Chapter 25 — Ahh, So This is Power, 2
The steam rose in thick, languid curls within the stone-walled chamber of Sylan's private bath, swirling like spirits caught in an endless dance. Lanternlight flickered through the haze, casting fractured glimmers across the rippling surface of the water. The air was heavy with heat, a cocoon of warmth that pressed against the skin, loosening the knots of tension in Sylan's shoulders. He sat with his back against the smooth edge of the tub, the scalding water soaking into his muscles, easing the dull ache left by the Crest's relentless backlash. Droplets traced slow paths down the sharp lines of his jaw, dripping into the bath with a soft, rhythmic plink that echoed faintly in the stillness.
For the first time in days, there was silence. No hymns of divine fervor chanting in his skull, no guttural screams of demonic hunger clawing at his mind, no pulse of that strange, paradoxical power threatening to unravel him. Just the water's gentle lap, the heat seeping into his bones, and the steady cadence of his own breath.
Sylan let his gaze drift upward to the large, oval mirror mounted across the chamber. Its surface was clouded with mist, but his reflection cut through the fog like a blade: golden hair plastered damp against his forehead, crimson eyes glinting with an otherworldly fire in the dim light. His jaw was sharp, cheekbones carved with aristocratic precision, every angle of his face polished to an almost unnatural perfection. This body—this vessel of Sylan Kyle Von Noctis—was beautiful in a way his old life, his true life, had never known. Regal, commanding, a living sculpture of nobility. It was a face that could silence a room with a glance, a body that moved with the grace of a predator and the strength of a warrior.
He raised a hand, brushing the wet strands of hair back from his brow, studying the reflection as though it belonged to a stranger. In a way, it did.
'This isn't me,' he thought. 'But it's mine now.'
The thought carried no pride, only a soldier's quiet acceptance. He had woken in this shell, thrust into a world he despised, bound to a Game that twisted his soul into something both divine and profane. Yet this body, this vessel, gave him tools he had never possessed in his past life. And within his chest, the Crest—a pulsing, living paradox of celestial light and abyssal hunger. 'A soldier adapts,' he reminded himself. 'A soldier uses what he's given.'
And yet, the memory of last night lingered like a shadow.
Sylan's eyes lowered, his reflection blurring as his thoughts turned inward. He could still feel the crack of stone beneath his feet, the suffocating weight of his aura spilling outward, uncontrolled, a storm of power that had shaken the very walls of the manor. The monarch's will, the Crest had called it—a force that bowed to no one, not even him. And beneath that torrent, Virelle. Her small frame trembling, her brown eyes wide with terror, her knees buckling under the pressure of his trial. She had followed him out of loyalty, out of duty, and he had nearly crushed her beneath the weight of his own power.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, the steam swirling with his breath.
'I should say something to Virelle,' he thought. 'She's the only one who's stayed by my side through this. The only one I can trust. She deserves better than to be caught in my storm.'
The words remained unspoken, but they pressed against his chest, heavier than the Crest's relentless pulse.
The door creaked softly, a faint intrusion into the bath's sanctity.
Virelle slipped inside, her movements cautious, almost reverent, as though she feared disturbing the chamber's fragile peace. She carried a stack of fresh towels folded neatly in her arms, her gray dress pressed and plain, its hem slightly damp from the steam. Tendrils of dark hair clung to her forehead, curling in the heat, and her brown eyes flicked toward him for the briefest moment before dropping to the floor. She moved with measured steps, placing the towels on a polished wooden rack near the tub, her hands steady but betraying a faint tremor.
Even in her silence, her posture spoke volumes. The subtle stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers lingered too long on the towels, the slight hesitation in her breath—she was still shaken. Still afraid. The memory of last night clung to her like a second skin, and Sylan could see it in the way she held herself, as though bracing for another wave of his power.
He watched her for a moment, crimson eyes tracing her movements, before speaking. His voice was low, softened by the bath's stillness, yet it carried the weight of command. "You stayed last night."
Virelle froze, her hands resting lightly on the towels. Her shoulders stiffened further, and for a moment, she didn't respond. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "…Yes, my lord."
"You saw more than you should have."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, guilt flashing in her eyes before she dropped into a low bow, her head bowed nearly to her chest. "Forgive me, my lord. I… I only wished to ensure your safety. But what I saw…" Her voice trembled, catching on the words. "It was not of this world."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. She had no language for the Crest's paradox, no framework to comprehend the divine radiance entwined with abyssal hunger that had poured from him. All she had was fear—and yet, she had stayed.
Sylan leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his crimson eyes steady on her bowed form. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. The steam curled lazily around them, the lanternlight casting soft shadows across the stone.
Then, quietly, he spoke. "You endured it."
Virelle's head snapped up, confusion flickering in her wide brown eyes. Her lips parted, but no words came.
