Chapter 43 — First Volume, Epilogue 4 — Lunch with Mother and Father, 1
Steam curled through the marble bathroom like a living fog, turning the air thick and hazy, a soft veil that muffled the world outside. The gentle rush of water from the wide copper taps echoed off the polished walls, a steady whisper that blended with the faint patter of droplets on tile. Morning light slanted in through frosted glass panes high on the walls, bending the sun's rays into warm, golden streaks that danced across the veined floor like scattered coins.
Sylan leaned against the cool edge of the oversized bath, a towel knotted loose around his hips, hanging low enough to hint at the lean lines of muscle beneath. His reflection shimmered in the fogged mirror across the room—golden hair damp and tousled, clinging to his temples in lazy curls; crimson eyes heavy-lidded with the drag of too-little sleep, but sparking faintly under the weight of tangled thoughts. His skin still bore the faint echoes of the night: red trails where fingers had gripped tight in passion, a subtle warmth that lingered in his veins like a stubborn ember, refusing to cool even after hours lost to fitful rest.
Beside him, Virelle Thren moved with her usual quiet grace, though the edges of it frayed just a touch today. She wore the standard black maid's uniform—simple wool skirt and crisp white apron—but the collar sat a bit askew, sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, betraying the bone-deep fatigue that pulled at her. Her black hair was pinned back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face, and her brown eyes held a softness that went beyond duty, tinged with a shy warmth she couldn't quite hide as she wrung out a fresh towel in the porcelain basin.
"My lord," she said, her voice a soft murmur, delicate as the steam itself, as she stepped closer with the cloth draped over her arm. "The bath is ready."
Sylan glanced down at the water—its surface a calm mirror broken only by rising wisps of vapor, scented lightly with crushed lavender and rosemary from the herbs she'd scattered in. He nodded once, short and sure, then stepped over the edge, the heat swallowing him up to his calves, then knees, thighs, until he sank in with a quiet sigh. The warmth seeped into his skin like a balm, chasing away the night's deeper chills.
Virelle knelt at the tub's side, her movements fluid and precise—years of service etched into every gesture, like a dancer who knew the steps by heart. She arranged the small vials of oils and a fresh sponge within easy reach, her fingers steady on the surface but betraying a faint tremble underneath, the subtle shake of someone who'd given everything and then some.
Sylan caught it, of course—the soldier's eye missed little, especially not in someone who'd become his quiet anchor.
'She's still wiped out... no shock there,' he thought, letting his eyes drift shut for a beat, the steam's embrace pulling a low hum from his chest. 'We grabbed maybe a wink between rounds. And here she is, up and at it, playing the perfect servant like nothing happened.'
He reached out for the cloth she'd been holding, his fingers grazing hers in the pass—rough calluses against her smoother skin, a spark that lingered a second too long. "That's enough, Virelle. Go crash. I can scrub my own back today."
She froze mid-motion, the towel half-extended, her brown eyes lifting to his with a flicker of surprise. "But, my lord—"
"Virelle."
The way he said it—firm as a drawn line, but quiet, laced with something almost gentle—halted her cold. Their gazes locked, crimson meeting brown in the misty air, and for a heartbeat, the steam seemed to thicken, the world narrowing to that shared breath, heavy with the unspoken shift between them.
A flush crept up her neck, blooming pink across her cheeks, but she dipped her head, voice soft as falling petals. "...As you wish, my lord."
She straightened slow, turning to give him the space he asked for, but she didn't vanish entirely—lingering by the corner shelf, close enough that if he called, she'd be there in a step, her back to him now but her presence a steady warmth in the room.
Sylan eased back, water sloshing gentle around him until it lapped at his shoulders, the heat working deep into knotted muscles, loosening the iron bands across his neck and back. He tilted his head against the smooth marble rim, eyes closing fully now, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the ache.
'Gods... who knew a night like that could leave you feeling like you'd marched a marathon in full kit?'
