Chapter 211: Chapter Two Hundred And Ten
But as Damon sat there, his logical mind began to wage a silent war against his own stubborn pride.
Damon thought to himself, his internal voice analyzing the situation carefully.
"Syrus has had many encounters with women," Damon’s mind reasoned quietly. He looked at his relaxed friend. "Syrus is always surrounded by beautiful noble ladies at the royal court. He knows how to speak to them. He knows what makes them smile. He knows what makes them stay. He is really, truly experienced in this specific battlefield."
Damon slowly lowered his hand, resting it on the table.
But immediately, his pride fought back against the logic.
"Have you forgotten who he is?" another thought disagreed sharply inside Damon’s head. "Have you forgotten he is a complete rake? He is a wealthy playboy who never settles down. He goes from one grand ball to another, charming women with empty words and sweet lies. What good, solid advice could he possibly offer about a real marriage? He knows nothing about true loyalty."
Damon clenched his jaw tightly. But then, the first, desperate thought returned to his mind. It was much stronger this time.
"But you are failing," Damon’s logical mind reminded him harshly. "You gave her a chest of gold, and she thought it was from your grandfather. You tried to protect her, and she pushed you away. You don’t know what to do. You are losing her to a man you have never even met. Just hear what Syrus wants to say. You don’t have to follow his advice if it is foolish. Just listen to his strategy."
Damon sat still. The internal battle ended. Desperation and the deep fear of losing Camilla completely defeated his pride.
Damon closed his eyes for a brief second. He let out a very long defeated sigh. The sound of his sigh was thick with quiet frustration.
He opened his eyes and looked directly at Syrus.
Damon spoke. His deep voice was very quiet, almost a reluctant whisper.
"What is the advice?" Damon asked.
Syrus paused. He had been taking a slow sip of his red wine, fully expecting Damon to remain stubborn forever. Hearing the great Tyrant General actually ask for romantic help was a great shock.
Syrus slowly lowered his glass to the table. A genuine happy smile spread across his face. He was thrilled that his friend was finally letting his thick walls down.
"Ah," Syrus said softly, leaning his body forward over the table. He rested his arms on the polished wood, giving Damon his undivided attention.
"Listen to me carefully, Damon," Syrus began, his voice dropping into a serious, educational tone. "You are a military man. You think everything is a war. You think you always have to be completely unbreakable. You think showing pain is a failure or weakness."
Damon kept his face blank, but he listened closely to every single word.
"Women love strong, capable men," Syrus continued smoothly, explaining the rules of the heart. "They love knowing that their husband can protect them from any danger in the world. And you are one of the strongest man in Daril. You have the protection part completely mastered."
Syrus raised a finger, making his main point very clear.
"But," Syrus said, his eyes locking onto Damon’s dark brown eyes. "They also love men who show their vulnerability sometimes. They want to feel needed. They want to know that behind all that heavy steel armor and cold discipline, there is a real human being with a beating heart."
Syrus smiled a very gentle, encouraging smile.
"Let yourself loose a little, brother," Syrus advised softly. "Stop acting like a perfect, unfeeling stone statue when you are alone with her in the house."
Damon kept staring directly at Syrus. He did not blink. He did not nod his head. He just stared, looking blank.
His military mind was trying to process the concept of "letting loose." In the army, letting loose meant dropping your shield and getting stabbed in the chest. It was a terrible strategy. He needed specific, clear instructions. He needed an exact tactical plan to execute.
Damon remained silent, waiting for more details.
Syrus saw Damon staring at him like a confused recruit. Syrus let out a soft chuckle. He knew he had to give the General a very direct, literal order.
Syrus pointed his finger directly at Damon’s left shoulder, right where the fresh cut was hidden beneath the coat.
"Use your injury," Syrus instructed clearly, giving Damon a specific plan of action.
Damon frowned slightly, looking down at his own shoulder.
"When you go back to your mansion tonight," Syrus explained, mapping out the entire scenario. "Do not hide the pain. Do not act like you are completely fine. Tell her it hurts."
Syrus tapped his fingers lightly on the table to emphasize his words.
"Tell her you are struggling," Syrus continued. "Ask her for help. Tell her to help you in dressing the wound. Let her clean the blood. Let her wrap the bandages. Give her the opportunity to care for you, Damon. Let her see that the great General actually needs her gentle touch to heal."
Damon listened to the specific instructions. He thought about the plan.
His practical brain immediately found a glaring flaw in Syrus’s strategy.
"But it doesn’t hurt that much," Damon spoke out loud, stating the absolute, literal truth. His deep voice was serious and matter-of-fact.
He moved his left shoulder slightly to test it.
"It is just a very shallow, tiny scratch," Damon explained, looking at Syrus with genuine confusion. "The bleeding has already stopped. I have survived much worse on the battlefield. And I can certainly dress it myself. I have clean bandages in my washroom. I do not need anyone’s help to wrap a minor cut. Why would I bother her with such a useless task?"
The secluded corner of the tavern went utterly silent.
Syrus stared at Damon. The happy, encouraging smile instantly disappeared from Syrus’s face.
Syrus’s mouth dropped open slightly. He looked at the most powerful military commander in the kingdom, realizing that Damon was entirely, hopelessly clueless about basic human romance.
Syrus raised his right hand.
Smack.
Syrus forcefully slammed his open palm directly against his own forehead. He hit himself so hard that a sharp, red mark appeared on his skin.
He let his hand slide slowly down his face, dragging his fingers over his eyes and his cheeks. He let his hand fall heavily back onto the table. He let out a loud groan. He looked really exhausted. He looked like a man who had just tried to teach a solid brick wall how to sing a song.
