Chapter 51 — Imperial Banquet, 7
The herald's voice boomed through the marble hall like a thunderclap wrapped in velvet, slicing the hum of chatter and clinking glasses clean in two.
"His Imperial Majesty, Cladius Lazaren Altaliere Le Croix!"
Silence crashed down in its wake—a divine hush that swallowed the room whole, every noble leaping to their feet in a ripple of motion. Men dipped into deep bows, spines folding like hinges oiled by habit; women swept into curtsies, skirts pooling around them like spilled moonlight, gemstones catching the chandelier's glow and throwing it back in frantic sparks. The air filled with the soft rustle of silk and the faint, metallic whisper of jeweled brooches shifting on collars—the sound of a thousand spines bending under the weight of one man's shadow.
The towering double doors at the hall's far end groaned open on massive hinges, admitting the Emperor like a force of nature stepping into a fragile dream. Cladius Lazaren Altaliere Le Croix moved with the unhurried grace of someone who'd commanded battlefields before this palace was stone, his frame tall and unbowed by years, wrapped not in the gaudy gold of lesser rulers but a stark black uniform stitched with threads of silver that gleamed like captured starlight. A white cloak trailed him like a banner of surrender, the empire's crest—a pair of wings, one dawn-bright and the other dusk-dark—blazing at his chest in threads that seemed to pulse with faint, inner fire.
Sylan watched it unfold from his seat at the Noctis table, posture loose but alert, crimson eyes steady as a sniper's bead. Beside him, Darius straightened like a blade snapping from its sheath, the duke's usual distant cool sharpening to something almost reverent as the Emperor's gaze swept their way and locked.
Cladius's mouth curved in a faint smile—not the distant mask of a throne-sitter, but the warmer crook of an old campaigner spotting a familiar face across the smoke. "Darius Von Noctis," he said, voice deep and resonant, carrying effortless to every ear without strain or shout. "Years since we shared a foxhole, brother. And yet... the years haven't blunted your edge."
Darius dipped his head low, one fist thumping solid against his chest in salute. "The honor's mine, Your Majesty. Standing in your shadow again feels like old times."
Amanda rose fluid beside him, sinking into a curtsy so perfect it could have been carved from marble—every fold of her gown falling just so, golden hair catching the light like a crown she hadn't claimed. "Your Majesty, may your rule keep Hysperion's flame ever bright."
"And may your house fan it higher," Cladius replied, the words warm but weighted, like a handclap shared over shared scars. But as his eyes drifted to Sylan, the air thickened—a subtle shift, the room leaning in as if the Emperor's gaze alone pulled gravity.
The smile softened further, crinkling faint lines at the corners of his eyes. "And this... must be the son. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis—the one who met Elias Vaughn blade-to-blade and left him calling you peer."
Sylan pushed to his feet smooth, bowing crisp and measured—deep enough for respect, shallow enough to keep his spine his own. "Your Majesty."
Cladius held his stare a beat longer, searching, like sifting for gold in river mud. "Word of your clash raced to my desk before the ink dried on the reports. Such raw force, leashed by iron will... You carry your father's fire, boy. Brighter, even."
A murmur slithered through the nobles then—soft at first, like wind through dry grass, swelling to a wave of half-hushed awe, envy, and the sharp tang of speculation. Whispers of "The Noctis upstart..." and "Did he just call him brighter?" chased each other like sparks.
The Emperor pivoted then, facing the hall proper, his tone sliding from personal warmth to the grand timbre of ceremony—like a general addressing ranks before the charge.
"Tonight, Hysperion lifts its voice not just in revelry, but in tribute to the blood that buys our peace—the young flames who'll guard the hearth we built. Let this gathering stand as more than feast: a marker for the costs carved into our stones, the shadows we outran to claim this light."
Applause rolled out in its wake—polite, rhythmic, hands clapping measured like heartbeats under orders—but Sylan's fingers, curled loose on the table's edge, went still. Remembrance. The word hooked deep in his gut, tugging at something buried—a sharp pang, not quite his own, like glass shards shifting under old scars.
The banquet churned on after: goblets raised in toasts that rang like chimes, crystal kissing crystal in cascading peals; laughter bubbling up gilded and loose, the air growing thick with the honeyed bite of fine vintages and the richer perfume of roasted game wafting from sideboards. Servants darted like shadows, trays balanced high with glistening fruits and pastries dusted in gold leaf, the hall a whirl of color and motion under the chandeliers' endless blaze.
Until, out of the blue, Cladius's gaze swung back to the Noctis table—casual at first, then lingering, heavy as a drawn breath.
