Chapter 53 — Imperial Banquet, End
The grand ballroom's lights had faded to dying embers hours ago, leaving the Imperial Castle's winding corridors wrapped in a hush broken only by the soft creak of settling stone and the distant murmur of servants hauling away the night's remnants. Massive chandeliers hung from shadowed ceilings like weary giants, their flames snuffed low to a faint, flickering gold that barely kissed the marble floors, turning the polished surfaces to pools of amber and ink. The echoes of laughter and clinking glasses had long drained away, replaced by the quiet rustle of silk banners stirring in the draft, their golden threads dulled to whispers against the tapestried walls—as if the palace itself exhaled, tired from the weight of so many secrets spilled under its roof.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis followed the steady thud of his father's boots down the hall, the sound bouncing off the cool stone like a reluctant drumbeat. Darius Von Noctis strode ahead—tall and resolute in his formal black coat, silver threads weaving through the seams like faint scars from battles long etched in memory, his cloak swaying heavy with each measured step. The duke's posture held its iron spine, but there was a subtle drag to it now, a weariness woven deep from the Emperor's words and Sylan's unflinching truth—a raw vein opened, still seeping in the quiet.
They paused on a broad, empty balcony, the crisp night wind sweeping in through open arches like a thief slipping through cracks, nipping at Darius's cloak and tousling the edges of Sylan's golden hair. From this high overlook, the capital unfurled below like a living mosaic—a endless weave of lantern-lit streets and torch-glow avenues threading through the velvet black, spires thrusting defiant at the star-strewn sky, the whole empire twinkling like a dragon's careless spill of gems across the dark. The moon curved low on the rim of the world, a slim silver hook slicing the horizon, draping long, wavering shadows over the balcony's weathered balustrade, turning the stone to ghost-pale under its indifferent light.
For a beat that dragged eternal, neither man pierced the quiet—just the breeze braiding between them, hauling the far-off peal of a city clock, low and lonesome.
Then Darius shattered it, voice gravel-rough and edged with the drag of a long day. "Ah—Sylan. Nearly slipped my mind. The Emperor and Grand Duke are calling a council huddle at dawn. Stretches three days solid."
Sylan wheeled toward him, brow arching sharp. "Three full days? What's got them chewing that long?"
Darius huffed a chuckle—more air than mirth, a tired rumble from deep in his chest. "The usual brew: power plays, old wives' tales, and plain old jitters. Cladius is pinning it on the Blood Moon—that same bad-luck sign I flagged before the feast kicked off. Seems the Empire's stargazers are split down the middle: half howling doom, the other half bickering on the flavor. Whatever the mess, the Emperor's dragging me and the Grand Duke in. We'll be holed up in that council den till the smoke clears."
Sylan frowned, gaze flicking to the night-streaked windows framing the palace's silhouette. "And me in the mix?"
"You," Darius said, firm but with a softer undercurrent Sylan rarely caught, "take a real breather for once. Snag a room at the royal inn. Keep clear of the castle till we wrap. Once it's done, we roll straight for the dukedom—no detours."
He paused, the words hanging a tick, his tone dipping warmer, like a fire banked low. "Back home, we gear up. That Blood Moon... might be more than sky-scrawls this round. Can't say what's brewing, but I'd sooner spit in its eye prepared than squint blind."
For a moment, they stood mirrored—father and son, blades from different forges, scarred by the same endless grind.
Sylan dipped his chin, steady. "Got it. I'll recharge... and drill down."
Darius's mouth crooked in a faint, rough-edged smile—pride glinting quiet in his crimson eyes, like embers stirred after years cold. "Solid. Counting on you to keep sharp, Sylan. Downtime's no excuse to rust."
The duke pivoted then, boots scraping faint on the marble as he headed for the corridor's shadowed throat. "Post-meeting—three days, mark it—we're wheels-up for home. Be primed."
His form swallowed into the gold-flecked gloom, the rustle of his cloak and the far-off clatter of servants scraping the last banquet scraps the only farewell.
Outside, the air bit cool and crisp, silvered by the moon's lean glow.
Virelle waited by the carriage, her black hair catching faint glimmers from the swaying lantern at her side. When she spotted him, she straightened quick, offering a soft smile that cut the night's edge—warm, unwavering, her brown eyes steady as hearthlight.
"My lord, the carriage stands ready."
"Thanks, Virelle." He climbed in beside her, the door latching with a gentle click that walled off the capital's restless hum, sealing them in a pocket of quiet wood and velvet.
The horses leaned into their harnesses, wheels crunching over scattered gravel; the scent of damp stone and coming rain clung to the breeze slipping through the cracks.
Sylan eased back against the cushions, eyes drifting half-shut, Darius's words churning slow in his head like stones in a tumbler.
'Three days. The Blood Moon. First big turn of the wheel.'
