The Grand Duke's Soulmate-Chapter 572: The knight who calmed the storm

As soon as the carriage’s wheels came to a halt, Sylvia pushed the door open herself, not waiting for the driver to do what etiquette demanded.

Her feet hit the ground too quickly, nearly causing her to stumble from the sudden descent, but she regained her balance and moved quickly towards the mansion doors.

"My lady! Welcome back!" The servant’s greeting went unanswered.

Sylvia gathered her skirts in one hand and hurried past, deaf to formality and indifferent to decorum. Whatever restraint was expected of her as a noble lady had been swept aside by fear.

Drystan followed without question. His expression was tight, mirroring the strain etched across Sylvia’s face. Though the recklessness alarmed him, he understood her agitation too well.

The message they received claimed the Marquess was stabilised—yet such words sounded like a concealment. If that was truly the case, why call them in such haste? There was more to this than what had been revealed.

The knight’s stride lengthened, and within moments, he caught up to his wife. Swiftly, he reached out and took her hand, halting her just long enough to steady her.

Sylvia turned. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes swollen and rimmed red from tears she had shed far too often these past months.

Since the day the Mederians and Anna had departed, joy had quietly vanished from their lives. Spring arrived in full bloom, yet its warmth failed to mend what had been broken.

Gerhard welcomed its people back in devastation; the Grand Duke was hollow and defeated, and his knights carried the same shadowed silence.

Meredith became bedridden with grief after learning of Anna’s miscarriage and return to Semeta. Emily withdrew behind concealed tears, Athillia lingered in quiet sorrow, and Elis, whom Kyren had asked to remain in the duchy, shut herself away from the world entirely.

The circle of companionship that once bound the ladies together had shattered, and with Anna and Callis gone, laughter faded into memory.

Drystan sighed as he took in Sylvia’s dejected face. He knew how crestfallen she had been since last winter, yet there was little he could do beyond standing beside her.

Reaching into his surcoat, the knight pulled out a white handkerchief and stepped forward, closing the gap until he stood directly in front of her.

"Don’t let them see you like this," he said softly, gently dabbing at her tears. "They’ll only worry. You’re already growing thinner. Someone might think I’ve failed to take proper care of you."

Sylvia’s heart tightened, her tears threatening to spill anew. Not because his words rang true, but because Drystan had been nothing but her pillar—steadfast, patient, and unwavering through this heart-wrenching time.

He had never once failed her, remaining the partner he had promised to be, and that realisation filled her not only with gratitude but also with guilt.

It felt as though she had taken him for granted all this time; Drystan had been the one who gave endlessly, while she had done nothing but take.

"I’m sorry... I—I got carried away," she apologised, her gaze dropping to the ground as another tear slipped down her cheek.

The weight of misery that clung to her felt far too heavy to shake off.

"It’s all right," Drystan said, continuing to wipe her tears. "You love your grandfather very much. I understand. Just stay calm. We’re in this together, aren’t we?"

Sylvia looked up and found a smile etched on the knight’s face. It was only a simple, reassuring gesture, yet to her it felt like a soothing balm upon a raw wound. Drystan truly was the man she could rely on.

She nodded, gathering what resolve she could and steadying her heart.

Seeing the colour slowly return to her face, the knight handed her the handkerchief and then offered his hand.

"Hold on to me. We’re partners, and partners support each other in times of need," he said.

She took it, warmth spreading through her chest, her trembling heart easing at last as his steady presence grounded her once more.

"Thank you, Drystan."

"You’re welcome, Sylvie."

Sylvia offered a wistful smile. The name ’Sylvie’ no longer seemed teasing; instead, it made her feel unique, as only he would call her that, as if she belonged to him. Truly belonged...

"Let’s go," the knight said, breaking the moment.

"Yes!"

Together, with a renewed sense of resolve, they moved down the hallway towards the chamber.

The door was opened from within by the servant, and Denise, the Countess of Medhir, who had been seated on a settee, turned at once. Her eyes lit up when she saw them. She rose hurriedly and crossed the room.

Strangely, it was not Sylvia she greeted first.

"Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Drystan! We’ve been waiting for you," she exclaimed, her eyes bright with hope.

"Me?" the knight raised a brow and glanced at his wife, giving an awkward look.

He was only the son-in-law, after all, and this was his wife’s family. Surely Sylvia should have been the one they were expecting.

Just then, the Count of Medhir stepped out of the bedchamber. Seeing Drystan, his face reflected the same clear relief.

