Sylvia watched in silence as Drystan lifted the spoon to her grandfather's lips. The broth no longer steamed; its warmth had faded with time.
"I'm full…" the marquess protested, his tone petulant, almost childlike.
"Just a few more sips, and we'll finish the bowl," the knight coaxed patiently. "It would be a shame to waste it."
Liam pulled a long face at being ordered so plainly, but he relented nonetheless, opening his mouth with a grumble and eventually finishing his meal.
With the knight present, the Marquess's once-volatile temper had eased into something quieter—an odd, reluctant compliance.
He no longer lashed out as sharply, took his medicine without outright refusal, and the pallor that had clung to him for days was slowly giving way to colour.
"Has Danica been fed today, Sylvia?" Liam asked suddenly, turning his clouded gaze toward Sylvia, who sat beside her husband.
The noble lady startled at being addressed, blinking in surprise.
"W–what?"
