Chapter Seven: Fading Forgotten Feelings
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He lived as if his feelings had vanished… yet they were always there, flickering in the shadows.
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The envelope slid naturally into place,
finding its spot atop the elegant table.
A strange black envelope.
All eyes settled upon it.
And before anyone opened their mouth,
he was smiling—
not with his lips,
but with his eyes.
No one understood what it meant,
for the smile was hidden,
perceived only by its owner.
"What is this?"
Curiosity kills.
And young Elia, who had just returned from outside,
was curious—
curious about why such an odd envelope was laid before Noya,
curious why he hadn't picked it up himself,
as though he already knew what was inside.
Curiosity consumed her,
and she shoved her nose into what did not concern her,
blind to what was concealed inside that envelope,
ignorant of the true Noya,
who to her seemed like the perfect oppa.
The maid stepped forward,
bowed slightly,
and answered with reserve:
"Someone asked me to deliver it to Master Noya, and said he would understand."
Noya looked calmly at the maid who had fulfilled her duty
with remarkable precision.
He took the envelope, examined it,
then lifted his gaze back to her.
"Well done."
A simple compliment,
a light farewell,
and she withdrew.
Her task was complete.
There was no need for more words.
Elia clutched the hem of Noya's shirt tightly.
"Oppa, tell me, what is this?"
He stroked her hair gently,
raised the envelope between his fingers.
"For the grown-ups, Elia. For the grown-ups."
He repeated it for emphasis.
No room for further questions.
And so he left them in suspense,
returned to his room,
and lit the lamp softly.
He straightened himself,
settling comfortably on his bed.
He wore his fine spectacles,
crafted in a rare design.
He opened the envelope with care,
read its contents.
He did not flinch.
He did not sigh.
He simply read,
showing no reaction.
When finished,
he folded the envelope,
intending to dispose of it.
He rose toward his wardrobe,
to select clothes for the evening.
A carbon-black suit with a faint silky sheen
draped across his shoulders with the flow of light.
A crisp white shirt,
as if it were an extension of his skin.
At his neck,
a dark-wine silk tie spoke of calculated boldness,
paired with a pocket square folded to geometric perfection—
a signature touch.
A thin silver ring graced his finger.
A classic watch that spoke of respect for time more than vanity.
Shining leather shoes, declaring silence with severity.
Even his hair—styled with a subtle touch of disorder—
He did not look like a machine.
He looked alive.
He loved art.
To him, this was art—
everything he saw,
everything he chose,
everything he desired.
Yes,
he made it art,
even if to others it was not.
Noya had always opposed the world,
defining art in the way befitting the name Nerith—
a title bound to a sacred talent
of revering art,
or whatever others chose to call art.
Though it was only his second night here,
when he should have rested like the rest of the household,
Noya left.
Without even a simple goodbye.
Only a curt text message,
sent to a stranger of a spouse he barely acknowledged,
stating he would not be present.
Under the guise of polite words of departure,
the message concealed the truth:
he would not dine with them,
nor return early.
He was in his own night.
Do not concern yourselves.
That was the true meaning.
He wanted no questions,
no concern.
Let everyone continue as they were.
He did not take his bike.
The message said it plainly:
a car waited at the gate.
Noya stepped out,
greeted by the driver and another man—
a guard.
Though he hardly needed one,
the place he was headed required it.
The guard and driver bowed lightly in greeting.
"Good evening, Klait."
"Good evening, sir."
The reply was clear, sincere,
carried a softness confirming that Noya and the guard knew each other.
He had always been Noya's protector.
The driver, however, had changed.
The car remained the same—
a rare model, reserved for men of command—
but its driver shifted,
depending on availability,
on suitability for each task.
Klait opened the door.
Noya entered without a word.
The door closed as quietly as it had opened.
The driver took his place.
Beside him, Klait sat silently.
No conversation was exchanged.
Once all had settled,
the key turned,
and the car rolled toward its destination.
From his window,
Noya watched the city's face
like a man drowning in lost art.
He gazed and gazed,
yet felt the scene incomplete—
emptied by the absence of feeling.
Forgotten feelings fading like shadows.
But his distracted mind returned to the destination.
It was no mystery.
The message had been brief,
its meaning clear.
The deputy had found the artifact Noya sought.
In return, he had given Noya a task.
It was an exchange:
Noya completed the task,
and he would obtain the artifact.
So Noya arrived.
As he ascended, so he descended.
The façade of the grand hall shimmered before him,
flooded by floodlights gleaming against polished marble.
Luxury carriages lined the entrance.
The night throbbed with whispers
and the murmur of elegant crowds.
The great door never ceased to swing,
as though the entire city had gathered here.
As Noya entered,
memories stirred.
Why not?
He had been here before,
in a better way,
with warmer feelings.
It was a famed, legal auction.
And Noya's destination tonight,
for what he sought was being sold here.
He came as a bidder—
not under his name,
nor under his current family's name,
but as the honored guest of the deputy.
A guest of secret prestige,
to take what he wanted with the deputy's coin.
