Chapter 39 — First Volume, Epilogue 3 — A Night That Will Be Made to Remember, 1 (R18)
The Duke's grand carriage rumbled into the courtyard of the Noctis estate well after the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep bruise of purple and black. Torches lined the stone walls of the manor, their flames dancing like wary sentinels, casting long, flickering shadows that played tricks on the eye. The house banners—deep crimson with the silver wolf emblem—snapped lazily in the chill night breeze, whispering secrets to the wind. Inside, the air buzzed with the low hum of gathered nobles, their voices a mix of silk-smooth chatter and clinking glasses. They waited for the star of the evening: Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, fresh from his upset victory, to stride in arm-in-arm with his parents for the victory feast. Laughter from the dining hall already carried hints of Darius's booming voice, toasting to glory and bloodlines, while Amanda's sharper tones cut through like a well-aimed dart.
But Sylan didn't head that way. His body screamed for anything but more eyes on him, more forced smiles under crystal chandeliers. Every muscle ached like it'd been hammered on an anvil—the duel with Elias still fresh in his bones, the crowd's roar a ghost that wouldn't fade. Worse, though, was the fresh scar on his soul: the Plague Doctor's cruel gift, that vivid flash of his sister's blood soaking the carriage floor, her small body crumpling to shield his. It played on loop in his head, hot and unrelenting, twisting the knife of Amanda's cold words and Darius's distant shadow even deeper. 'Why me? Why'd she pick me to live with this weight?' The thought clawed at him, raw and unanswered.
He waved off a hovering servant with a curt nod, boots scraping the gravel as he veered toward the manor's side wing. The feast could wait. The empire's whispers could burn. Right now, he needed walls that didn't judge, a bed that didn't demand performance. His quarters waited at the end of a quiet hall, far from the revelry—a sanctuary of dark wood beams and heavy drapes, the kind of place built for brooding dukes and their haunted sons.
The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the distant merriment to a dull throb. Moonlight poured through the tall arched windows like spilled silver, painting the room in soft grays and blues. The curtains billowed gently with the autumn gusts sneaking through the cracks, carrying the faint crisp scent of fallen leaves. Sylan didn't bother with lights or ceremony. He kicked the door shut harder than needed, crossed the Persian rug in three strides, and collapsed face-first onto the four-poster bed. Boots still laced tight, tunic crusted with dried sweat and arena dust, golden hair fanning out wild across the feather pillow. The mattress sighed under him, swallowing his weight like an old friend too tired to argue.
For the first time in longer than he could count—maybe since that foxhole in a life that wasn't quite his—the soldier's armor cracked wide open. No more steel spine, no more crimson glare that dared the world to blink first. Just a man, bone-weary and cracked through, staring at the canopy above him like it held answers in its embroidered threads. 'She died smiling. For me. And they... they look at me and see her ghost. How do you fight a shadow like that?'
A soft knock echoed through the quiet, gentle as a heartbeat. It paused, then the door creaked open on well-oiled hinges, spilling a sliver of hallway torchlight into the gloom.
Virelle stepped in, moving like she was part of the shadows herself—quiet, unassuming, but always there when the world turned sharp. Her black hair, usually pinned in a severe knot for duty, hung loose tonight, brushing her shoulders in soft waves that caught the moonlight. The modest maid's dress clung to her simple frame, gray wool unadorned save for the Noctis crest stitched at the collar, shadows pooling in its folds like ink. She carried a silver tray with a single crystal glass of water and a folded cloth, but her brown eyes—warm as polished oak—skipped right past them to him. Concern etched her face, fine lines at the corners of her mouth, unspoken words heavy in the air between them.
"You shouldn't worry, young master," she murmured, her voice a soft thread in the silence, laced with that careful restraint she'd honed over years of service. She set the tray on the side table with a faint clink, turning to go. "I'll leave you be. Rest now—you've earned it more than any feast."
But Sylan shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, those crimson eyes lifting to find hers. They weren't the predator's gaze anymore, the one that pinned foes and fools alike. No, these were tired pools, rimmed with the red of unshed strain, vulnerable in a way that twisted something deep in his chest. Broken, almost—like the boy he'd buried under layers of grit and guile was clawing his way out.
"Stay," he whispered, the word scraping out rough, barely above a breath.
It wasn't a command barked from a duke's son. It was a plea, raw and threadbare, hanging in the air like frost on glass.
Virelle paused in the doorway, hand on the knob, her pulse jumping in her throat. She'd seen him command rooms, stare down princes, swing a sword like it was an extension of his wrath. But this? This quiet fracture? It undid her. He sat up fully now, swinging his legs over the bed's edge, boots thudding soft against the rug. His hands scrubbed over his face, rough palms dragging down stubble and sweat, breath hitching in a shudder that rippled through his frame. The weight hit him all at once—sister's blood on his cheeks from a vision that felt too real, Amanda's venom dripping like acid from old wounds, the Plague Doctor's mocking truths peeling back layers he'd rather leave buried. When his hands dropped, the mask was shattered, pieces scattered on the floor. Just Sylan, hollowed out and human.
"I... saw her," he rasped, voice thick as gravel, eyes fixed on a spot on the rug like it might swallow him whole. "My sister. I watched her die—for me. Jumped right in front of the blade, like I was worth the trade. And now I get it... why they look at me like I'm poison. Amanda's barbs, Darius's silence—it's all because of that day. Because she picked me to live, and they can't forgive it. I... I can't carry this right now. Not by myself."