A flash of memory tugged at him unbidden—her hands on his skin, tentative at first then sure; her voice breaking on his name in the dark; the raw, unguarded look in her eyes when the walls between them finally crumbled, letting everything spill free. It stirred a fresh coil of warmth low in his gut, something perilously close to that old, dangerous pull: longing, plain and sharp.
He drew in a slow breath, the herbal steam filling his lungs, and let it out in a controlled rush, forcing his gaze away from the faint outline of her in the corner.
'No. She's running on fumes. She needs a real bed and zero interruptions—not me dragging her back into the fire because I can't keep my head straight.'
The water rippled as he swept a hand back through his hair, sending droplets scattering like tiny stars.
'I made a vow. To her, face to face in the haze. And to that masked pain in the ass, too. Can't backslide now.'
His reflection in the bath's surface wavered, then sharpened as faint, ethereal runes shimmered to life across the water—blue-white script flickering like heat lightning on a still pond.
[System Notification: Mental Focus Restored +3%.] [Commentary Mode: ON]
Plague Doctor: "Ohhh, look at you. So responsible. Didn't think I'd see the day—Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, turning down a steamy sequel."
Sylan let out a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, water beading on his lashes. "You really get off on crashing my downtime, don't you? Bath, bed—next you'll pop up mid-shave."
Plague Doctor: "It's my hobby. Keeps things spicy. Besides, had to swing by and see if you'd actually toe the line for once. Proud of you for not turning this into an encore, by the way. Real growth."
"...You're enjoying this way too damn much."
Plague Doctor: "Can you blame me? My star soldier—the guy who spat in fate's eye and made it blink—now soaking like some pampered lordling while his blushing maid hovers in the wings. It's gold. Pure character arc material."
Sylan cracked a faint smirk, eyes still closed, the steam coiling lazy toward the vaulted ceiling. "You talk like I'm your personal soap opera."
Plague Doctor: "You are. But it's more than that—it's progress. You're reining it in, learning the leash. And trust me, that's deadlier than any Crest glow or blade swing you've pulled off."
Sylan tipped his head back further, the marble cool against his neck, voice dropping thoughtful. "Control, huh. Yeah, gonna need buckets of that coming up."
Plague Doctor: "Mmm. Double down when Mommy Dearest starts her interrogation. Lunch won't be a picnic."
"Don't remind me," Sylan muttered, a low growl edging his tone.
Plague Doctor: "Oh, I will. She's a hawk, Sylan—Amanda Von Noctis spots cracks in armor from across a room. Bet she's already sniffing that you've... evolved."
Sylan went still, the water's lap the only sound for a beat. His gaze drifted sidelong, catching Virelle's faint reflection in the polished wall tiles—head bowed over some small task, her face soft, unguarded in the quiet.
'Even if she smells blood... she doesn't get to touch Virelle,' he thought, the resolve hardening like cooling steel in his chest. 'If the house won't swallow her whole, I'll carve out space myself. Tooth and nail if it comes to it.'
The runes on the water's surface pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat, logging his silent oath like a side quest pinned to the board.
[Hidden Objective Unlocked: "Acceptance of the House of Noctis."] Status: Ongoing.
When he finally hauled himself up from the tub, water sheeting off his frame in silvery trails, the sudden chill of the air raised faint goosebumps along his arms and chest. Virelle was right there, towel in hand—her movements snapping back to autopilot, though a hesitation lingered in the way her fingers clutched the fabric a touch too tight.
"Thanks," he murmured as she stepped in close, dabbing at his hair with careful pats, working the damp strands dry.
"My lord shouldn't thank a servant," she whispered back, voice light but lacking its usual steel—more reflex than rule.
"Maybe not." He caught her wrist gently mid-motion, holding her eyes for a second. "But I'm not the same lord you started with. Not anymore."
Her breath hitched—just a quick catch, like a skipped stone on water—before she nodded, a tiny smile ghosting her lips, warm and real, the kind that lit her eyes from within.
