The next day, Noctis stood in the drill hall.
It was a long chamber with high windows and scuffed floors marked by years of footwork patterns. Today, it was filled not with sparring swords, but with recruits trying their best to bow without tripping over themselves.
Noctis wore formal attire instead of armor: dark coat, crisp lines, minimal decoration. His body remembered sword drills easily—the weight shifts, the proper distribution of balance. But making that same body glide through a formal bow and a smooth turn without clanking or stomping felt surprisingly difficult.
"Strange," he thought, watching his own hand adjust a recruit's elbow. "Ritual can be harder than battle."
He moved along the line of young soldiers.
"Again," he said calmly. "Back straight. Chin relaxed. Do not stare at the floor."
They tried.
Some snickered quietly, uncomfortable in this new battlefield of manners. Others concentrated with furrowed brows, trying to memorize dozens of small rules: where to put their hands, how long to hold eye contact, when to speak and when to stay silent.
Noctis watched closely.
He marked the ones who rolled their eyes whenever his back was turned, who muttered under their breath about "fancy nonsense." He also saw those who, despite their rough edges, made a genuine effort to get it right.
In his mind, he reshuffled.
This boy with the mocking grin could benefit from shadowing a particularly strict veteran. That girl who tried so hard might be ready for more responsibility later. He planned who to pair with whom, so that discipline would spread through example, not just orders.
"Hold the door for guests," he reminded them. "Do not lean on walls in the king's presence. Address royalty properly."
The words came out of him by habit.
He caught himself in one moment speaking with a tone sharper than intended—more suited to battlefield correction than to etiquette training. He saw a recruit flinch and forced himself to ease his voice a notch.
"Rage is useless here," he reminded himself. "They are not the enemy."
That thought surprised him.
He realized he was applying lessons to himself as much as to them. Old instincts wanted to bark commands and demand immediate perfection. But this environment required patience, a slower kind of firmness.
When the night of the ball arrived, the difference showed.
The grand hall was transformed.
Music floated through the air from a small group of musicians. Candles burned in polished holders, their flames multiplied in the reflections of wide mirrors. The recruits, now in tailored uniforms, stood straighter than they had days earlier.
Noctis stayed near the edges.
He did not relax. His eyes moved constantly—checking doors, scanning faces, noting who followed the manners drilled into them and who let nerves or old habits slip through.
He was acutely aware of his own clothing.
The formal coat felt too smooth, too visible. He caught himself wondering whether his collar sat right, an almost absurd concern given how many times he had dodged claws, arrows, and teeth in other worlds.
"How did I go from outrunning monsters," he thought wryly, "to worrying about fabric?"
A recruit nearly spilled wine near a cluster of nobles, hand shaking.
Noctis stepped in quickly, steadying the tray with one hand and giving the young soldier a brief, steady look.
"Slow breath," he murmured. "Eyes forward. You're fine."
The mistake was contained. The nobles barely noticed. Noctis felt a small, quiet spark of satisfaction. It was not the adrenaline rush of battle, but it was its own kind of victory.
Through it all, he did not truly join the celebration.
He watched.
Every slight misstep mattered. Every sign of fraying discipline could reflect on the king—and on him. He saw the recruits gradually settle into their roles, some even beginning to smile in real enjoyment. He filed that away: proof that training could reshape more than posture.
At the end of the night, the mood shifted abruptly.
A messenger arrived, pale and breathless, slipping into the hall like a shadow.
Whispers spread. Formal laughter faltered.
Word of an approaching wave of monsters reached the king's ear.
Noctis felt the atmosphere twist.
Celebration drained away, replaced by the cold clarity of crisis. His mind snapped back to tactics with practiced speed.
Gates. Weapons. Patrol routes. Muster times.
He mentally listed priorities: reinforce walls, sharpen weapons, alert torch squads, coordinate civilian shelter.
He watched the king's face for a heartbeat—the tightening jaw, the calm that was more effort than ease—and prepared himself to step from dancing light back into smoke and blood.
The ball ended. The work began.