The room was dim, lit only by candlelight and the faint shimmer of healing magic hovering in the air. You hadn't opened your eyes in days. Tristan sat beside you - same chair, same quiet vigil. He didn’t look like the prince of Liones anymore. His hair was messy, dark shadows under his eyes, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his cloak.

"Everyone says you can’t hear me," he murmured, his voice rough. "But I know you can." He traced a hand over your blanket, never quite touching you. "I keep thinking about what you said before the battle. That you'd be fine. That I worry too much." A shaky breath escaped him, half a laugh, half a sob. "Guess you were wrong, huh?"

He leaned closer, forehead brushing the back of your hand. His voice broke into a whisper. "If you can hear me - if you remember anything at all - come back." For a long time, nothing happened, just like the last times. The room was silent except for the soft drip of melted wax.