"I nearly crushed you under it," he continued, his voice even, deliberate, each word chosen with a soldier's precision. "The weight of it. The power. You felt it all, and yet you're still here. Still serving. Still loyal."
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she seemed caught between disbelief and something softer, something warmer. She lowered her gaze again, as though the intensity of his words was too much to bear.
He let the edge in his tone fall away, just this once, allowing a trace of something gentler to slip through—something almost brotherly. "That cost you, Virelle. You stood in the storm when you could have run. I gave you no choice in it. For that… I owe you more than silence."
Her eyes blurred faintly, a sheen of unshed tears catching the lanternlight, though she quickly tilted her head to hide it. "My lord…" Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling with emotion. "You honor me more than I deserve."
Sylan leaned back against the tub's edge, the warmth of the water rising against his skin once more. The moment passed, the gentleness sealed away as quickly as it had slipped free. His voice returned to its usual clipped, soldierly cadence. "Deserve has nothing to do with it. You're useful. Loyal. That matters."
"Yes, my lord," she whispered, and though her voice was soft, the faintest smile tugged at her lips. The fear was still there, etched into the lines of her posture, but it was tempered now by something steadier. Trust, perhaps. Or the beginnings of it.
She gathered herself, smoothing the last of the towels with careful precision. The silence returned, filled only by the gentle splash of water and the soft hiss of steam against stone. Virelle's presence was a quiet anchor, steady despite the weight of what she had witnessed.
Far above the bath, beyond the steam-filled chamber, whispers spread through the manor like wildfire.
In the grand hall of the west wing, a maid stood before Lady Amanda, her hands clasped tightly to still their trembling. Her voice was low, barely audible over the crackle of the hearth. "Cracks, my lady. Along the walls of the west wing. Small tremors woke the servants in the night. The stone… it's splintered near Lord Sylan's hall."
Amanda's sharp green eyes narrowed, her fan tapping lightly against her palm as she reclined in her high-backed chair. Her auburn hair was swept into an elegant coil, every strand perfectly in place, yet her expression held a predator's calculation. "Unexplained," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk. "And only near my son's hall?"
The maid nodded, her voice trembling. "Yes, my lady."
Darius stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders rigid. His silence was heavier than Amanda's words, his gaze cold and unreadable as it swept across the manor's grounds, where twilight painted the gardens in shades of violet and shadow. The air around him seemed to hum with restrained intensity, as though he were a blade held just at the edge of unsheathing.
"Keep this quiet," Amanda said at last, her voice controlled, each word measured. "No rumors. No panic. And no eyes on him that he can see."
The maid bowed deeply, her footsteps quick and soft as she scurried from the hall. Amanda's lips curved into the faintest smile as she closed her fan with a snap. "My son…" she murmured, her voice a mix of curiosity and something sharper, something dangerous. "What are you hiding?"
Darius turned slightly, his profile sharp against the window's dying light. "He's not the boy you raised," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Not anymore."
Amanda's smile didn't falter, but her eyes gleamed with a new intensity. "Then we shall see what he's become."
Back in the bath, Sylan rose from the water, droplets sliding down his skin like liquid silver. The air was cooler against his bare shoulders, but the Crest's warmth pulsed within him, a constant reminder of the power coiled in his chest. He reached for a towel, wrapping it across his shoulders, the fabric soft but heavy with the weight of water. The mirror caught his reflection once more: golden hair glistening, crimson eyes burning faintly in the lanternlight. A face that belonged to a noble, yet beneath it, the soul of a soldier.
Virelle turned away respectfully, her presence quiet, steady, no longer trembling. She busied herself with adjusting the towels, giving him privacy without being dismissed. Her loyalty was a rare thing in this world, Sylan realized—a currency more valuable than gold or titles. 'She's seen the worst of me and stayed,' he thought. 'That's worth more than any vow.'
He dressed in silence, pulling on a dark tunic and trousers that clung to his still-damp skin. The fabric was finely made, tailored to his frame, yet it felt like armor to him—a soldier's habit, turning even cloth into a shield. The Crest pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, each thrum a reminder of the power he wielded and the chains it brought.
'If power draws suspicion,' he thought, his lips pressing into a thin line, 'then I'll turn suspicion into fear.'
He glanced at Virelle, who stood quietly near the door, her hands folded in front of her. "You'll stay close," he said, not a question but a statement, his voice carrying the weight of command.
"Yes, my lord," she replied, her voice steady now, the fear tempered by resolve.
He nodded, a faint gesture, and stepped toward the door. The steam parted before him, the lanternlight casting his shadow long and sharp across the stone floor. The Game had handed him chains—divine, demonic, noble, all binding him to its rules. But he was a soldier. Chains could be broken. Or they could be forged into weapons.