Sylvain lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The ghost of last night still clung to him—the flicker of his sister's smile, the faintest whisper of her presence before vanishing into the abyss of his mind. He had seen her. He was sure of it. Yet, as he traced over the details, doubt seeped in. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, a trick played by the sleepless nights and the weight of his thoughts. He pressed his fingers against his temples and let out a slow breath.
"I need rest," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and allowing fatigue to finally pull him under.
The following morning, Sylvain woke with a sharp inhale. He sat up, rubbing his face before dragging himself to his feet. There was no time to waste.
At the wooden desk in his chamber, he spread out a parchment and began sketching out potential traps. The Pit and Pendulum group needed precision, not reckless attacks. He envisioned baiting the Flamesworths into a vulnerable position, cornering Faust in a way he could not anticipate. Every angle had to be calculated. His mind moved like a chessboard, pieces shifting as he considered turning the few Welter members still in the capital against each other. The nobility thrived on appearances, but if the right seeds of doubt were sown, they would crumble into chaos, revealing fractures within their once-unshakable house.
He tapped the inked quill against the paper, considering the risks. Would Prometheus and the others be able to act quickly enough? Would Faust anticipate his movements? Sylvain exhaled, frustration brewing at the uncertainty of it all.
A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts.
"Come in," he called, setting the quill down.
The door creaked open, revealing a butler dressed in the dark, formal uniform of House Welter. His expression was unreadable, composed to the point of irritation.
"Lord Sylvain, Pierre Welter requests your presence immediately."
Sylvain's brow furrowed. Pierre? Now? What could he possibly want at this hour?
A flicker of unease ran through him, but he suppressed it quickly, masking his thoughts with an indifferent expression. "Very well. Lead the way."
As he stepped out of his room and into the dimly lit corridor, his mind raced. Whatever Pierre had planned, it would not be in Sylvain's favor. That much he knew.
Sylvain stepped into the dimly lit chamber, the scent of aged parchment and polished wood heavy in the air. Seated around the grand oak table were several men, their postures rigid, their gazes sharp. At the head of the table sat Pierre Welter, his hands clasped together in feigned camaraderie. The moment Sylvain entered, Pierre's lips curled into an insincere smile."Sylvain, it is your lucky day."
Sylvain's expression remained impassive as he scanned the room, his mind racing to determine the reason for his presence. Four other men occupied the chamber—He knows these faces from his previous lives, two of them were high Welter members, while the remaining two, broad-shouldered and severe, carried the Forger name. Military men, no doubt.
Pierre leaned forward, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "The high council meeting yesterday has decided to grant you the position of a general in the upcoming defense war against Ilisar. Temporarily, of course, but still—an incredible honor for the most promising talent in our houses."
Sylvain met Pierre's gaze, sensing the deeper implication beneath his words. It was a calculated move. If he stayed within the house's grasp, they could mold him, use him as they saw fit. He would be their tool, while they maneuvered his moves like a puppet.
Feigning hesitation, he spoke, "Isn't that a bit excessive? I do not deserve such praise. This is a position fit for veterans, not someone like me."
"Nonsense." Pierre waved a hand dismissively. "The council chose you. It is your duty as a Flamesworth to defend Pilturia. As for the matter of the terrorists..." He paused, a knowing glint in his eye. "Faust will handle them."
A cold weight settled in Sylvain's chest. So this was Pierre's play—to send him far from the capital, far from the Pit and Pendulum, far from Faust. He wanted Sylvain preoccupied, unable to enact his own plans. Prometheus was more than capable, but still, the opportunity slipping through his fingers left a bitter taste.
Sylvain forced a polite smile, bowing his head ever so slightly. "I am truly honored to accept this position, Sir Pierre Welter."
He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the man who had set the pieces in motion. His expression remained composed, but in that moment, Sylvain let his unspoken words cut through the silence. Your repayment will be costly.
The Empire of Ilisar had been a barren desert for centuries, a land of cracked earth and scorching winds. But history had been rewritten in blood. The 8th Emperor, ruthless in his vision, sought to change the empire's fate through conquest. It began with a purge—first, the mixed-bloods, then all who did not adhere to his beliefs. The streets ran red, the sands swallowed the dead, and in time, Ilisar bloomed. Fertile lands, sprawling fields, rivers running where there had once been dust. The empire had been reforged, not through progress or ingenuity, but through sheer brutality. Ilisar stood as a testament to its emperors' devotion to power, a land nurtured by sacrifice.A green paradise quite literally made by human flesh and blood.
