The knight knew immediately—whatever troubled her, it was no small thing.
He approached and sat beside her on the bed without hesitation, reaching for her hand and enclosing it in his. His touch was warm and grounding.
"Hey…" he whispered, lifting her face gently, his thumb brushing away her tears. "Why are you crying?"
Her lips trembled. She tried to speak, but all that came out was his name again.
"Drystan…"
He drew her nearer, one hand gently patting her back in a calm, comforting rhythm. He realised immediately that he didn't need to ask anything; his mere presence was enough for her as he noticed her desperate, pleading eyes.
"It's all right," he murmured. "I'm right here."
Overwhelmed, Sylvia grasped him tightly, her fingers clutching his hand as if he were the only thing keeping her anchored. But her sobs grew more intense.
She wanted to beg him not to leave her—to stay and to choose her—but the words refused to form.