"I must confess," the Emperor said, voice dropping low but carrying like smoke on wind, the room hushing instinctive at the shift, "your line has poured deep into Hysperion's veins. Your father, Darius—my shield-brother through the Civil War's fire. And your lost daughter..."
Amanda went rigid, fork hovering mid-air, her knuckles whitening where they gripped the stem of her glass.
Darius's face cracked—the easy pride fracturing, his hand clenching around his own goblet until the crystal groaned under the pressure.
"...Eileen Alyana Montana Von Noctis," Cladius pressed on, tone dipping heavier, laced with the gravel of old regrets. "Her spark endures in these halls. I carry the sorrow—"
Sylan surged to his feet before the words could land full, the chair scraping back with a raw screech that echoed like a blade hissing from leather.
The hall froze mid-breath.
"Your Majesty," Sylan said, voice level as a drawn line, but carrying the quiet thunder to pin the air still. "No apology's needed."
Every eye whipped to him—nobles twisting in seats, fans stilled mid-flutter, the weight of a thousand stares crashing down like surf on stone.
Sylan bowed once—clean, controlled, the dip of a man honoring the crown without kneeling to it.
"It was my doing."
The world went tomb-silent.
Even the chandeliers' glow seemed to gutter, shadows stretching longer in the hush.
Darius's head snapped up, eyes wide with raw shock—disbelief carving deep lines in his face. "Sylan... what in the hells are you—"
But Sylan held steady, gaze locked forward, words flowing even, carved from a conviction that came from somewhere deeper than bone. "Eileen died shielding me. I was just a kid, too small to swing a stick, but that doesn't wipe the slate. If she'd let the blade take me that day... she'd be here, breathing this air. So no, Your Majesty—save your regrets for me. The load's mine to haul."
The quiet stretched eternal, thick enough to choke on—nobles gaping, breaths held like fragile glass.
Cladius stared long, mouth parting as if to push back—then it closed, the lines around his eyes deepening not in anger, but something nearer to haunted respect, sorrow and pride twisting like old roots.
"You carry wisdom beyond your candles, boy," the Emperor said at last, voice soft as embers. "Noctis blood runs truer than I marked... deeper, even."
He dipped his chin—a gesture rare as hen's teeth from a man who wore the world's weight on his brow, a nod that rippled fresh murmurs through the stunned crowd.
Amanda's nails bit into her palm under the table's heavy cloth, hidden but fierce—her eyes blazing, fury banked behind the flawless mask of poise, jaw locked so tight it ached. You and your cursed throne, Cladius, she seethed inward, the thought venom-hot. You and this whole rotting empire—you ripped her from my arms.
Darius... said nothing.
He just stared at his son—really looked, like seeing him fresh after years of fogged glass, the duke's iron shell splintering, raw wonder cracking through where cold distance had ruled.
The Emperor wheeled back to the hall then, formalities grinding gears again—toasts and turns of phrase—but the tension clung like smoke after fire, nobles resuming their chatter with eyes that lingered, whispers sharpening to needles: "Did the boy just claim the fault?" "Before the Emperor himself..."
{You dropped that bomb like it was nothing, huh?} The Plague Doctor's voice threaded in, equal parts awe and edge.
Sylan blinked subtle, sinking back to his seat with a controlled exhale. 'What—keep it bottled? Nah.'
{Nah, you're right. Handled it like a preacher with a grudge. But...}
'But what?'
{Darius looks like you just gut-punched his ghost. Don't blink if he corners you later—that was the first real crack he's heard from you in a decade.}
Sylan's gaze softened a touch as he settled, the faint tremor in his fingers easing.
The Emperor was chuckling now, nobles lifting glasses in echo, but none of it stuck— the air still hummed with the echo of his words, the hall's rhythm off-kilter.
He reached for his goblet—not to join the cheer, but to steady the shake in his grip, the wine's cool rim grounding him.
Virelle, ever the quiet rock at his side, leaned in a fraction, voice a breath under the swell. "You holding up, my lord?"
He nodded faint, meeting her eyes for a beat—warm, worried pools that anchored him. "Yeah. Just... pulled up a memory that didn't quite fit mine."
Her gaze shimmered, concern deepening, but she held her peace—words unnecessary between them.
From across the divide, Amanda's stare bored into him like winter's bite—unblinking, frost-rimed fury barely leashed behind the duchess's flawless veil.
The night churned on—celebration's wheel turning, laughter rising like foam on waves—but for House Von Noctis, the real feast had only just been served.