The day had been so unpleasant. Servyn sat grumbly at his chamber, his mood has been sour since Hermione had left, and since he had an argument with Cesarean.
For the first time in his life, he had never felt so wrecked up and confused in his entire time of living. The disputing variance battling for prominence in his scattered mind was disturbing.
If he knew, only if he knew, he wouldn't have let himself get indulged to this extent. He thought she was playing with fire, but he was oblivious to his loose tracks.
Why the devil did this have to happen now? No it was his fault. He was to blame and no one else. He had let himself fall hopelessly without the trough of time, and now it was already too late, too late to set things straight, too late to spin back the hands of time.
And now, he was stuck in this entrapment. This was never his initial plan, but why did the heavens have to toil his life, screwing him in the most unimaginable way ever.
