Chapter 59 — Three Days of Heat, End
Sunlight slipped through the heavy curtains like golden threads, weaving across the rumpled sheets and stirring tiny specks of dust into lazy dances in the still air. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis lay there half-awake, his body heavy with a good kind of tired—the kind that came from days lost in a haze of touch and whispers. One arm curled loose around Virelle, her head tucked warm against his chest, rising and falling with each soft, even breath. She was out cold, completely drained from the wild blur of those three days that had melted into nothing but heat and the steady thump of hearts racing together.
He didn't move right away. Instead, he just lay there, counting the quiet hours in his head—not out of regret, but sheer wonder. 'Three days,' he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips. 'Three full days of this. Feels like a dream I don't want to wake from.'
Gently, he reached out and swept a dark strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering just a second too long. Her face in sleep was soft, unguarded—no hint of the shy, wide-eyed maid she'd been when they first crossed paths. Just pure calm, bone-deep weariness, and a faint curve to her lips that screamed quiet joy.
{You're staring again, Soowhi.}
The Plague Doctor's voice slid into his mind like dry smoke—familiar, sharp, and always a little too knowing, as if the entity was lounging right there in his skull with a smirk.
'And what if I am?' Sylan shot back in his thoughts, his mouth quirking up. 'You're the one who pushed me to look after her, remember? This is me doing my job.'
{True enough. But I didn't mean gawk like some moon-eyed fool. You've got the Blood Moon breathing down your neck, not a poetry contest. Get your head in the game.}
'Quiet,' Sylan grumbled silently, easing his arm free as he slipped out of bed. He stretched slow, feeling the pleasant pull in his muscles, the faint ache that whispered of all they'd shared. 'I'll gear up for that mess when we're back in the dukedom. Right now? We're hitting the road.'
{Leaving already? How chivalrous. Not even a goodbye smooch to seal the deal?}
Sylan rolled his eyes, grabbing his clothes from the chair with careful steps so the floorboards wouldn't creak. He dressed quick—shirt, trousers, boots—each buckle and button a small anchor back to the real world. But when he glanced over his shoulder, Virelle stirred, her lashes fluttering as she blinked into the light.
"My lord...?" Her voice came out rough and sleepy, like gravel wrapped in silk.
He turned, that faint smile warming his face. "Morning, Virelle. Hate to say it, but time's up. The Duke'll skin me alive if we push our luck any further."
She pushed up on one elbow, clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield, her dark hair tumbling wild over her shoulders. "Already? I thought... maybe we had a little more time."
Sylan crossed back to the bed in two strides, his hand finding her cheek—thumb brushing soft over her skin. "We've swiped three whole days from the chaos out there. Any longer, and I'd swear the gods were winking at us, turning a blind eye just to see how far we'd go."
Her brown eyes melted with that quiet understanding, a spark of playfulness lighting them up. "Then let's not tempt them into striking us down for being greedy."
He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he straightened, fastening the last button on his shirt. "See? You're getting good at that—teasing me right back. Careful, love. I might start liking it too much."
They moved together after that, packing light—no grand ceremony, just the simple fold of clothes and the click of a satchel. The hallway outside their room smelled of fresh-baked bread wafting up from the inn's kitchen below, warm and yeasty, chasing away the last traces of their hidden world. Stepping out into the crisp morning air felt like crossing a threshold; the sky stretched wide and spotless blue, scrubbed clean by last night's rain. The capital buzzed alive around them—wooden carts rumbling over cobblestones, merchants hollering their wares in thick voices, colorful banners from the Imperial Banquet still fluttering lazy from lampposts like forgotten party favors.
The Royal Inn's grand atrium welcomed them with its cool marble floors and tall windows edged in gold, catching the sun and throwing shifting patterns of light across the stone like a living mosaic. Virelle's hand brushed Sylan's as they walked, a small anchor in the sudden openness, and he squeezed it once—quick, reassuring—before everything ground to a halt.
"Well," Sylan drawled, his voice dropping low and amused, "now that's a sight I didn't see coming."
At the far end of the corridor, propped casual against a fluted pillar like he owned the place, stood Elias Vaughn. The man they called the "Empire's Next Sword Saint," the golden boy of the capital's arenas—poised, perfect, untouchable. Except right then, he wasn't looking like any saint. His arm was hooked firm around the waist of a noblewoman whose cheeks burned pink as fresh roses, their mouths fused in a kiss that was all heat and zero holiness—deep, unhurried, the kind that forgot the world existed.
Sylan's eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin cracking his face wide. Virelle halted dead beside him, her free hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp that teetered between horror and helpless laughter.
Elias felt the stare like a prickle on his neck. He eased back—just an inch, enough to breathe—and twisted his head. Their gazes locked across the sun-dappled space.
"Oh, hell," Elias breathed, the words half-laugh, half-curse, as he disentangled himself slow.
Sylan folded his arms over his chest, leaning into the mock sternness like an old friend ribbing another. "Here I was thinking you had ice in your veins—no time for romance, let alone locking lips where half the inn could walk by. So, who's the lucky one? Some wide-eyed noble you dazzled, or a common girl you swept off her feet with that hero grin?"
