A quiet tension settled over the room like dust on old furniture in a forgotten home, thick and still. Ivaylo sat straight-backed in the simple wooden chair, his fine cloak falling neatly around him, his hands folded atop his knee in practiced poise. Yet his eyes watched the man across the desk with increasing unease.
Aron said nothing at first. He remained focused on a piece of parchment, his tired eyes scanning the lines with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Occasionally, he glanced up at Ivaylo, just for a second, long enough to seem as though measuring something, before returning to his reading with a faint rustle of paper.
It was not how these meetings were supposed to go.
Ivaylo was used to being the one in control, he was a big shot after all.
Here, in this simple room stuffed with wooden filing cabinets and a desk cluttered with ink pots, parchments, and thick-bound folders, he was the subject under scrutiny. He didn't like it one bit.
