Chapter 42 — First Volume, Epilogue 3 — A Night That Will Be Made to Remember, End
The first fingers of sunlight had crept well past the horizon by the time Sylan finally stirred, his body heavy as if chained to the bed. It wasn't the soft blush of dawn anymore; the sun hung midway up the sky, bold and unapologetic, pouring through the gauzy balcony curtains in thick ribbons of gold that warmed the rumpled sheets like a lover's touch. Dust motes danced lazy spirals in the beams, caught in the gentle push of a breeze slipping through the half-open window, carrying the crisp bite of autumn leaves and distant woodsmoke from the estate's kitchens.
The bed was a war zone of its own making—sheets knotted and yanked half-off the mattress, the heavy quilt kicked to the floor in a forgotten heap, the feather ticking beneath them creased deep with the frantic paths of two bodies that hadn't stilled until sheer, bone-deep weariness had claimed them both. The air hung thick with the faint, musky scent of sweat and spent passion, a reminder that lingered like a secret whispered in the dark.
Sylan's breaths came even now, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that spoke of hard-won rest. But the ache settled deep in his muscles, a dull throb that no amount of soldier's grit could shake off entirely. He'd pushed through ambushes in mud-choked trenches, endless drills under cracking whips, fights that left him bleeding and broken—but this? This was a different beast. No blades or bruises marked him here; it was the raw, unrelenting fire of the night that had drained him, a kind of exhaustion that seeped into the soul as much as the flesh. His limbs felt leaden, pleasantly sore, like the echo of a victory he'd never chased before.
Beside him, curled into the curve of his side, lay Virelle Thren. Her black hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink, a few stubborn strands glued to her forehead by the night's lingering damp. Her skin glowed with a soft sheen, the faint gloss of sweat that hadn't quite evaporated in the cooling air, tracing faint paths down the slope of her shoulder and the dip of her collarbone. Her breaths whispered out soft and even, almost like a lullaby all its own—gentle rises of her chest that brushed her warmth against him. One small hand rested light on his chest, fingers occasionally twitching in her sleep, as if chasing shadows from a dream she hadn't quite shaken.
For what felt like ages, Sylan just lay there, unmoving, his crimson eyes tracing the lines of her face in the golden light. The sharp angles of his jaw softened a touch, the perpetual tension in his shoulders easing as he watched the faint flutter of her lashes, the way her lips parted just a fraction on each exhale.
'So she's... still alive,' he thought, those red eyes narrowing in a mix of wry amusement and genuine surprise. 'Honestly, I figured she'd snap like a twig. The raw power in this body... damn, I lowballed it bad.'
A huff of laughter slipped out—dry and quiet, more breath than sound, barely stirring the air. He tipped his head back against the pillow, gaze drifting up to the canopy overhead, its embroidered wolves and stars staring down like silent judges in faded thread.
'Still can't wrap my head around the fact that I actually—'
[Ding.]
The chime sliced through the hush like a pebble in a still pond, sharp and uninvited.
Two panels bloomed into existence right above his face, hovering like ghosts in the sunlight—translucent blue screens that glowed with an insistent edge, cutting through the warmth like cold steel.
[Achievement Unlocked: Maid Fetish Enjoyer] "You seem to have a type. Congratulations on discovering the charms of loyal service."
[Achievement Unlocked: Congratulations on Not Being a Virgin Anymore] "Welcome to adulthood! Stat boost: +1 Confidence, -2 Sanity (temporary)."
Sylan blinked. Slow at first, then quicker, as if hoping the words might vanish like smoke. 'Seriously?'
He dragged a hand down his face, the calluses scraping rough against his stubble, a low groan rumbling in his throat. 'You've got to be kidding me. This system has zero shame—popping up like some nosy uncle at the worst damn time.'
With a flick of focused will, he swatted the panels away, watching them dissolve into a shower of glittering blue shards that faded harmless like dying fireflies. The room settled back into its lazy quiet, but the intrusion left a sour aftertaste, a reminder that even in this stolen pocket of peace, the world's strings tugged at him. Still, as the amusement ebbed, something softer crept in—a quiet warmth that tugged at the corners of his mouth. His eyes slid back to Virelle, who shifted just a hair in her sleep, a faint murmur escaping her lips, soft and indistinct but laced with contentment. Her brow smoothed out on a sigh, as if the dream cradled her gentle.
