Chapter 50 — Imperial Banquet, 6
The ballroom of the Imperial Palace sprawled like a dream forged from gold and glass—a vast, echoing space where every surface seemed designed to catch the light and throw it back in dazzling defiance of the night outside. Massive chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling like captured stars, their crystal facets scattering rainbows across the polished marble floors, turning each step into a fleeting mosaic. Nobles glided through the glow in their finery—silks whispering like secrets, gemstones winking from throats and wrists— their voices a constant undercurrent of laughter, sly gossip, and the kind of talk that hid knives in every compliment. The air hung heavy with the sweet bite of spiced wine, the floral punch of expensive perfumes, and something sharper underneath: raw ambition, the scent of deals being struck in shadowed corners.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis crossed the arched doors with Virelle at his side, the sudden weight of a hundred stares hitting him like a wall of invisible arrows—curious, calculating, some laced with that old Noctis grudge. He rolled his shoulders under the black coat, silver trim catching the torchlight like veins of quicksilver, the house crest embroidered at his shoulder seeming to pulse faint in the warmth. Elias Vaughn trailed just a step back, that easy half-grin still playing on his face, like a knight who'd stumbled on a worthy sparring partner and wasn't about to let the night end without testing the waters again.
{Flashy, isn't it?} The Plague Doctor's voice slithered into his thoughts, smooth as oil on water, dripping that familiar amusement. {The Empire's got a flair for the dramatic. Even the breeze in here feels like it's following a script.}
'The breeze smells like too much money and not enough trust,' Sylan shot back inwardly, his crimson eyes sweeping the room quick—mapping faces, noting the clusters where whispers thickened like storm clouds. 'Vanity with teeth.'
Virelle matched his stride silent, her head dipped just enough to play the perfect attendant, dark hair pulled back with a simple ribbon that echoed the silver in his cuffs—a quiet match, deliberate but understated. She balanced a silver tray of slender crystal flutes with effortless grace, but her brown eyes darted to him every few seconds—quick, reassuring glances that said I'm here without a word, her presence a steady hum against the room's chaotic buzz.
The orchestra eased into a languid waltz then, strings sighing soft and inviting, pulling nobles toward the center like iron to a lodestone. Couples drifted out, skirts flaring like blooming flowers, heels clicking a rhythm that matched the pulse of hidden schemes. Sylan and Elias halted at the floor's edge, trading a subtle nod—the kind that spoke volumes without a sound, two fighters pausing to size the next round.
"Weird, right?" Elias said low, his voice cutting easy through the swell, laced with that honest edge. "We were tearing strips off each other not a week back, and now it's all smiles and small talk in this powder-keg crowd."
Sylan's mouth quirked, a faint curve. "Empire's specialty. Spill blood in the pit, sip wine in the parlor. Keeps the machine greased."
Elias huffed a chuckle, dry and real. "You're sharper than most of these powdered lords, Sylan. Cuts through the fluff like a whetstone."
'Because I'm not playing their game,' Sylan thought, but out loud he just said, "Luck of the draw, maybe."
They hung there a beat in easy quiet—not the stiff standoff of scripted foes, but the comfortable lull of men who'd bled the same air and walked away marked but unbroken. Then the tide turned: the nobles started circling, drawn like sharks to fresh chum.
First came a viscount's girl, all curls piled high and eyes gleaming like honeyed snares, fanning herself slow as she approached. "Lord Sylan Von Noctis," she purred, voice sweet as poisoned candy, "the whole court's still buzzing about your clash with Sir Elias. They say your blade danced with fire straight from the gods."
Sylan dipped his head polite, the bow shallow but spot-on. "Kind of you to say, my lady. But the fight's in the past—best left there to cool."
