The words hung in his vision, waiting.
Noctis glanced between the warning and the red seed's thrum. He thought of what the white seed had shown him before: lives and roles borrowed, lessons hidden inside other people's days. This one, though, came with an explicit warning.
Hostile.
Malefactor.
Unknown.
He did not hesitate long.
With a slow breath, he selected: [Accept].
The ruined hall blurred.
The crimson glow surged outward, rushing toward him like liquid fire. The ruined staircase, the broken banners, the shattered glass—everything stretched and bent, folding in on itself like a page turning too quickly. Light narrowed to a single, golden thread.
Then the world snapped into a different shape.
Noctis stood very still.
He was indoors again, but here the walls were whole. High ceilings arched overhead, painted in muted colors. Polished stone floors reflected warm light from chandeliers and tall windows draped with heavy silk curtains.
He found himself standing not at the center of things, but just behind and to the right of a throne.
A young man in armor stood in front of him—broad-shouldered, posture straight, hand resting casually near the hilt of his sword. Noctis recognized the stance instantly. It was the relaxed readiness of someone used to both combat and ceremony.
The armor Noctis wore felt heavier than his usual gear.
The scent of oiled metal and fine fabric clung to him. His uniform was dark, trimmed with subtle emblems that suggested rank without ostentatious display. His hand rested near his own sword, and the weight of it felt both familiar and strange, as if his body knew it far better than his current mind did.
He scanned the hall.
The throne room was alive with subdued activity. Courtiers and officials stood in careful clusters, speaking in low tones. A handful of younger soldiers—faces still marked by healing cuts and bruises—stood to the sides, backs straight as they listened.
At the front, on an elevated dais, sat the king.
A golden crown rested on his head, catching every stray beam of light and scattering it in soft glimmers. His posture was at once relaxed and coiled—comfort in his position, tension from responsibility. Robes of fine fabric draped over him, but there was a hardness in his eyes that suggested he knew battle, not only court politics.
The whole room smelled faintly of incense and polished wood.
Behind the surface calm, Noctis felt something else—a low hum in the dream's fabric, like a buried tension waiting for its moment.
His mind tried to catch up.
Information slid into place in his awareness: he was not just present here as Noctis. Inside this dream, he inhabited another man's life—the king's butler and swordmaster combined into one role.
He could feel that man's habits.
His posture carried practiced dignity. His voice, when he imagined it, was controlled and measured. Other people in the room treated him with respect that bordered on reverence; a nod from him meant something. He was known for unwavering loyalty and lethal skill.
Every small movement felt loaded with meaning.
A slight cough could signal disapproval. A single step forward could mean danger. A glance toward the door might dispatch a guard without a word.
The discussion in the hall turned his attention outward.
Council members stood near the throne, cloaks tattered, armor scuffed and dented. They reported on the aftermath of recent battles: patrols returning to find no new monster groups, roads slowly becoming safe again, villages starting to clear away the damage.
Relief buzzed quietly through the crowd.
The young soldiers on the edges listened with pride and exhaustion in equal measure. They had fought hard. Now they wanted to believe the worst was behind them.
The king lifted a hand.
Silence spread quickly.
His voice carried easily through the hall—crisp, clear, and confident.
"Return to your duties," he said, finality in each word. "Next week, you are all invited to the ball."
The word "ball" sent a small ripple through the room. Some faces lit up. Others tightened, uncomfortable with the idea of formal celebration after so much blood.
He dismissed most of them with a gesture.
Yet even as the crowd began to thin, Noctis felt the king's gaze stay on him.
Noctis's attention flickered for a heartbeat.
This role carried echoes of what he had experienced in another dream—servitude with an edge of authority, the weight of responsibility without the freedom to simply walk away. It stirred a confused mix inside him: a strange calm in knowing his duties, and a tight, uncomfortable awareness that failure would cost others dearly.
His body in this dream carried old aches—scars from previous battles—and a deep sense of honor that felt almost embarrassing to the part of him used to more brutal, direct survival.
He was thinking about this when the king's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Butler!" the king snapped.
The golden crown seemed to gleam a little brighter with the force of his attention. Authority threaded through every syllable.
"Did you hear me?"
Noctis straightened.
He pushed aside the drifting thoughts and let trained reflex answer. He bowed his head just enough to show respect without weakness.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, voice steady.
The king's expression softened slightly, but his tone stayed firm.
"You were saying," the king continued, "that these young soldiers need suits to hide their barbaric attitudes."
A faint hint of dry humor curved his lips.
"Fashion them uniforms. Oversee their learning in ethics and manners. Tonight, they must appear worthy of victory before the court."
Noctis understood immediately that this was not about cloth.
The king wanted more than polished metal and clean boots. He wanted the survivors of war turned into symbol and shield—soldiers who could stand before nobles and foreign envoys as proof that this kingdom was not only strong, but civilized.
Noctis felt the weight of the order settle on his shoulders.
He let his gaze slide over the young recruits clustered near the walls.
He saw the ones whose eyes still burned with wildness, not yet ready to let go of the desperate tactics that had kept them alive. He noted the ones who stood too stiff, trying too hard to fit into the ceremony. He cataloged who watched the room with sharp awareness and who looked only at their feet.
He nodded slowly.
"As you command," he said.
In his mind, lists formed.
First, he would need to go to the royal seamstress, bring detailed instructions for cuts and colors that balanced formality with function. Then he would schedule sessions: training in how to stand, how to bow, how to speak without sounding either arrogant or afraid.
He assigned veterans in his mind.
This one, who had seen three sieges, could be paired with the nervous boy whose hands shook. That one, who naturally fell into leadership, could guide a small group in both etiquette and battlefield stories that reinforced discipline.
He would prepare a report for the king, too.
Notes on who adapted quickly, who resisted, who might need more time or a different approach. He understood that clothing and posture were surface changes. What mattered was reshaping instinct—turning raw survivors into protectors who could face nobles in silk one night and monsters in the rain the next.
All the while, beneath the polished routine, the dream pulsed faintly.
Something in this world was not finished with conflict. Even in a hall filled with silk curtains and polished stone, Noctis could feel the echo of coming trouble.