"Oh, finally! You made it! It feels like a year we’ve been waiting for you," the Count exclaimed.

Before Drystan or Sylvia could ask what was going on, Denise spoke up first, turning to her husband.

"Did he throw you out as well?"

The Count’s nod confirmed her suspicion, followed by a long, weary sigh.

"Then I suppose we have no choice," the Countess said quietly. She turned to the couple, her gaze settling squarely on the knight. "You must go in now. You’re our last hope, Drystan."

"What is going on here?" Sylvia asked, bewildered. "I was told Grandfather is severely ill."

"No one’s saying he isn’t," the Count replied dryly. "He’s in pain, but his behaviour is even more ’painful’."

The noble lady frowned, still trying to make sense of it all, but Denise had already placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and gently nudged her toward the bedroom door.

"Go on," she urged. "You’ll understand once you see him. We’ll wait out here. Your brothers have all given up. They were the first to be sent out, then me, and now your father." She sighed, her expression caught between worry and reluctant hope. "At this point, my money’s on Drystan. If anyone can appease father, it’s him and no one else."

By now, Sylvia and Drystan could guess what had happened. Her grandfather—the Marquess of Sylvere—had once again gone on strike against his own family.

Cranky, senile, and tangled in the chaos of his failing mind, he was more than capable of turning the entire mansion upside down and dragging everyone into his suffering with him.

Since being forced to remain at the mansion due to his deteriorating condition, there was only one person who had never incurred the Marquess’s wrath—Drystan.

The knight’s way of attending and conversing with Liam had earned him a peculiar immunity, one born of trust and familiarity.

The Marquess’s favour towards Drystan was apparent, so much so that even Sylvia, once his most cherished granddaughter, could no longer persuade him as she once had.

’Prang!’

"Get out!" Liam roared as the glass he had hurled shattered violently against the wall.

Chris, the youngest of the three brothers in the room, flinched at the noise, while his two older brothers stayed stiff and serious, their faces hardened by years of witnessing such outbursts.

The door creaked open quietly, just then enough to catch the Marquess’s harsh reprimand from the inside.

"Who do you think I am?!" Liam shouted again, his voice raw with fury. "A blasted, useless old man you no longer have any use for? Now that I’m bound to this bed, I’ve lost the right to decide for myself? I must simply obey your commands?"

His chest heaved as he spat the words, "Useless b*stards! If I had known you would turn against me like this, I would rather not have had sons at all!"

Aaron remained composed despite the shadow darkening his face, but Daniel’s ears burned red with restrained anger.

"We’re only asking you to take your medicine, father," Chris said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "And to eat properly and rest instead of moving so much. Healing will be much slower if you ignore the healer’s advice."

On the bed, the Marquess lay propped against the pillows, his broken leg heavily bandaged and suspended, displaying his frailty that he so stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

"What a load of cr*p! I don’t need anyone telling me what to do!" Liam scoffed in arrogance.

Several days of being confined to the bed after the fall had worn down his patience to the bone. He could not rise to enjoy the new season, could not walk the grounds or claim even a moment to himself.

Instead, he was constantly surrounded by healers fussing over his injuries, by family hovering with anxious faces, or by servants watching his every breath. To him, their concern felt less like care and more like a cage.

"Just let me die in peace if I’m that much of a burden!" he barked, flinging the words with bitter sarcasm.

Since Drystan’s return to Gerhard, the old Marquess had lost the one companion who truly soothed him. When the knight was here, they would sit together for hours, Liam recounting tales of war and the empire’s glory days while he listened with genuine interest.

"Grandfather..." Sylvia emerged from the doorway, Drystan standing tall just behind her.

"Sylvia." Liam’s anger broke off mid-surge, his raised voice dropping at once.

Then his gaze shifted, and when he saw the knight, his eyes lit up, much as Denise’s had earlier. Truly, the apple did not fall far from the tree.

"Drystan! Come in, come in!" the Marquess exclaimed, suddenly animated. "I didn’t know you had arrived. Sit here, by my side."

Aaron, Daniel, and Chris stepped back to clear a path. Sylvia perched at the edge of the bed, while Aaron pulled a chair forward for Drystan.

The eldest son gave the knight a knowing pat on the shoulder; everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath, as though salvation had finally arrived.

"Oh, Grandfather..." Sylvia swallowed hard, her eyes drawn to the injury. Sadness seeped into her chest. "How did this happen to you?"