She blinked, a flicker of surprise under the lashes, but before she could reload, the next one slid in—a baroness's kin with a laugh like tinkling bells and a gaze that sized him up like a prize stallion. Then a third, compliments tumbling out like scripted lines: invitations to hunts, hints at garden walks, offers of "private audiences" wrapped in silk. Sylan fielded them all with the same cool deflection—polite nods, even tones, no cracks for them to pry. Through the barrage, Virelle stood sentinel at his shoulder, tray steady as stone, though her knuckles paled where they gripped the edge, her face a mask of calm that hid the quiet fury at their grasping.
{They're circling a fresh kill,} the Plague Doctor whispered, glee under the warning. {Smell the climb in you, boy. Don't flash teeth—let 'em think you're just another mark.}
'I quit fearing the pack ages back,' Sylan thought, parrying another veiled proposal with a bland "Honored, but duty calls elsewhere."
Across the sprawl, Amanda Von Noctis tracked it all from her perch at the high table, her crimson eyes narrowed to slits like a hawk sighting rabbits in the grass. To the casual eye, she was poise incarnate—gown of deep indigo pooling around her like spilled night, every line screaming untouchable grace—but Darius, hunkered beside her with a goblet in his meaty fist, caught the telltale tic in her jaw, the way her fingers drummed once on the armrest.
"He's threading the needle clean," Darius rumbled low, pride rough in his voice like gravel under boots.
"Hmph," Amanda replied, swirling her wine slow, the liquid catching red as blood in the glass. "He's green at the game still. But... maybe not the dead weight I feared."
Back on the floor, Sylan felt the air thicken—a subtle shift, like the room's warmth turning sticky, the light from the chandeliers dipping just a hair, not from failing flames but from something colder stirring in the shadows. His gaze cut to the hall's far curve, where clusters of admirers parted like mist.
Olivia Elana Monte Blanc stood haloed there, the candle glow wrapping her in amber like a saint stepped from a fresco. Her gown of purest white shimmered faint, threads woven with something that caught the eye and held it—moonlight trapped in silk, or maybe something holier, hungrier. Golden eyes gleamed with that wide-eyed purity that hid sharper things, and her smile bloomed soft, flawless, pulling the nobles near her like strings on puppets. They straightened without knowing, breaths slowing, chatter dying to reverent hums, spines aligning as if her very nearness ironed out their kinks.
{Careful now,} the Plague Doctor hissed, the amusement gone, voice dropping to a gravel whisper. {She's bleeding glow again. See how they lean in? How the talk hushes? It's her web—subtle, but it sticks.}
'Yeah,' Sylan thought, a chill prickling his neck despite the room's heat. 'Like the whole world's tilting her way.'
He pivoted deliberate, snagging Virelle's eye with a quick flick. "This way," he murmured, voice pitched for her alone. "Let's stretch our legs."
They eased toward a shadowed alcove off the main drag, weaving past refreshment tables laden with glistening fruits and decanters that sparkled like captured stars. The farther from Olivia's orbit, the lighter the air felt—like shaking off a too-tight collar, the pressure easing from his chest. Sylan rolled his neck, exhaling slow, as if sloughing invisible grime.
Elias caught up a breath later, two fresh glasses in hand—wine dark as midnight, glinting in the low light. "You bolted quick," he said, offering one over with a grin. "Crowds got claws tonight?"
"More like strings," Sylan replied, taking the glass and letting the cool stem ground him. He sipped shallow—the vintage burned sweet on the tongue, with a metallic tang underneath, like iron wrapped in honey. "You?"
"Crave the straight talk," Elias said plain, leaning against the wall casual. "This night's short on it."
Their shared huff of laughter hung light between them—quiet, the kind born from men who'd traded blows and found common ground in the bruises.
Virelle hovered close, her faint smile a small island of real in the swirl—a quiet comfort, her nearness like a hand steady on a helm in choppy seas.
Then the herald's trumpet shattered the lull—a brassy blast that cut the music dead, echoing off the walls like a call to arms.
"All rise! His Imperial Majesty, Emperor LeCroix of Hysperion, and His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Damian LeCroix!"