By the time they slipped from the bathroom, the estate had woken fully—halls alive with the soft shuffle of servants hauling trays of silver and fresh linens, voices murmuring low from the courtyard below like distant bees in a hive. Virelle fell into step a pace behind him, her footfalls even despite the subtle drag of weariness, cheeks still holding a faint rosy tint that the steam hadn't quite chased away. She halted at the main hall's threshold, dipping into a deep curtsy that swept her skirt in a whisper. "I'll ready your chambers for later, my lord."
Sylan paused, half-turning, eyes tracing her retreating form down the shadowed corridor. "Rest first," he called after her, voice carrying just enough to bridge the gap. "That's an order."
She stopped short, shoulders stiffening a fraction, then nodded without a word—silent as a vow—before vanishing around the bend.
Alone now, Sylan let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the last cling of steam-scent. He tugged his collar straight—fresh tunic crisp against his skin—and strode toward the dining hall, each step measured, the soldier's stride kicking in like old habit.
The dining hall of House Noctis sprawled like a throne room in miniature, all high ceilings and echoing vastness, walls draped in banners of midnight black edged with silver wolves frozen mid-prowl. The long oak table gleamed under the blaze of a crystal chandelier, every plate and goblet laid out with surgical perfection—forks aligned like soldiers on parade, napkins folded into sharp peaks.
Darius Von Noctis held court at the head, a mountain of a man forged from storm clouds and unyielding stone, his hair a wild mane streaked with the first threads of gray that only added to his aura of lived thunder. Beside him sat Amanda, ramrod straight in her high-backed chair, her beauty a blade's edge—pale skin flawless, golden hair coiled like a crown, crimson eyes that could freeze blood mid-flow, untouched by the sunlight slanting in through the tall lancet windows.
Both heads turned as Sylan crossed the threshold, their gazes landing on him like weights on a scale.
He dipped into a shallow bow, precise as drilled. "Father. Mother."
Amanda's crimson stare narrowed to slits, appraising him like a flawed gem held to light. "You missed dinner last night. And breakfast this morning."
The words landed cool as autumn frost, but the bite beneath them was sharp—disappointment wrapped in silk, a warning not to test her further.
Darius let out a rumble of a chuckle, leaning back with one elbow hooked casual on the armrest, his broad frame making the chair creak in protest. "Ease up, Amanda. Give the lad a breather. He stared down the Empire's shiny heir and left him in the dust. Boy's earned a lie-in."
Amanda didn't spare him a glance, her focus locked on Sylan like a hawk on prey. "A day, perhaps. But shirking family obligations? That's a weed we won't let take root."
Sylan slid into his seat across from them, movements smooth and schooled—back straight, hands folding light in his lap. But under the table, his pulse kicked up a notch, a faint thud against his ribs he buried deep.
"...I was beat," he said at last, voice even, eyes meeting hers without a flinch. "The duel took it out of me. Needed a minute to patch back together."
Amanda held his gaze for a long stretch, those red eyes dissecting him layer by layer, sharp enough to slice through lies or excuses thinner than paper.
"Beat," she echoed, soft as a sigh but edged like a whetstone. "From one fight."
"Yes."
A faint huff escaped her, not quite a scoff but close—dismissal dressed as patience. "Then mend quicker next time. Vaughn's no small notch, but it buys you no indulgences. Strength isn't a trophy to dust off—it's a fire you feed every dawn."
Darius snorted, spearing a chunk of roast with his fork, the tines scraping loud in the hush. "You talk like you want him charging into another bloodbath by sundown."
Amanda's lips pressed to a thin line, jaw tightening just a hair. "If that's the forge that keeps our name blazing highest? Then yes."
Sylan kept silent, knife gliding through his portion of venison with mechanical care, the soft scrape of silver on fine china the only break in the quiet. Steam rose lazy from his plate, carrying hints of rosemary and red wine, but it sat heavy in his throat.
Inside, though, his mind churned like a storm front rolling in.
'If they caught wind of Virelle—of what went down last night... would this be the look? Or would they paint her as just another smudge on the family ledger, something to scrub out before it stains?'
He clenched his jaw a fraction, the muscle ticking once, then forced a slow breath out through his nose, easing the coil in his gut.