"Hah! This is Daniel’s doing!" Liam snapped, pointing sharply. "He lost my walking stick, so I had to take the stairs on my own and fell. Luckily, I didn’t break my neck. I say he wants me dead!"

Daniel stared at him in disbelief, jabbing a finger at his own chest as if questioning why it was his fault.

All he had done was hide the walking stick to stop his father from wandering alone, and now he was being accused of murder. For a moment, he looked tempted to snap the walking stick in two and be done with it.

"Now, now... it isn’t right to accuse someone without proof, Grandfather," Drystan said calmly.

Every eye turned to him. It was always the same—his words were never grand or forceful, yet somehow, they landed with perfect precision.

Liam pursed his lips, sulking at once that the knight had not taken his side.

"I’m sure Uncle Daniel meant no harm," Sylvia added gently. "He only wanted to help."

"Tchk!" Liam scoffed. "Help with what? Help to imprison me?"

"Help you recover faster," Drystan corrected. "Don’t you want to return to the marsh? Haven’t you missed your home?" His gaze held calm. "The last time I saw you, you were in good shape and ready to leave. What changed? Don’t tell me you stopped taking your medicine just because you started feeling better."

Liam pressed his lips together.

The knight’s words struck home. When Drystan had still been in the city, visiting often, the Marquess’s condition had improved markedly.

Buoyed by that progress, Liam had decided the medicine was no longer necessary—confidence overtaking caution. His refusal had begun around the same time the couple returned to Gerhard with Kyren.

"I’m fine!" he grumbled. "And I don’t need any more of that stuff. It’s bitter and leaves a foul taste. I hate it."

"Grandfather... you know it’s for your own good," Sylvia pleaded.

"Don’t tell me what’s good or bad!" Liam snapped. "I may be old, but I’m not a fool!"

Sylvia flinched. It was unusual for him to lash out at her, and the sharp sting of his reaction hit her hard. The pain in his leg, combined with the frustration of losing control, had made his temper much worse than usual.

Drystan drew a slow breath, his brown eyes settling firmly on the Marquess.

"Please don’t speak so harshly to Sylvie," he said quietly. "She’s my wife, the one you entrusted to me. She rushed here the moment she heard, and she hasn’t stopped worrying about you. If you hurt her, you hurt me as well."

Sylvia’s heart fluttered at his words, warmth blooming despite herself. Yet the feeling dimmed just as quickly. Drystan had always been skilled at playing the role of the devoted husband. Beneath it all, she knew, lay only the bond of a contract.

Liam huffed, irritation warring with discomfort as the ache in his leg throbbed anew. Being cornered by everyone hurt his pride more than the injury itself.

Drystan softened his tone. "We’re not your enemies, Grandfather. We’re your family. Sometimes it may feel as though we’re taking things from you, but all we’re trying to do is keep you here with us."

"Easy for you to say!" Liam retorted. "You’re not in my shoes. You don’t know how it feels having your pride crushed, being looked at like a hopeless old man!"

Drystan did not rise to the anger. His voice remained cool.

"Pride can fell even the greatest knight if it’s left unchecked," he said. "A man who seeks help is never hopeless. However, one who refuses it only prolongs their own suffering and burdens those who care for them. That is what truly leads to ruin."

The Marquess’s scowl flickered. The words reached somewhere deep, beyond his irritation and into the fear he refused to acknowledge—fear of weakness, of becoming a burden, of falling into insignificance.

His jaw clenched, then gradually relaxed, recognising the truth in that saying. The defiance faded from his eyes, replaced by reluctant acceptance.

No matter what, he couldn’t triumph over Drystan. It was as if the knight knew exactly where his vulnerabilities lay and how to exploit them.

"...Fine," Liam muttered at last. "I’ll take the medicine."

A small, satisfied smile curved Drystan’s lips.

"Properly this time. No skipping," he added lightly. "Eat well and rest well, too. A true northern warrior lives by discipline."

"Hmph! All right, all right," Liam mumbled, waving a hand. "You don’t have to lecture me. I’ll prove I’m not going to rot away in this bed." He paused, then scowled. "If you had let Danica accompany me, I wouldn’t have been in such a foul mood to begin with."

Sylvia blinked. She exchanged a quick look with Drystan before both of them turned to Aaron, Daniel, and Chris.

The three brothers lifted their shoulders in unison, equally baffled.

"...Danica?" she echoed. "Who’s that?"