Sir Melchior had been kind. Had taken him in. Had protected him—and in return, Sylene had grown these… dirty feelings.
"Grandma," he whispered, voice breaking, "please fix this. Please."
Seeing him like that—shoulders drawn in, eyes wet, devastation written plainly across his face—made Hilda's expression soften immediately.
Why did this boy think love was something shameful?
"Sylene," she said gently, "there's nothing wrong with loving someone. It isn't dirty."
She hesitated, then added more carefully, "Though I may not be the best person to talk about romance since I'm single, and I'm perfectly content that way."
But this grandson of her didn't look convinced.
She sighed. Clinking her brain.
"But all I know is this—love is what made me take you in, even when we were strangers back then."
"But isn't love making me weak?" Sylene asked quietly. "And...twisted..." He can't have that kind of feelings towards Sir Melchior.
