Ilyas rose from his seat, the echoes of a restless night still lingering in the tired lines of his face. The quietude of his bedroom, an unfamiliar contrast to the vibrant chaos of his dormitory, had made sleep elusive. Seeking solace, he had found refuge in the secluded embrace of the family greenhouse. Upon returning to his room before sunrise, Ilyas discovered a discreet list of potential matches discreetly slid under his bedroom door. The neatly penned names bespoke the meticulous efforts of his parents, likely orchestrated with the assistance of Athna, their dutiful intermediary. It was a subtle yet unmistakable nudge towards the societal expectations awaiting him at the grand event. His skilled hands seeking tactile artistry in the sculpting of clay.
As the insistent knock disturbed the remnants of his uneasy night, Ilyas, now more awake than before, opened the door with a mix of weariness and curiosity. His fingers subtly traced the lingering texture of clay, a testament to the nocturnal endeavors that had kept him company in the solitude of his thoughts.
Alfredo’s gaze held a knowing sympathy as he delivered the message. There was an unspoken understanding between them, as if Alfredo could sense Ilyas’s reluctance to engage in the imminent discussion. Despite his formal tone, the butler’s eyes conveyed a subtle understanding of the complexities within the Keats household. It was a silent acknowledgment of the conflicts and expectations that often lingered beneath the surface of their refined, aristocratic lives.
Alfredo said with a slight nod, his voice maintaining its usual composed demeanor. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll escort you downstairs to meet with Lord Keats.”
Descending the ornate staircase with a calculated nonchalance, Ilyas found himself at the grand front door where Jerald executed the formalities of introduction once again. Orpheus, his unexpected guest, avoided making eye contact. A subtle smirk danced on Ilyas’s lips, the unspoken acknowledgment of history weaving through the air like an unbroken thread.
A history marked by tension and animosity, their interactions often culminating in a cascade of harsh words and, on occasion, fists meeting in heated confrontation. The air between them crackled with unresolved conflicts, a palpable reminder of their shared past that neither was eager to forget.
Ilyas, cognizant of the tumultuous relationships he navigated, chose to keep a select circle of friends. His friend group remained intentionally small, and he guarded personal information closely, aware of the potential for conflicts and the need to shield certain aspects of his life from prying eyes.
The persistence of Orpheus, like an incessant melody that refused to fade, grated on Ilyas’s nerves. His relentless clinginess felt like an unwelcome intrusion, disrupting the peace Ilyas sought. Every encounter with Orpheus left an indelible mark, an unspoken tension simmering beneath the surface. It was a dance of antagonism, a constant push and pull that echoed through their shared history. Orpheus’s clinginess, more a thorn in Ilyas’s side than a genuine connection, served as a reminder of unsettled scores and lingering bitterness. The mere mention of his name conjured memories of heated arguments and the sting of unresolved conflicts, making each interaction a precarious dance on the edge of discord.
As the sun painted the sky in hues of gold behind the boy, Ilyas couldn’t help but feel the weight of Orpheus’s unexpected visit. Inwardly, he questioned the purpose behind this encounter, wondering why Orpheus had chosen to call on him at a time when his attention was meant to be elsewhere. It seemed like another move in their ongoing chess game, and Ilyas braced himself for the unpredictable twists that their conversation might take.
With a calculated smile, Ilyas tilted his head slightly and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected company, Orpheus?” His voice carried a tone of detached curiosity, the words hanging in the air like a challenge.
Ilyas, noticing the unease in Alfredo’s posture, waved a dismissive hand, signaling him to leave. “Thank you, Jerald. I can handle this from here,” he said with a reassuring nod. Jerald, well-versed in his employer’s abilities, nodded respectfully and withdrew, leaving Ilyas alone with Orpheus and the looming tension between them.
Ilyas chuckled, leaning casually against the wall. “So, what dire news or juicy gossip brings you to my doorstep today, Orpheus? Couldn’t resist the temptation to see if I’m still the prodigal son you love to hate?” His tone was laced with a mix of amusement and challenge, baiting Orpheus to engage in their familiar dance of verbal jousting.
Ilyas raised an eyebrow, a sly grin playing on his lips. “If you’re worried about eavesdroppers, we could always find a more private spot. Wouldn’t want any rumors spreading about our clandestine meetings, would we?” His words dripped with playful sarcasm, a subtle invitation to continue their conversation away from prying ears.