Three full days had elapsed since Isolde took the girl under her care, tending to her with a devotion that only deepened Salvatore's concern over her prolonged slumber. Each passing hour weighed heavily on his heart, as he remained steadfast by her side, speaking softly to her as though his words could penetrate the veil of unconsciousness that enveloped her.
Meanwhile, the keen eyes of Salvatore's friends began to notice the peculiar pattern of his behavior. They observed how he consistently sought an early retreat from their gatherings, his thoughts seemingly tethered to the girl in the bed. Rynar, his voice a blend of sympathy and joviality, broke the silence one afternoon, patting Salvatore's back with a friendly gesture. "Hey, Salvatore, don't take it to heart. She's not worth the tears," he said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.
"Indeed," Varyn chimed in, his tone teasing yet laced with concern. "Just look at her! She prefers frolicking with other fellows, doesn't she?"
The camaraderie among the five friends—Salvatore, Rynar, Varyn, Ryzel, and Jareth—was palpable, forged through years of shared adventures in the wild, training sessions under the sun, and countless escapades that bound them together like brothers. While they were admired by many, their popularity paled in comparison to Corvian, whose charm effortlessly captivated the hearts of the village maidens.
Salvatore, however, shook his head, a shadow of anguish crossing his features. Though he felt the sting of rejection from Calista, her indifference was not the true reason for his early exits. "She did show interest once," he murmured, almost to himself. "But the moment Corvian spoke to her, everything changed."
"In fact," Ryzel interjected, his brow furrowed in thought, "the tax collector should have arrived by now, shouldn't he?"
"Indeed," Varyn replied, glancing toward the horizon as if expecting to see the telltale figures of the collectors approaching. "It's strange. They should have been here already."
As the weight of their conversation hung in the air, an unsettling silence enveloped the group, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves—a reminder of the world outside their worries.
The sudden knock on the door sent a ripple of surprise through Isolde, causing her to flinch ever so slightly. She hastily wiped her hands on her apron, her mind racing with curiosity about who might be visiting. As she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat at the sight before her—Arnold, a knight hailing from the royal castle, stood tall and imposing, clad in the gleaming armor that marked his station.
"Oh, Arnold! What brings you here?" she inquired, her voice a mixture of surprise and concern.
"The tax collector has fallen ill with a fever," he explained, his tone serious yet reassuring. "The king has tasked me with the responsibility of collecting the taxes in his stead for the time being."
Isolde nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. "Is that so? Please, wait a moment while I fetch the coin."
As she stepped away, Arnold's eyes wandered about the modest dwelling, taking in its humble yet comforting charm. They settled upon a partially open door leading to another room. His gaze lingered on the figure lying motionless beneath the blankets, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the rest of the house.
When Isolde returned, coins glinting in her palm, Arnold turned to her, curiosity etched on his face. "Is that Salvatore?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern. "Is he unwell?"
"Huh?" Isolde was momentarily taken aback by the question. She turned to glance at the room he had been observing. "Oh, that is not Salvatore. He and his father discovered her unconscious in the woods; I can only presume she was attacked."
"Attacked?" Arnold's eyes widened, a mixture of shock and intrigue flaring within them. "May I see her?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Isolde replied, her voice warm and inviting as she stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. The knight's curiosity was piqued, and Isolde could sense a flicker of concern for the enigmatic figure lying within the room.
As Arnold stepped into the dimly lit room, his gaze fell upon the girl lying peacefully in slumber. Her hair cascaded like a silken waterfall, long and smooth, evoking tender memories of his own daughter. He approached her bedside, his heart heavy with concern as he carefully inspected her for any signs of bruises or wounds that might mar her delicate form.
"I find nothing," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to Isolde, his brow furrowed with worry. "How long has she been unconscious?"
"About a few days now," Isolde replied, her voice tinged with anxiety. "I'm starting to grow increasingly worried."
"If that is the case, perhaps I can assist her," Arnold suggested, his resolve firming. "The royal physician is a skilled healer; he may be able to restore her to health."
"But would the King be angry?" Isolde questioned, her brow knitted with concern. "The royal physician is meant solely for the royal family."
"Then I shall take her to his son," Arnold proposed, his eyes gleaming with determination. "He is also quite capable, even if he is merely an apprentice."
A glimmer of hope sparked in Isolde's heart. "Oh, I would be overjoyed to see her awaken and speak once more! But how much will I need to pay for such a service?" she inquired, her brow furrowed in apprehension.
"Do not concern yourself with the payment," Arnold replied, his tone warm and reassuring. "I will cover the costs. After all, you are my sister-in-law."
A radiant smile illuminated Isolde's face as she expressed her gratitude. "Oh, thank you very much, Arnold. Once she awakens, perhaps I can arrange a meeting between her and Salvatore. He has been quite smitten with her since the day she arrived," she said, her eyes twinkling with excitement, eliciting a hearty laugh from Arnold.
"I can see why," he remarked, his gaze returning to the sleeping girl. "This young lady possesses a charm that is simply enchanting."
Salvatore returned home just as Arnold departed, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing in his ears. The sight of the knight riding off with the girl cradled in his arms ignited a surge of urgency within him. He rushed forward, desperate to catch up, but his mother's voice halted him in his tracks.
"Where are you going, Salvatore?" Isolde asked, her tone laced with concern.
"Where is he taking her?" he demanded, his voice urgent and frantic.
"To the castle," she replied, her expression both calm and reassuring.
"The castle?!" Salvatore's voice rose in horror, the words tumbling from his lips like stones falling from a crumbling wall. His heart plummeted into the depths of despair. The thought of her remaining in the castle filled him with dread; there, her beauty might draw the attention of the nobility, and his chances of winning her heart would dwindle to nothing, especially if the King or any other nobleman took notice of her.
"A physician will treat her," Isolde insisted, her voice steady as she sought to soothe her son's growing agitation. "Arnold assured me that once she awakens, he will bring her back here. There is no need to worry."
Salvatore scratched his head, the tempest of thoughts swirling in his mind like a stormy sea. What if she didn't want to return? What if a nobleman sought to court her, sweeping her away into a world of opulence and privilege, leaving him in the dust of obscurity? The very idea twisted in his gut, igniting a fierce protectiveness within him.
But as he watched the dust settle on the path where Arnold had ridden away, Salvatore couldn't help but feel that the stakes had risen dramatically, and his heart ached with the weight of unspoken worries.