Virelle's heart clenched like a fist, a sharp ache blooming behind her ribs. She'd mended his cuts, polished his boots, stood silent guard through his storms—but never this. Never the untouchable young master reduced to a boy adrift, arms outstretched for a lifeline. Her own hands shook as she released the door, letting it swing shut with a soft click that sealed them in together. Step by step, she crossed the room, the rug muffling her footsteps, until she perched on the bed's edge—close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, but not crowding, not presuming.
She didn't reach for words; they felt too clumsy for the hurt carved into his face. Instead, she drew a steadying breath and began to hum—a low, soothing melody from her childhood, passed down from her grandmother's lips on cold harvest nights. It started soft, just a thread of sound weaving through the quiet, then bloomed into song: a simple lullaby about stars watching over lost lambs, voices gentle as rain on thatch. No fancy notes or trained trills—just warmth, plain and true, wrapping around the room like a quilt pulled tight against the draft.
Sylan's breath evened out, the tune sinking into his bones like balm on a burn. His crimson eyes lifted, slow and searching, meeting her brown ones in the moonlit hush. Time stretched thin, the world narrowing to that locked gaze—his raw need mirroring her quiet strength, the air between them humming with something unspoken, electric.
Her lips parted on a soft exhale, breath catching like a skipped heartbeat. His stare held, not with the fire of conquest, but a deeper hunger—for connection, for the simple mercy of not being alone. Then, inch by inch, hesitant as a first step on thin ice, Sylan leaned in.
Their lips met—soft at first, a brush of warmth that sent sparks skittering down spines.
Virelle's eyes flew wide, a gasp slipping free into his mouth, shock widening her world for a heartbeat. But she didn't recoil. Couldn't, even if she wanted to. The press of him—the faint salt of dried tears on his skin, the tremble in his frame, the boy peeking through the soldier's scars—it all flooded her, pulling her under like a riptide. Her hands fluttered up, uncertain, before settling light on his shoulders, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his tunic.
The kiss deepened, tentative edges melting into something fiercer, more necessary. The night, once still and heavy, began to shift—currents stirring beneath the surface, the room's shadows growing longer, warmer.
—
Her lips softened against his, giving way bit by bit, that first startled gasp fading into a quiet whimper as his tongue traced hers, gentle but insistent. His hands shook where they gripped her waist, fingers bunching the wool of her dress like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. He tasted of the day's salt and weariness, his desperation pouring into the kiss like a dam finally breached—raw, unfiltered, seeking solace in the simple give of her mouth.
Virelle's pulse hammered wild in her ears, a thunder that drowned out everything but him. Her hands, still resting on his shoulders, felt the knot of tension there, the heat seeping through his thin tunic like a fever breaking. He held her close, as if she might vanish like smoke if he let go, and it stole her breath, left her dizzy in the best way. 'He's breaking... and pulling me with him,' she thought, but the words dissolved in the haze.
"Mnnhh..." The sound escaped her unbidden when his lips left hers, trailing a hot path down her jaw to the sensitive dip of her throat. He kissed her there, slow and reverent, each press of his mouth sending shivers racing across her skin. Her head tipped back on instinct, dark hair spilling free from its loose tie, cascading like ink over her shoulders. His teeth grazed lightly—just a hint of scrape—and she let out another shaky breath, half-sigh, half-moan, her body arching toward him without thought.
His fingers fumbled at the laces of her bodice, clumsy in their rush, nearly yanking the ties apart in a tangle of need. She caught his wrists gently, her brown eyes lifting to search his crimson ones, wide with a flicker of fear—that she might pull back, that this fragile bridge might snap. Time hung for a beat, the air thick between them. Then, voice a whisper soft as moth wings, she breathed, "Slowly... let me help." Her hands covered his, guiding them steady now, loosening the knots with care until the bodice sagged open, slipping down her arms in a whisper of fabric.
Beneath, her chemise hugged her skin in a thin veil of linen, pale in the moonlight. Sylan leaned in, breath ragged, and pressed his mouth to the gentle curve of her breast, right over the fabric. "Ahhh—Sylan..." The gasp tore from her, laced with equal parts surprise and fire, her fingers threading into his golden hair, holding him close as if to steady them both. His kisses wandered lower, tracing the swell of her chest, each one a spark that built to a low burn in her core.
When his lips closed around her nipple through the dampening cloth, suckling with a tentative pull, she cried out sharper—"Nnnnhhh—ahhh!" Her back bowed off the bed, pressing her closer to his warmth, her body singing with the sensation, every nerve alight. He groaned low against her, the vibration humming through her skin as his tongue circled slow, teasing the peak until the fabric clung wet and transparent, molding to her like a second skin.
The barrier grew too much, too teasing; with a tug, he eased the chemise down, baring her to the cool night air and his heated gaze. His mouth found her bare skin then, latching on with a hunger that bordered on worship—sucking harder, tongue flicking the stiff bud until it pebbled tight under his attention.
"Ahhhhnn, gods—Sylan...!" Her voice echoed off the chamber walls, a broken plea tangled in pleasure, her whole frame quaking in his hold. He nursed at her with fierce focus, as if drawing from her not just her body, but the comfort he'd chased his whole life—solace from the venom, the silence, the blood on his hands that wasn't his. His other hand rose to cradle her neglected breast, kneading the soft weight, thumb rolling over the taut nipple in firm strokes, mirroring the pull of his mouth.
Her thighs squeezed together on reflex, a deep ache blooming low and insistent, heat coiling tight in her belly. Every breath broke into whimpers now, fractured and needy—"Hhhhnnnnhh... mmhh, ahhh, please..." She clutched at him, head falling back, hair tumbling wild to brush his cheek as he feasted on her breasts, lost in the rhythm of give and take.
The boy beneath the soldier drank her in as though she were his salvation, and she—trembling, moaning, heart aflame—let him.