On impulse, Sylan reached over, his rough fingers—scarred from grips on hilts and triggers long past—brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft under his touch, warm as sun-baked earth, a stark contrast to the hardness of the life she'd chosen: serving in a house where barbs flew as easy as breaths, where loyalty was tested like steel in fire.
He lingered there, thumb tracing the gentle arc of her cheekbone, then let his hand drift into her hair, combing through the dark waves with idle care, untangling knots born of the night's frenzy. "…You're tougher than you look," he breathed, the words so low they barely stirred the air, meant more for himself than her.
The moment stretched, fragile as new frost—a rare hush after months of blood-soaked sands, whispered plots in shadowed halls, and plans scratched out by candlelight until his eyes burned. Peace like this? It was a thief, quick to vanish at the first wrong step.
But peace, Sylan knew from hard lessons, never stuck around for long.
The quiet fractured without warning. Sunlight warped at the edges, bending like heat haze over desert stones; the room's corners rippled, twisting the ornate wallpaper into watery smears, as if reality itself had hit a glitch.
[Incoming Message: PLAGUE DOCTOR.]
'Here we go again,' Sylan thought, propping himself up on one elbow with a faint wince, the sheets sliding down his bare torso to pool at his waist. Faint scars etched his chest—a lattice of old wounds from foxholes and forgotten wars, overlaid with fresh scratches from the night's more personal battles, pink lines that stung in the cool air.
The voice slithered in through the system's link, light and laced with that familiar, mocking lilt—like a crow chuckling from a graveyard branch.
Plague Doctor: "Well, well. Congratulations, Soowhi. You've certainly been busy. Honestly, I figured you'd drag your feet on this one a bit longer."
Sylan let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck where tension knotted like old rope. "You really picked the worst possible timing, you know that? Ever heard of knocking?"
Plague Doctor: "Oh, come now. I had to peek for myself. The mighty Sylan Kyle Von Noctis—chain-snapper extraordinaire—finally chasing... let's call it emotional release."
"Emotional release, huh? That's the spin we're putting on it now?" Sylan shot back, voice dry as bone, though a faint quirk tugged at his lips despite himself.
Plague Doctor: "I'm being polite. You're welcome, by the way."
Sylan pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut for a beat. "Alright, enough dancing. What do you want this time? Another cryptic warning? Some half-baked prophecy?"
The tone shifted then, the teasing edge dulling like a blade sheathed after a scrap—dropping low, almost gentle, carrying a weight that pressed on the air.
Plague Doctor: "Just this: protect her."
Sylan's hand froze mid-comb through Virelle's hair. His eyes sharpened, flicking to the empty space where the voice hung. "…Virelle?"
Plague Doctor: "Yes. She's not some forgettable side character anymore, shuffling in the background. The second you pulled her into your orbit—chose her, really—the Game noticed. Her story's knotted with yours now. That makes her a target. And with how rotten this system runs at its core... you'll want eyes on her, always."
Sylan's frown deepened, crimson gaze hardening to chips of ruby as he glanced down at her sleeping form. "You're saying the Game might come for her? Turn her into collateral?"
Plague Doctor: "Spot on. It hates loose ends, deviations from the script. You've already kicked over a few big ones—the Crest trial, that duel with Vaughn, even Elias bending his path your way. Now this... connection. The system's got a itch to 'fix' things. Brace for it."
The words landed heavy, heavier than any blade he'd swung or burden he'd hauled through the mud. They coiled in his gut, turning the morning's warmth to something sharper, watchful.
He shifted his stare back to Virelle—her brow pinching just a touch in sleep, as if even dreams caught the edge of his tension. Gently, he swept his thumb across her forehead, smoothing the faint line away until her face eased once more.
'Protect her, huh,' he thought, the resolve settling like gravel in his boots. 'Yeah, that's the bare minimum after yanking her into my brand of chaos.'
Plague Doctor: "Promise me, Soowhi."
