky.
And in that swell of sound, Veyra reappeared. She slipped back into the seat beside him, her hair slightly disheveled, her cheeks flushed crimson. Her breathing was uneven, but she held her composure with a servant's discipline.
Noctis turned his head, his smile faint and knowing. He reached out and brushed a thumb across the corner of her lips. "Well done," he said softly, so none but she could hear.
Veyra bowed her head, her face bright with shy pride. "Your favor is more than I deserve."
"This was only an appetizer," Noctis murmured, voice like a promise. "When the tournament ends, we will have a feast."
Her eyes shone. She whispered back, "Then I shall await that day, my Sovereign."
Below, the crowd still roared for blood and glory. But on the dais, the Twilight King leaned back on his throne-like chair, satisfied, his saints standing crimson-eyed in silence, his loyal devotee at his side — and all the world none the wiser.
The night after the first duels fell thick with firelight and murmurs. The tournament city had not slept; torches burned in every street, champions boasted in taverns, spies whispered in corners. Nobles huddled in their villas, trading rumors about the Twilight King who had walked into their midst like a storm.
But in the high quarters of the palace, Noctis summoned his saints.
They gathered in silence, fourteen figures cloaked in twilight robes, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the darkened hall. Their faces bore no fatigue, yet hunger lay in their marrow, a restlessness only he could see.
Noctis stood before them, his aura coiling around the chamber like smoke. "You will remain here tonight," he said. His voice was calm, but every syllable carried weight. "Protect one another. Let no hand touch you, whether by blade or by word. There are spies among these walls, and I will not have them cut into our circle."
The saints bowed as one, voices low and unified. "As you command."
He regarded them for a moment, then added: "Your hunger is yours to manage. Drink if you must. A drop here, a cup there. Do not reveal yourselves in frenzy. If your supplies fall short, I will secure more." His gaze swept them, and their crimson eyes dimmed in shame, then steadied with resolve.
"Yes, Sovereign," they answered.
Satisfied, Noctis turned. His cloak rippled like a living shadow as he moved to the door. "I will hunt tonight. The truths of this kingdom will not be given—they must be taken. Guard my throne in my absence."
And then he was gone.
The palace was thick with spies. He had felt their eyes all evening: agents of foreign courts, mercenaries loyal to no one, knives hired to learn and to report. They lingered on balconies, hid in alcoves, whispered beneath the torches.
Not one saw him leave.
Noctis walked into the shadow and vanished.
[Skill: Ghost Vein — Activated]
[Skill: Shadowmeld — Activated]
The corridors passed beneath him like veins of darkness. Guards marched in pairs, torches bright in their hands, yet their light cut no mark across his form. He slid along the walls, his presence erased, his steps no louder than breath.
Within minutes, he had reached the royal wing. At its heart lay the chamber of King Veythros. Two guards flanked the door, stiff as carved stone.
Noctis moved behind them. Their eyes blinked once—then the air swallowed him.
He reappeared within the chamber.
The room was vast, paneled in dark wood and heavy drapes. A single candle guttered by the bedside. King Veythros lay beneath a canopy of crimson silk, his crown set aside on a table, his breathing shallow. He was a man well past his prime, body frail, yet even in sleep he carried the weight of a sovereign.
But a sovereign was still prey.
Noctis stepped closer.
The king stirred. His eyes snapped open. In one motion his hand closed on the sword at his bedside and he swung, quick and desperate. The blade cut the air where Noctis's throat had been—yet his wrist froze, caught in a grip like iron.
Golden eyes met his.
[Skill: Binding Stare — Activated]
The sword clattered from the king's hand. His breath faltered. His pupils widened, then fixed, glassy, staring.
"Be still," Noctis whispered.
The king obeyed.
"Offer your blood."
Veythros's head turned to the side, exposing his throat. The candlelight trembled as Noctis bent low, lips parting to bare his fangs. He sank them into the old king's neck, and warm blood spilled into his mouth.
The taste was heavy with age, but rich with power—like wine that had ripened in secret cellars, filled with years of ruling, of failing, of scheming.
System text flared across his vision.
[Doctrine Node: Sovereign's Graft — Acquired]
[Bloodline Vein Evolution Detected: Sovereign Vein → Ascending Twilight Vein]
Noctis drank deeply. With every pull, memories bled into him: childhood on a battlefield of fire, the struggle to keep a kingdom intact, secret alliances, betrayals whispered in council halls. He saw Veythros's throne ascend, fracture, cling to survival. He saw the tournament forged as a desperate gambit to mask weakness.
He drank until he knew everything.
At last, he drew back. The wound closed beneath his hand, the blood wiped clean. The king's head lolled slightly, his eyes still bound in trance.
"You will sleep," Noctis commanded.
The king lay back. His breathing steadied. His eyelids closed.
The chamber fell silent once more.
Noctis straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His golden pupils narrowed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
"One down," he murmured.
He faded back into shadow, the candle's flame guttering to nothing.
When the guards glanced into the king's chamber hours later, they found him sleeping peacefully, sword resting on the table, as though nothing had stirred the air.
But in the hidden weave of doctrine, a new node burned within the Twilight Sovereign's Grid.
And outside, in the sleeping city, the hunt had only begun.