{Soowhi,} the Plague Doctor's voice slinked in, dry as dust on leather, threading the system's silent line. {You're already mapping how to flip the script, yeah?}
'If I sit idle,' Sylan thought, 'someone drops who shouldn't—the princess, that so-called villainess... they rate better than the page's cold print.'
{You loathe the leash, don't you? Fair. But heads up—tweak one thread, and the weave snarls elsewhere.}
'Then I'll stitch the snags myself.'
{Hah. That's my glitch-hunter.}
The rasp trailed off. The horses' steady clop blended to a near-sleepy rhythm, the carriage rocking gentle over the cobbles.
Virelle lifted her gaze from the shadowed floor, studying him quiet—concern etching soft lines at her eyes. "My lord... fretting?"
Sylan met her stare, mustering a faint smile that warmed for her alone. "A touch. Not the council. What's lurking after."
She stretched across the narrow space, her hand finding his—small, warm, fingers lacing sure. "Then we'll shoulder it side by side."
He squeezed back once, the simple press chasing the chill from his bones, gratitude blooming quiet amid the mental churn.
---
The Royal Inn
The carriage rolled to a halt before the marble-faced inn tucked for noble overflow— a sturdy haven of carved arches and climbing ivy, reserved for those too grand for common inns but too wary for the castle's watchful eyes. Gilded lanterns bookended the entry, their flames dancing lazy like slow heartbeats, casting warm pools on the steps. Sylan waved off the driver with a nod, stepping down into the crisp night with Virelle shadowing close.
The desk clerk— a wiry man with a ledger thick as a tome—spotted the Noctis crest on his cloak and snapped to attention, bowing so quick his spectacles nearly slipped. "Lord Von Noctis—your suite awaits, top floor, finest view. Shall I send up refreshment?"
Sylan shook his head. "Just quiet. Thanks."
The man scurried to comply, keyring jingling as he led them up a spiral stair of worn oak, the air growing thicker with the scent of beeswax polish and old woodsmoke. The door to the suite clicked open on well-oiled hinges, spilling them into a cozy sprawl: a wide bed draped in deep crimson linens, a hearth crackling low with fresh logs, tall windows framing the distant palace towers like jagged teeth against the stars.
The latch snicked shut behind them, muffling the world's grind to a hush broken only by the fire's soft snap.
Sylan shrugged free of his coat, letting it drape over a chair's back, and crossed to the window—gaze pulling to the palace's silhouette, towers stabbing the night like defiant spears. 'Three days,' he thought again, the words looping steady. 'Time to game out the branches. Time to grind the Crest, hone that Void edge. Time... to brace for the Blood Moon's bite.'
Soft footsteps padded behind him—light, hesitant. He turned to find Virelle paused mid-step, a folded towel clutched in her hands like a shield, her brown eyes uncertain if she should speak or fade.
"You need to rack out, my lord," she said gentle, voice threading the quiet. "Your father nailed it—rest isn't optional."
He let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Planning on it. Park here with me a sec first."
They sank onto the bed's edge together, the mattress yielding soft under them. The hearth's glow washed her face in honeyed light, gilding the curve of her cheek, pulling hidden warmth from her dark hair. Without a thought, he reached out, tucking a stray lock behind her ear—fingers lingering a beat on her skin, rough against her softness. She blinked, surprise widening her eyes, but held still, breath catching faint.
"Virelle," he murmured, voice low as the fire's crackle, "thanks. For sticking through the grind—all of it."
Her smile bloomed small, true—earnest as a promise kept. "No other spot I'd choose."
They drifted closer—no grand gestures, just the silent nod of souls synced—and their lips brushed light, tender, a fleeting press born not from fire but from the deep ease of trust shared and held.
The kiss parted soft as it came, leaving warmth in its wake.
He leaned his brow to hers, breath mingling warm. "Post-Blood Moon, I'll see you free of collars and commands. No more serving shadows. That's my oath."
Her reply hummed soft, a lullaby's thread. "I'll hold you to it."
Later, as her breaths evened to sleep's rhythm—chest rising slow, face slack in the fire's dying light—Sylan lay wakeful, eyes tracing the embers' slow fade to ash in the grate.
A faint shimmer bloomed above him, blue-white script unfurling like smoke:
[System Notification] Event Trigger — "The Blood Moon" will commence in 20 days.
[Warning] Entity 'Blood Princess' Awakening Sequence — 5% Progress.
[Advisory] Player Intervention Recommended.
Sylan's eyes slitted at the hovering text, jaw setting firm. "Twenty days," he whispered to the empty room, voice steel-wrapped. "Plenty to rewrite the stars."
He stretched a hand over, thumb grazing a lock of black hair from Virelle's brow—soft as silk under his touch—and let a rare smile crack, quiet and sure.
'Whatever storms brew,' he thought, 'I'll stand ready.'