The shift was stark—no more jabs, no sly asides. Just a low rumble, dead serious, the kind of tone that echoed from foxholes where men bartered truths for survival.
Plague Doctor: "I handed you the Crest. Gave you a shot at real power in this farce. But some wheels, once they turn... I can't jam them back. Virelle Thren's tagged now—branded by the narrative's ink. If she gets snuffed out, or worse, twisted into something she's not... it'll gut more than your road ahead."
Sylan's eyes turned to flint, jaw setting firm as he straightened a fraction, the soldier in him snapping to attention even half-naked in tangled sheets. "Then I'll make damn sure that doesn't happen. Over my body, if it comes to it."
Silence stretched—a rarity, thick and loaded, like the pause before a storm breaks. Even the Plague Doctor held his tongue, letting the vow hang.
Then, quiet as a sigh through a mask's beak:
Plague Doctor: "Good answer. I'll hold you to it."
The link sputtered out, a faint static buzz fading to nothing. The room snapped back—sunlight steady, corners square again, the ripple gone like a bad dream shaken off.
Just Virelle's soft breaths filled the space once more, a quiet anchor in the settling hush.
Sylan eased back against the headboard, letting out a slow breath that fogged the air for a second. He wasn't sure how long he sat like that, crimson eyes fixed on the play of light across the curtains—minutes bleeding into more, the estate's distant hum filtering in like a half-heard song. Servants' footsteps in the halls below, the lowing of horses in the stables, life grinding on without him.
At last, Virelle stirred properly—lashes fluttering like moth wings, her brown eyes cracking open to the glare, still fogged with the deep pull of sleep, confusion knitting her brows at the brightness.
"My lord…?" she mumbled, voice a hoarse thread, roughened from the night's endless cries. "Is it… already morning?"
Sylan turned to her, the faint ghost of a smile cracking his face—tired around the edges, but real, warmed by the sight of her rumpled and unguarded. "More like noon. You slept like the dead."
She blinked slow, the words sinking in, then her gaze swept the chaos—the twisted linens, the discarded clothes in a heap by the bed, the telltale ache blooming low in her body. Color flooded her cheeks in a rush, pink blooming hot as she yanked the blanket higher, clutching it to her chest like a shield. "I—I see…"
A soft chuckle rumbled from him, low and easy, cutting the awkwardness like a warm knife through butter. "Easy. You earned every second of it. Hell, you deserved a medal."
Her eyes softened then, the shyness easing into something tender, though she still glanced away, fingers twisting the sheet's edge. But after a beat, voice dropping to a near-whisper, she ventured, "My lord… are you… alright?"
He paused, the question hanging simple but loaded—for once, the quick-fire answers of the soldier stalled on his tongue. He looked down at her properly: the way her knuckles whitened on the fabric, the quiet worry threading her words like fine wire.
"…I don't know," he admitted at last, the honesty slipping out plain, unvarnished. "But I will be."
Virelle nodded, small and sure, as if his words were gospel enough—no need for more, no push for details. She inched closer, tentative at first, then settled her head against his chest, ear pressing to the steady thump of his heart. He draped an arm around her without thinking, drawing her in careful, like she was glass wrapped in silk—protective, unyielding.
Sunlight washed over the bed in liquid gold, gilding their skin, turning the scars and marks into something almost beautiful in the glow.
For the first time in ages—maybe ever—Sylan let his eyes drift shut, not chasing sleep but just... breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, the rise and fall syncing with hers. The system lurked out there, a spider in the webs. The world spun on, a rigged game with teeth. But right here, in this sun-dappled room with the breeze whispering through, he wasn't the weapon, or the outcast, or the piece on the board.
He was just a man, arms wrapped around the one soul who'd stuck through the fire without flinching.
And in that hush, one thought rang clear in his skull:
'If this world wants to take her away… then it'll have to go through me first.'
Outside, the estate's bells tolled soft in the distance—a low peal calling the day to order, reality knocking polite but insistent. But Sylan didn't budge. Not yet. Not while Virelle's breaths evened out against him, peaceful and trusting.
The soldier who had fallen into a false world found himself, for the first time, wanting to protect something real.