The mission was simple.
Though the auction was legal,
the government had discovered something:
illegal items had slipped within.
Noya's task:
to verify the list of goods
and the names of those aware of the illicit entries.
Of course they knew—
chief among them the director.
Thus the deputy entrusted Noya with another task:
to seize the director—
or rather, abduct him.
Simply bring back the list,
and the man.
At the same time,
he would secure the artifact he desired,
at any price.
The deputy would pay.
Noya took his place in a private balcony suite.
Beside him, Klait stood,
the perfect guard,
impeccable in duty.
Voices rose from below,
bidding paddles lifted high.
The auction had a refined system,
allowing trade across ten currencies,
ranked from the most valuable to the least:
1. Aurel
2. Creon
3. Valor
4. Nova
5. Merid
6. Solen
7. Vern
8. Estra
9. Vela
10. Lina
All ten were recognized across Deloya.
This country used the Valor as its official tender.
The auction began.
Noya paid little attention—
he toyed with the coins in his hand,
distracted by memories of a currency dear to him long ago.
Then came the item he awaited.
He did not hesitate.
He listened to the auctioneer with greater focus,
burying every distraction,
every stirring emotion.
The item was unveiled:
A medium-sized case,
pure white with golden engravings,
encrusted with gems.
The auctioneer opened it.
Inside—
a full arsenal.
Pistols of varying sizes,
crafted with elegance,
from the finest materials.
Boxes of bullets.
Refined, stylish scanners.
A bulletproof suit.
Another for riding a motorbike,
stitched from the world's rarest leathers.
And finally—
a music box adorned with rare jewels.
The auctioneer exalted its value,
praising its craftsmanship
as though venerating its maker.
Then he declared its price:
"Ten thousand Aurels!"
A colossal sum, but worthy.
Noya raised his paddle.
The contest began among the private suites,
each bidder leaping five thousand Aurels higher.
But they did not know:
beneath the weapons lay an entire set of art tools.
Both arms and brushes—
artifacts of the Nerith family.
This case bore the mark of their head.
Noya ended the clamor with a final bid:
"Ten million Aurels and fifty thousand Creons."
The largest sum this auction had ever seen.
Thus his plan unfolded.
Klait fetched the case, delivered the money.
Meanwhile, Noya slipped away.
Quietly, he reached the office where the list was held.
Guards were nothing to him—mere children.
He felled them with ease,
searched swiftly,
seized the list unseen.
The last step: the director.
With a decisive blow he dispatched the guards.
Silently, he drew his pistol,
fitted the silencer,
fired swiftly.
The guards collapsed.
The director fainted in terror.
Noya bound him, gagged him,
and carried him off.
Klait, watching from afar,
caught the red signal flaring in the sky—
the call to retreat.
He returned to the car.
Everything was in order,
save for Noya's clothes—
disheveled, torn,
proof of battle,
proof that the suit had not served him.
Klait boarded quietly.
"Well done, sir."
"Take me home."
Noya tugged the tie from his throat,
hating the choking thing.
He was a free man,
a lover of art,
a trained fighter—
unfit for such suffocating airs.
Yet he was content.
Content to have secured the mark—
the symbol that proved him head of the Nerith family.
Now his plans could move faster,
better.
To restore the glory of Nerith,
to gather its scattered kin.
Klait understood.
He did not ask why Noya avoided reporting to the deputy.
He obeyed his commands to the letter.
Noya slipped back into his room,
changed clothes,
checked the case one last time before hiding it.
He tried to sleep—
but could not,
as on most nights.
Instead he drew out a square sketchbook,
its pages perfect for art.
He flipped until a blank sheet met his fingers,
took his black pens,
and began to draw.
Not that the drawing was difficult—
but what he drew was.
His memory always flickered with that smile.
Each time he tried to sketch something else,
he ended up sketching that smile,
sometimes his frown.
Every feature was a joy to capture,
yet his feelings betrayed him.
Each sketch consumed him longer than any other.
This was Noya's war—
a battle between his desperate desire to draw him,
and the restless emotions that craved companionship.
He did not know how much time had passed,
until someone came to call him.
The maid's voice was his salvation,
pulling him from drowning deeper.
He bathed,
changed into comfortable clothes.
He meant to spend the entire day at home.
Descending,
he was surprised to see the family waiting.
His voice was slightly hoarse,
but he paid it no mind—
nor to his still-damp hair.
He took his seat calmly,
without glancing at the others.
"My apologies for being late."
He spoke softly, though his tone was unsteady.
The words meant nothing,
but courtesy required them.
The mood was heavy—
even little Elia stayed silent.
They finished breakfast.
At the end, Idren informed Noya of something he must know.
"My elder brother will return in three days."
Noya nodded lightly.
Then withdrew to his room.
"I'm working. Don't call me."
He understood,
yet his mind was elsewhere.
He had sketches to finish,
weapons to polish,
to adorn.
He nodded again,
unaware—
that meeting his brother-in-law
would change his life,
and forge a bond stronger even
than the one he held with his husband, Idren.