The woman in his arms went beet-red, dipping into a flustered curtsy that nearly tripped her skirts before she bolted toward the waiting carriages outside, vanishing in a swirl of silk. Elias dragged a hand through his tousled hair, that sheepish grin of his flashing bright—equal parts caught and unashamed.
"You seriously don't remember her?" Elias shot back, laughter bubbling up. "It's the same one from the banquet—the lady who cornered me by the punch bowl, batting her lashes like I was the last dance of the night. You were the one who yanked me out of there, remember? Said something about 'saving me from social suicide'?"
Sylan's chuckle rolled out rich and easy, the memory clicking into place. "Ah, yeah. The one who looked like she'd swoon if you breathed wrong. Guess persistence pays off."
"Damn right it does," Elias agreed with a lazy shrug, straightening his jacket like nothing had happened. Then his eyes narrowed, that grin sharpening to a blade. "But don't play innocent, you dog. You and your girl here? The whole inn got an earful for three nights running. Walls were turning pink from embarrassment. I had to drag my sorry ass to the training yard just to block out the symphony!"
Virelle's face ignited scarlet, her fingers twisting tight in Sylan's sleeve as she ducked her head. "M-my lord—! That's not—"
Sylan threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the marble like it belonged there—free, unburdened. "Insatiable beast, huh? That's gold, coming from the Empire's shining saint. Looks like you're diving headfirst into the fun yourself."
Elias threw up his hands in fake defeat, palms out. "Guilty as charged. What can I say? This city's lousy with distractions—sharp blades, sharper smiles."
{I like this one,} the Plague Doctor murmured in Sylan's head, tone slick with dark delight. {He's got your flavor of crazy. A touch less baggage, but we could fix that easy.}
'He's solid,' Sylan conceded quietly in his mind. 'Too solid for the shit-storm this world's brewing.'
Aloud, he shifted gears, voice dropping warmer. "You look sharper than you did after our little dance in the ring, Elias. No bruises left?"
The swordsman flexed his shoulders, eyes sparking with that old fire. "You left marks that stuck, I'll give you that. Been drilling like a demon ever since—sword forms till my arms screamed. Next round? No mercy from me."
Sylan's smirk curled slow, crimson eyes glinting challenge. "Good. Might return the favor—no holding back."
For a heartbeat, the air between them thickened—not with tension, but something rarer: the raw thread of warriors who saw each other clear. Rivals, sure, but carved from the same unyielding stone. No need for flowery oaths; the nod said it all.
Then Elias broke it with a grin, clapping Sylan's shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth. "Rival or brother-in-arms, just don't go torching the empire before the Blood Moon hits, alright? Save some glory for the rest of us."
Sylan's smile dimmed a notch, the weight of it settling in his gut. "Word travels fast, huh?"
"Like wildfire through the taverns," Elias said, all easy shrug hiding the steel underneath. "Emperor's clamping down on the whispers, but folks are jittery. Whatever storm's rolling in... it's got teeth."
Sylan's jaw tightened, but he kept his tone light as air. "Then we'll cross blades under that red sky. Make it count."
Elias's grin held firm, unshakeable. "Wouldn't skip it for a crown."
They gripped hands then—palms rough from hilts and hard-won scars, the clasp lingering a beat longer than polite. Equals, through and through. Sylan pulled away first, Virelle's hand warm in his as they turned for the doors.
The heavy panels swung wide, flooding the atrium with blinding sun and the sharp tang of morning—wet stone, horse sweat, blooming jasmine from a nearby cart. Their carriage waited at the curb, black as midnight and stamped with the Noctis crest: a silver raven mid-flight, wings spread against the polished wood.
Sylan handed Virelle up first, his grip steady on her waist as she settled into the velvet cushions. He climbed in after, pausing with one boot on the step to glance back. Elias stood framed in the doorway, sunlight haloing his hair like some painter's joke on divinity—saint no more, just a man chasing his own light.
The door clicked shut, and the wheels creaked to life, gravel crunching under iron as they pulled away. Virelle nestled against his side, her head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder. "He seems... kind," she said, voice soft as the sway of the carriage. "Like someone who'd stand with you, no questions."
"He is," Sylan murmured, his arm sliding around her waist to pull her closer. His crimson gaze drifted out the window, watching the capital's spires blur into gold and gray, his own reflection ghosting faint in the glass. 'Turns out, I'm not the only one who stumbled into something real.'
{Getting mushy on me, Soowhi?} The Plague Doctor's tone was half-tease, half-warning, curling through his thoughts like fog.
'Pipe down.'
{I'm not joking. Hearts make fine shields, but they're brittle against what's coming. Don't let it dull your edge.}
Sylan's smirk flickered, faint but fierce, as he turned his eyes to the horizon—the endless road unspooling ahead, where the sun burned high and fierce. 'Then I'll sharpen it twice over. Whatever that moon throws, it won't lay a finger on her.'
The carriage rattled on, the clamor of the capital shrinking to a distant hum behind them. Out there, in the veiled distance where clouds bruised the sky, the crimson shadow of the Blood Moon already simmered low—patient, hungry, waiting for its cue.