By: La Diavola
Young Verron paced around the room, his footsteps quickening as he brushed his brow, still damp with sweat despite a mild and fair morning sun. He wore finer clothing than he had anticipated, since Davila always had her ways of bending his will. At first, he refused to meet with her entirely. Then he made a compromise, insisting that it take place far from the City of Faria. Now, he found himself in a parlour by one of the city’s most coveted boulangeries, and the scent of freshly baked bread flooded the street. If he was not blessed with fortune, he would be subject to answering the questions of his milieu, who may find him.
The parlour itself was wrapped in red tones, with brocade tapestries and dark wood panels. The dim crimson glow of a hearth, its sluggish licks of fire warming him. His silhouette stood still against the flames, exuding impatience and an eagerness to get over this endeavour.
Verron had an ambition that gnawed. It was the kind that ripened in the shade of neglect. Unlike others whose accomplishments enchanted and impressed, he remained unnoticed, as his ability needed careful attention to realize its full potential. He was intelligent, poised, and determined. But alas, who cared for one whose name was so far down the line of inheritance? Whose claim was challenged by children?
He was only nineteen, a fifth son, a little more than a formality in his family hierarchy. While his brothers and nephews flourished with silks and cashmere, he made do with cotton and wool. Arrogance, born of his obscurity, tore away at him, and his veneer of confidence began to be done away with, replaced by a plaque of sheer vanity.
A half-hour passed, and the nutty pastries across the street stirred his hunger. He had not eaten since the night before, and time felt slower as each minute sharpened his craving. His focus drifted until he was jolted awake by the sound of the door opening.