The hall went statue-still in a rustle of silk and clinking silver—goblets set down hasty, chairs scraping as every noble twisted to face the grand staircase. Bows rippled out like falling dominoes, deep and uniform, the room folding under the weight of old habit.
At the top, framed by the massive double doors flung wide, stood the Emperor—tall as a pine even in his years, silver beard trimmed sharp as a blade's edge, robes of imperial white slashed with crimson pooling around him like spilled blood on snow. Flanking him was Damian, white hair gleaming like a crown of frost, his blue eyes sweeping the crowd with that same cool command. Trailing graceful was Princess Seraphina, her gown a cascade of silver and deep blue that shimmered like a night sea, her gaze already picking through the throng like a shepherd sorting sheep from wolves.
The Emperor's voice rolled out first, deep and smooth as aged oak, carrying to every corner without strain—like thunder wrapped in velvet. "This eve, we raise our cups not merely to the Empire's weave, but to the bold threads that hold it firm—the guardians who stand when others waver. And among those names echoing to these very stones... one rings clear: Sylan Kyle Von Noctis."
A murmur swelled through the guests, low at first, then cresting like a wave—eyes swiveling his way, whispers buzzing sharp. Sylan rose slow, deliberate, but held his ground—no deeper bow, no kneel, just a crisp incline of his head that hit respect without surrender. The Emperor's gaze locked on his across the divide, and for a split breath, something flickered in those ancient eyes—curiosity, maybe, or the ghost of a challenge, cracking the old man's iron poise.
{You've gone and painted a target on your back, big and bright,} the Plague Doctor drawled, that wry edge sharpening. {Spotlight's a double-edged sword, soldier. Careful it doesn't carve you up.}
The orchestra held its breath, the silence quivering like a bowstring pulled taut. Sylan straightened, voice carrying clear and even, pitched just loud enough for the dais. "Your Majesty does me too much grace. I only stood where the Empire called—doing what any son must."
The Emperor's thin smile deepened, lines crinkling like old leather. "And modesty to boot. A virtue scarcer than honest steel in these halls."
Laughter bubbled up soft from the nobles—light, but threaded with that uneasy edge, like folks chuckling at a joke with teeth. Sylan felt Olivia's stare again from her spot in the crowd—warm as a hearth fire, but probing, almost greedy, like she was measuring him for a role he hadn't auditioned for.
The Emperor hoisted his goblet high, the gold catching fire in the light. "To might. To resolve. To Hysperion's dawn, forged in fire unyielding."
Glasses rose in a shimmering wave, crystal chiming like distant bells; the music crashed back in, strings soaring triumphant. The night spun up again—dancers reclaiming the floor, talk bubbling freer—but Sylan's gut twisted, instincts howling low. The air carried a new weight now—a faint shimmer, like heat haze over embers, or the first creep of frost on glass, illusion or rot seeping back in, brushing his mind like a hand he couldn't slap away.
{You clocking it yet?} the Plague Doctor whispered, voice dropping grave. {Her glow's leaking wider. Threads snaking through every skull she grazes—slow, but it sticks.}
'Then I'll snap 'em clean,' Sylan thought, crimson eyes slitting as he cut a glance to Olivia—now pivoting graceful, her golden gaze snaring his across the whirl, that smile blooming soft, too perfect, like it didn't quite fit the bones underneath.
Her lips shaped silent, but the words landed clear as a shout in his skull:
We'll meet soon, Sylan Von Noctis.
Then she wheeled away, melting into the dancers like mist before sunup.
{This night's got legs yet,} the Plague Doctor murmured, low and loaded.
Sylan's fingers clenched on his goblet, the wine quivering but holding—dark ripples in the glass. "Then I'll see it ends my way."
At his elbow, Virelle eased her hand near his arm—fingers hovering close, not touching, but there all the same—a quiet tether in the storm of strings and shadows.
Overhead, the chandeliers blazed fiercer, as if straining to drown the dark pooling below.