7. That Summer
What on earth was love, anyway?
Shaylin, gripped by the fever of unrequited love yet unable to pin down her own feelings with any clarity, gazed at Evril lounging obliquely against the long sofa opposite her, lost in thought. Evril was beautiful and proud, intelligent enough to grace the halls of the Eximia class. She had everything—why, then, had things gone so awry with Gophrid, born clutching every advantage in his fist?
Shaylin's infatuation with Gophrid felt almost instinctual. Her obsession with that dazzling man who possessed it all—wasn't it as natural as coveting a sparkling, precious gem? But Evril? Why did she feel nothing for someone so perfect? Why bestow her glances on some lowly noble with nothing to his name?
Such musings drifted through Shaylin's mind on this deep summer night. Inside the grandest and most opulent private chamber in the Duval residence—Shaylin's own bedroom—the women's late-night chatter had lingered after dinner, but as the hour grew late, only she and Evril remained. Olivier, who always turned in early, had yawned her way back to her room claiming fatigue. Kylie, who had arrived with Evril that day, had left for her family home after afternoon tea with a brief exchange of greetings. Killian had promised to fetch Evril come morning and returned to the Loren estate on Poenneu Street.
A cool breeze carrying the scents of the deep night wafted through the wide-open window, illuminating the room with soft lighting. As Shaylin watched Evril quietly, Evril returned the gaze, her expression distant. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, weary from the long sea voyage and the late hour. Before sending her off to bed, Shaylin had a question.
"Evril."
"...Yeah?"
Evril lifted her heavy lashes at Shaylin's call, her dark brown eyes—so like her brother Killian's—turning toward her.
"He—"
Shaylin paused. Evril seemed to think she meant Gophrid, furrowing her brow slightly.
"No, not him... the one you met last winter."
"...Ah."
Evril nodded slowly in understanding, and Shaylin finally voiced the question that had lingered on her tongue for days.
"...Why do you like him?"
Evril offered only an enigmatic smile, neither confirming nor denying. When Shaylin pressed with curious eyes, Evril simply closed them. An orange breeze from the window stirred her hair, tickling her cheek. At the touch of those shifting strands, Evril thought of the man whose brown locks had sifted softly between her fingers.
Could she tell Shaylin of the piercing erotic misfortune that overtook her from behind as the billowing lace curtains of the Kingston estate's annex fluttered before her blurred vision? Of the certainty of a shattered life?
Even on nights when all praised her as goddess-like, elegant, she trembled faintly under his merciless touch, enduring agony as he claimed her like it was his natural right—could she speak of those black hours that repeated endlessly, without consent or escape, like a whore's?
Of smiling before others as if nothing had happened, basking in their adulation while her ruined core left her unable even to sit, forcing her to stand rigidly through balls?
Of the humiliation of being pinned beneath him, debased yet groveling, silently enduring the physical and mental violence inflicted from behind like a slave?
Of feigning serene poise and demure grace while sipping tea and chatting socially, all while packaging the devastating vulgarity and baseness lurking within, pretending it didn't ravage her day after day?
And when she met those innocent eyes oblivious to the misery gnawing at her depths—eyes that discovered quiet allure, reverent greed, seductive temptation—when she surrendered to the comfort they offered, that ambiguous, subtle, intimate sensation... Shaylin could never know.
Shaylin could never grasp the thrill of being someone's object of passion amid her fractured, ruined mind; of becoming a beloved; of being trapped in the ecstasy of tender breaths; of the special allure in soft hazel eyes staring piercingly, silently craving.
Evril closed her eyes and lifted the corner of her mouth slightly. She felt Shaylin's gaze on her face. Slowly rising from the long sofa, she opened her eyes and met Shaylin's.
"...He's kind. That's why."
Shaylin's expression shifted subtly at Evril's words. She lowered her gaze, deep in thought.
"Mm. I'm tired. Time to head to bed. We've got an early start to Siras tomorrow."
As Evril rose unsteadily from the sofa, Shaylin reached out to steady her. Evril glanced at the hand on her arm and shook her head.
"I'm fine. Just occasional dizziness lately. I don't need help."
Rejecting the touch, she straightened and walked with poised steps toward the bedroom door. Watching her retreating figure, Shaylin spoke.
"Evril."
She paused and turned slowly. Shaylin smiled faintly.
"Last time, when you welcomed me so kindly while fetching Lady Olivier, I prepared a gift in return. Could you deliver it on your way?"
Evril fell silent for a moment. Shaylin's words meant Olens was in Exangciras now. Her heart quickened at the thought. She nodded slowly.
"I'm passing Grandfather's anyway. I'll stop by and hand it over. To avoid... misunderstandings..."
Shaylin tilted her chin, lips curving. She hoped the item she'd had her servant wrap as a gift after purchase would comfort Olens.
