Chapter 105: Met again
The old man remained rooted in place, his expression full of exaggerated lamentation as he shook his head dramatically. "Ahh, see? You’re just like him! I can do nothing about it. I’m just an old man, helpless and pitiful, trying to apply medicine to his thigh wound, yet he behaves as if I’m about to steal his innocence! And now you—you’re acting like someone snatched your bride right in front of you. What a tragedy!"
The man’s jaw clenched, and his fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. His ears burned an even deeper shade of red, a stark contrast against his usually calm demeanor. "Master Eamon," he said, his voice tight with restrained frustration, "go and rest. Now."
The sharpness in his tone, coupled with the steely glint in his eyes, made the old man falter for a brief moment. He knew his young lord’s patience had worn dangerously thin, but even so, he could not resist one last remark.
With a heavy sigh, he dramatically wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "Ahh, how cruel the young have become! Once, he was just a small thing, clinging to my robes, and now he sends this old man away so heartlessly. Fine, fine, I’ll go. But remember, my Lord, if you continue to suppress yourself like this, even the strongest mountain will crumble!"
The man let out an exasperated breath as he watched the old master hurriedly shuffle out of the room, no doubt fearing a harsher scolding if he lingered any longer. But not without leaving one final comment.
"Ah, youth is truly wasted on the young," the old man muttered just loud enough to be heard before disappearing behind the heavy wooden doors.
The room fell into silence, but the turmoil inside the man only intensified. His hand unconsciously tightened around the delicate porcelain cup, his knuckles turning white. The ridiculousness of the old man’s words should have been easy to dismiss, but for some reason, they lingered, wrapping around his mind like a vice.
He let out a slow, measured breath, willing himself to cool down, but it was futile. His imagination, which had been kept in check for centuries, began to run wild. His mind conjured images—unbidden and unwelcome—of a certain golden-haired man with pale blue eyes gazing him at pitifully.
A dangerous glint flashed in his gaze. His grip on the cup tightened further until the delicate ceramic cracked, a jagged line running through its surface. He placed it down carefully, trying to regain his composure, but the heat inside him refused to subside.