[Plague Doctor: Commentary Active.] "You're holding up like a champ, by the way. She's a force—chills hotter than a winter march."
Sylan kept his expression locked neutral, lips barely shifting as he chewed. 'Not the time.'
Plague Doctor: "What? Just facts—she's got that glare that'd make green recruits soil themselves. You're navigating better than the old Sylan ever dreamed. He'd have been sniffling into his napkin by the soup course."
'Appreciate the pep talk, but zip it.'
Plague Doctor: "Fine, fine. Just don't forget the oath, Soowhi. Ice queen or not, don't let them yank Virelle out from under you. She's your line in the sand now."
'I got it,' he thought, the certainty settling solid as bedrock. 'Even if it means drawing blades on my own blood.'
The system's glow winked once in his periphery—like a nod from the shadows, logging the steel in his spine.
Amanda's voice cut the lull, crisp as a snapped twig. "You'll attend the imperial banquet next month," she stated, not asked, her fork pausing mid-air like a conductor's baton. "Whispers of your little upset have trickled to the capital. The court's itching to gawk at the duke's whelp who put the Sword Saint on his knees."
Sylan lifted his gaze, meeting hers steady. "Understood."
Darius's mouth curved in a rare, wolfish grin, pride flickering warm in his eyes like embers stirred. "That's my blood. Go show those perfumed peacocks what a Noctis brings to the dance."
Amanda's stare hung on, probing still—for cracks, for slip-ups, any whiff of the boy who'd once wilted under less. But Sylan's face stayed a mask, calm waters over churning depths.
The meal wound down in fits of clinking silver and muted swallows, plates cleared by silent footmen who glided like ghosts. Darius rose first, chair scraping back with a thud, and clapped a heavy hand on Sylan's shoulder— the grip firm, approving, lingering a beat. "You've stepped up, son. Made me proud. Damn proud."
Amanda unfolded from her seat with fluid grace, every inch the duchess, her expression thawing a fraction—not to warmth, but to something less arctic. "Let this win not swell your head. Heights like yours draw vultures. Eyes everywhere, waiting for the fall."
Sylan pushed back his chair, dipping another bow, voice level. "I get it, Mother. Won't happen."
They turned for the doors, Amanda's skirts whispering over the rug like secrets shared. But at the threshold, she halted—poised, back straight—then glanced over her shoulder, just enough.
"And Sylan—"
He looked up sharp, pulse spiking.
Her crimson eyes caught the chandelier's gleam, flashing like fresh-spilled wine. "Next time, don't force me to dispatch Virelle to haul you from your bed for a simple meal."
The words hung, casual as a weather report, but laced with something colder—knowledge, or the ghost of it.
He went statue-still, breath caught mid-chest.
She didn't wait for a reply, sweeping out with Darius in her wake, the heavy doors easing shut behind them on well-oiled hinges.
[Plague Doctor: Commentary Active.] "...Okay, that lady's got ears in the walls. Watch your six."
Sylan blew out a measured breath, one hand raking through his golden hair, tugging at the roots just enough to ground him. 'Story of her life. Nothing slips her net.'
His eyes wandered to the tall windows, sunlight spilling across the manicured gardens beyond—the neat rows of lilies nodding in the breeze, the same blooms Virelle coaxed to life with patient hands on quiet afternoons.
'No matter the play... I'll shield her. Even from the wolves in the den.'
[Hidden Objective Progress: 18%.] [Plague Doctor: "Good. That's my boy."]
A faint smirk ghosted his lips as he headed for the exit, shoulders rolling loose. "You talk too much."
Plague Doctor: "And yet you listen."
He let the quip hang unanswered, shoving the door wide as afternoon light flooded in, warm and unyielding.
Outside, the estate thrummed soft—servants darting like shadows, birds wheeling lazy over the walls—blind to the undercurrents swirling beneath its polished skin: loyalties tested, affections kindled, rebellions simmering like coals under ash.
And Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, soldier forged anew, stepped into the glare—toward whatever fresh scrap the world had queued up next.