"Got it. I'll hand it to you in the carriage tomorrow before Lord Loren."
"Alright, then."
Click. The door shut, and Evril left. Shaylin stared at the closed door, then lifted her eyes to the chandelier glowing softly against the gold-leafed ceiling. The oppressive silence of that gaudy splendor weighed on her.
*
They departed Eliyum at dawn by carriage, arriving in the Siras region after half a day's ride in the late afternoon. Evril eyed the cylindrical box beside her seat. It was absinthe, all the rage in Eliyum lately, given by Shaylin for Olens.
Killian, seated opposite, fixed on the box as well.
"Since it's Lady Pratt's request, we'll detour to Exangciras on the way and deliver it."
Evril nodded slowly. She'd planned to see Olens anyway, excuse or no—and Shaylin had provided a perfect one. She was grateful.
"Grandfather says he's very proper and polite."
At Killian's words, Evril pictured Olens. His refined manners, impeccable etiquette. The consideration in those hazel eyes, the kindness that wrapped her in warm comfort.
"Yes. Exactly. No faults. You'd like him too, brother."
Her heart had begun fluttering at the mere thought of him. To hide it, she flicked her gaze out the carriage window. Killian watched his sister briefly, then followed suit. His eyes scanned the distant barren plains, but his mind raced through memories.
Since yesterday, Killian struggled to steady his frayed heart. He'd ignored the tremor when those transparent gray eyes—always avoiding him—finally met his squarely. With her so near, it was futile. He'd barely slept, tossing until dawn. The conversation between Emily and Shaylin's maid echoed: tomorrow was her day off, an early outing planned.
As Killian's dark brown eyes deepened with turmoil, he noticed Evril gripping the window frame tightly. He paused his whirling thoughts, watching her curiously. She stared fixedly at a distant point in the landscape.
Killian turned to follow her gaze. At the horizon stood a man on horseback, halted. Afternoon sun glinted off his bright brown hair. His shoulders heaved with ragged breaths, eyes on their carriage.
Evril spoke, lips parting.
"No need to go all the way to the Belpharos estate for Lady Pratt's favor."
Avoiding Killian's gaze, she continued with downcast eyes.
"Lord Belpharos is right there on horseback. We can deliver it now."
Killian instructed the driver toward the man. As the carriage neared, the rider's face sharpened: sweat-drenched, gaunt, pale, exuding an inexplicable unease.
Killian tilted his head. Contrary to Grandfather's and Evril's praise, this Lord Belpharos seemed the type one avoided at the academy. Before any notions of propriety or neatness, his feverish hazel eyes twitched sharply, unpredictably dangerous. Like a wounded beast radiating tension and venom—anyone rational would steer clear.
The carriage halted before him. Killian reached for the absinthe box opposite Evril, eager to deliver Shaylin's gift and end this.
Especially with his pregnant sister near this unsettling man.
But a pale hand snatched the box first.
"I'll deliver it. Unlike you, brother, I know him."
Evril stood quickly, avoiding his eyes. Killian followed silently as she descended.
"Lord Belpharos."
As he dismounted, his cold stare met hers. Evril drew a deep breath. Face-to-face so suddenly, her heart wouldn't calm. Their eyes locked, a pang in her chest. His eyes on that pallid face burned with low, dark flames. Seeing him so gaunt, so wounded—it felt like her doing. Guilt weighed heavy.
From behind her stunned silence came a low voice.
"We've heard you're Lord Belpharos. Lady Pratt asked us to deliver this."
Killian took the round box from Evril and handed it to Olens. He studied him, taller than Olens, brow furrowing slightly.
"Pleased to meet you. Killian Crane Loren."
"Olens Ikrit Belpharos. You're Lady Loren's brother, then."
Olens stowed the box in the saddlebag. Killian nodded to Evril to wrap up, but her eyes were distant, unfocused.
"Evril."
At his quiet call, she startled, meeting his gaze. After a long pause, her lips moved.
"Brother, Lady Shaylin had an urgent message for him."
"..."
"Just a moment."
Killian frowned at her dark expression but stepped aside. Glancing at him standing by the carriage door, Evril finally faced Olens squarely.
Olens spoke first, feeling Killian's piercing stare from afar.
"Tomorrow, at dawn, under that tree. I'll wait for you."
Evril glanced at the tree he indicated—ample shade, but scant against the western continent's midday heat.
"I... I..."
As she bit her lip, searching for words, Killian's voice approached from behind.
"Evril."
He gripped her shoulder firmly, glancing at Olens.
"Time to go. It's late."
Under his strong hold, she had no choice but to follow to the carriage. Watching her ascend, led by Killian's hand, Olens's darkened eyes narrowed.