Pierre Welter's voice sliced through the tension of the meeting.
"As you all know, Prince Kseradyn V is responsible for the breach at the southern border, in Coverford town."
At the mention of his name, an unease settled over the room. Even the seasoned generals, men who had witnessed countless wars, shifted in their seats.
"Kseradyn…" Edison Forger muttered, his tone dark. "The one man who should never have acquired the serum."
Sylvain studied their reactions, curiosity flickering beneath his composed facade. "Who is he, exactly?"
Forger turned to him, his expression grim. "A man out of a billion… A prodigy beyond human limits. The one man who should never have gained orange eyes. The Fifth Prince of the Ilisarian Empire, Kseradyn the butcher... "
A weighted silence followed, heavy with unsaid fears. Even without further explanation, Sylvain could read it in their faces—this was no ordinary adversary.
Pierre, however, remained unshaken. "Nonetheless," he said smoothly, "we are strong and capable of anything we set our minds to. If we stand together, victory is within reach."
Sylvain barely heard him. He was already thinking ahead, analyzing the implications of this war. He needed to know more about Kseradyn. If this prince was truly as dangerous as they implied, then the battlefields of Coverford would be unlike anything before.
Pierre's voice dragged him back to the present.
"As for you, Sylvain," he continued, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips, "your role as general will be… different."
Sylvain remained expressionless, though his pulse quickened.
"You are to be the prince's own servant."
The words struck like a blade to the gut. A sharp, twisting fury surged through Sylvain's veins, complex and burning. Pierre had outplayed him. Again. By forcing him into this role, he had ruined Sylvain's plans to ensnare Faust, yanking him out of position and throwing him into a far more dangerous game.
His fists curled beneath the table, nails pressing into his palms. He hated Pierre more than ever at that moment. Not just for the manipulation, but for the sheer audacity of it.
Pierre leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the reaction he saw in Sylvain's eyes. "Dismissed. Everyone will reconvene once preparations are complete. Sylvain, you leave tomorrow. It will be less suspicious if you are there before any military move begins."
Sylvain did not bow. Did not speak. He simply turned on his heel and strode out, every step heavy with barely restrained fury.
The moment he left the meeting hall, he quickened his pace. He had to warn the Pit. Faust would not stop hunting them, and now Sylvain himself was being pushed into a corner.
Through the underground passages, he moved swiftly, his thoughts a whirlwind of rage and strategy. By the time he reached the hideout, his face was a mask of ice, only his sharp breath betraying the fire beneath.
"I have bad news," he announced as he entered.
Prometheus, seated with a book in hand, merely smiled, closing it with an elegant flick. "I already know."
Sylvain narrowed his eyes. "How?"
"I have more spies than just Raven," Prometheus replied lightly. "Don't worry, we can handle Faust."
Sylvain clenched his jaw. "No, that's not all. I've been assigned to the southern border war against Ilisar."
Prometheus tilted his head slightly, his smile fading into something more contemplative. "Oh… I see."
"I can't leave now," Sylvain insisted, grabbing Prometheus by the shoulders, his grip tightening. "I need to be here."
Prometheus's voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "We can handle Faust on our own, Sylvain. Don't think that we were weak without you."
There was no hostility in his words, yet Sylvain felt them like a dagger.
"I—I just want you to be safe," Sylvain muttered, his voice quieter now. "You're my only family, after all."
Prometheus exhaled, shaking his head. "Wrong. You're saying this because you want Faust for yourself." His gaze sharpened. "You can't fool me, Sylvain."
Sylvain stilled. His fingers curled into his palms. He wanted to deny it—but what was the point? Prometheus could see through him.
After a tense silence, Sylvain exhaled sharply, turning on his heel. "Just… take it easy, Phoenix."
He paused at the entrance. "One more thing. I'm keeping River here. You should take care of her."
Then, without waiting for a response, he walked away, his shadow swallowed by the dim passageways.