Weeks passed like shadows. Silence defining the sun—two souls gloom under the sky—like a child fearing the unknown.
None dare to tell the truth, the misery and agony they felt. Not Yvole—nor Viour.
As they both felt the void.
Question left unheard—unanswered by either. The cranny that felt like an eternity—still haunted the wounded heart.
Yvole, the gentle he was—sat alone among the mountains of books. A knock, impatient yet steadfast—left to be heard.
'Pray tell, who dare to cross this house of mine,' quoth Yvole.
The door was opened—a figure appeared. Tall, blonde, and young. A perfect youth with a pair of golden eyes that filled with determination.
Like a predator searching for weakness
'Always, Reverie,' his voice deep yet firm—almost unfriendly.
'Ah—dear rival, Nicholas Selenth,' said Yvole. 'What storm has brought you here to a wolves' den?'
For once, a blooming laugh echoed the room.
Yvole's breath hitched slightly—rather violently.
'A wolves' den?' Asked Selenth with a stiffening laugh.
Yvole, always the cautious, sensed the wariness. His heart beat like a drum, nervous to the sonorous laughter.
'Reverie, truly.' He choked out the words as he laughed. 'Naive as ever, almost vomiting.' His voice was cold.
Yvole stood up, sudden—rather instinctively. His mind full of regrets—perhaps annoyance too.
The scent of the old woods is sickening as the air grew colder each second. The friendly mask worn upon their faces could not hide the hostility of the air. The hostility that enough to bring death and taboo to others.