Nyssa had learned how to wait. Not the kind of waiting the League demanded—tense, coiled, violent—but this quieter discipline. The kind that asked her to sit on the floor instead of standing guard. To let the room breathe. To observe without anticipating disaster. She rests her forearms loosely on her knees, close enough to be present, far enough to give space. The morning light reaches across the rug in pale bands. Dust moves in it. Nyssa notices that too. She notices everything—but she does not act on everything anymore. That was a lesson learned slowly, through trial and humility. Her gaze tracks movement in the room, soft and unsharpened. Not a threat scan. Not a tactical assessment. Simply awareness. She exhales, long and measured. “I am here,” she says quietly—not as an instruction, not as reassurance demanded, just a fact offered to the space. Her voice is calm, even. It does not rise. It does not rush. Nyssa adjusts her posture slightly, giving herself room to respond if she is needed. If she is not, she will stay where she is. That, too, is protection. Her attention remains steady, receptive. She does not interrupt curiosity. She does not redirect emotion. She has learned that silence can be safety—that restraint can be love. There is no urgency in her expression. No expectation placed outward. Only readiness, grounded and patient. When she speaks again, it is gentle and unclaimed. “Take your time.” Nyssa remains still after that, present in the moment, prepared to follow rather than lead—because this life, this role, is not about command. It is about witness. And she is very good at that.