Chapter 10 — Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, 3
The air in the chamber hung heavy, saturated with the cloying scent of wax and roses, as Sylan Kyle Von Noctis stood transfixed before the mirror. His crimson eyes seared into the reflection, a stranger's face gazing back—beautiful, cold, and utterly alien. The name Sylan still felt like a splinter in his mouth, a weapon he hadn't yet mastered. Jin Soowhi's memories clung to him, raw and jagged, refusing to dissolve into the aristocratic husk he now occupied. He was both—soldier and noble, betrayed and betrayer, alive yet not himself.
A sharp knock pierced the silence.
Sylan's head snapped toward the door, instincts flaring. His body moved before his mind could catch up, muscles coiling as if braced for combat. The knock came again, softer, tentative, like someone testing the edge of a predator's lair.
"Enter," he said, his voice low, laced with the smooth authority of Sylan's upbringing rather than Jin's rougher cadence. The ease of it unsettled him.
The door creaked open, revealing a young woman in a threadbare gray dress, her head bowed so low her chin nearly grazed her chest. Her hands, clasped tightly, trembled faintly, and her dark hair was scraped back into a severe bun, stray strands framing a pale, unremarkable face. She was slight, almost frail, her shoulders hunched as if anticipating a strike. A maid. A nobody in the glittering, venomous hierarchy of this world.
"My lord," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I… I've come to tend to your chambers."
Sylan's eyes narrowed. He studied her—the frayed hem of her dress, the faint bruise on her wrist, the way her fingers twitched as if expecting rebuke. In Sylan's fragmented memories, she was familiar, not by name but by role. Maids like her were shadows to the Noctis family, meant to be ignored or chastised, their existence acknowledged only in failure. Jin's memories, though, saw something else: a person, fragile, caught in a machine built to grind her down.
"What's your name?" he asked, his tone even but not cruel.
The maid flinched, her eyes darting up for a fleeting moment before dropping back to the floor. "Virelle, my lord. Virelle Thren."
Virelle. The name sparked no recognition in Sylan's borrowed memories, but Jin committed it to memory. Names mattered. They anchored people, gave them substance. He'd learned that on the battlefield, where a single name could mean the difference between a comrade and a stranger left behind.
"Do your work," he said, turning back to the mirror, though his senses remained sharp, tracking her every movement. He didn't trust this world—not its opulent halls, not its people, and certainly not its script.
Virelle moved silently, her steps practiced, almost invisible. She gathered a cloth and a small bucket from the corner, beginning to dust the ornate furniture with mechanical precision. But her hands shook, and her breaths came quick, shallow. She was afraid. Of him.
Sylan's jaw tightened. He understood why. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, in the game, was a petty despot. A sneering, cruel boy who lashed out at servants to soothe his own inadequacies. The memories confirmed it—flashes of Sylan snapping orders, mocking a maid's clumsiness, watching with cold satisfaction as she scurried away in shame. That was the role this world expected him to play.
But Jin wasn't that boy. He'd seen enough cruelty in his own life to know it didn't make you stronger—it just left you empty.
Virelle's cloth slipped, grazing a crystal vase on a side table. It wobbled, teetering on the edge, and her gasp sliced through the room like a knife. She lunged to catch it, but her panic made her clumsy, and the vase tipped further.
Sylan moved instinctively, his hand darting out to steady it. His fingers closed around the crystal, cool and smooth, halting it just before it could shatter on the floor. Virelle froze, her eyes wide with terror, her breath hitching as she stared at his hand.
"I—I'm sorry, my lord!" she stammered, dropping to her knees, her hands pressed to the floor. "Please, I didn't mean—please don't—"
"Stop," Sylan said, his voice sharp enough to cut through her panic. He set the vase back on the table, its weight grounding him. "It didn't break. Get up."
Virelle hesitated, her body trembling as she rose slowly, her eyes still fixed on the floor. She expected punishment. Jin could see it in the way she braced herself, in the way her shoulders curled inward, as if she could make herself smaller, less of a target.
"Look at me," he said.
She obeyed, reluctantly, her gaze flickering up to meet his. Her eyes were a muted gray, dulled by fear and weariness, but there was something else there—something defiant, like a spark buried under ash. Jin recognized it. He'd seen it in soldiers, in himself, after everything had been stripped away.
"You're not in trouble," he said, holding her gaze. "But be more careful. I don't tolerate messes."
Her lips parted, surprise flashing across her face before she masked it with neutrality. "Yes, my lord," she whispered, bowing again.
Sylan turned away, his reflection catching his eye once more. He despised the face staring back—too perfect, too delicate, a mask for a boy doomed to fail. But he couldn't afford to linger on it. This world was a battlefield, and he needed allies, not enemies. Virelle, for all her fear, was here. She was close. And in a game designed to crush people like her, that made her valuable.
"Virelle," he said, his voice softer now, testing the waters. "You've served the Noctis family long?"
She hesitated, her hands twisting the cloth. "Three years, my lord. Since I was fifteen."
Three years. Long enough to know the family's cruelties, to learn how to survive them. Jin's mind raced, piecing together a strategy. In the game, Sylan had no allies, only rivals and pawns. But Jin wasn't bound by the script. He needed someone loyal, someone who could move unseen, who knew the house and its secrets.
"You'll be reassigned," he said abruptly, the decision crystallizing as he spoke. "From now on, you're my personal attendant."
Virelle's eyes widened, her breath catching. "My lord, I—I'm just a maid. I'm not trained for—"
"You'll learn," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I don't need someone polished. I need someone who listens and doesn't make mistakes twice."
Her mouth opened, then closed, words failing her. She looked torn between gratitude and dread, as if she couldn't decide whether this was a reprieve or a snare. Jin understood. To her, Sylan Kyle Von Noctis was a monster, a spoiled noble who humiliated those beneath him. She didn't know Jin, didn't know the soldier who'd rather die than let someone else take a bullet for him.
"You're dismissed," he said, turning back to the mirror. "Start tomorrow. Don't disappoint me."
Virelle bowed deeply, her hands trembling as she gathered her things and slipped out of the room, the door closing softly behind her. Sylan exhaled, his shoulders easing slightly. He'd taken a gamble, elevating a maid to a position so close to him. But gambles were how you survived. And Virelle, with her quiet resilience and her fear of him, could be shaped into something more—an ally, a shadow, someone who could watch his back in a world that wanted him dead.