novelraw Chapter 103 : A Mother’s Worry
Chapter 103 : A Mother’s Worry
(Selene POV)
From the window above the kitchen, I could see him again — sitting by the pond, lips moving, eyes focused on empty air.
He’d been doing that every morning lately.
Mumbling, frowning, then smiling like he was answering someone no one else could hear.
At first, I thought he was talking to Lyra or maybe even to one of the spirits that sometimes danced around Maori’s roots. But no — Lyra was still resting, and the spirits didn’t linger so long with one person.
So there he was: my son, talking to himself beside the water.
And my stomach twisted with that quiet, familiar ache only mothers understand — the fear that something’s wrong and no one can see it but you.
I watched a while longer.
He tilted his head, paused, and nodded at the air again.
Did Kain hit him too hard during training? Or maybe the endless drills Darius put him through finally rattled something loose?
He looked fine, healthy even, but he was always alone.
That was what truly worried me.
Riaz was still too young, always glued to Lyra’s hip or sitting by Darius and Kain watching their endless sparring matches.
Elara used to love those — her eyes would light up every time a sword moved. But Rooga never had that same spark.
He trained because he had to, not because he wanted to.
And when he wasn’t training, he sat by the water and talked to nothing.
I went out quietly, pretending to gather herbs by the path, just to watch him closer.
He was whispering again. “…You remember things?”
Then silence.
He tilted his head like he was listening to an answer that never came.
Then he smiled, soft and faint.
It was that smile that hurt me most — the lonely kind that said he’s happy, but not with anyone here.
I looked around the estate.
The adults were all busy: Darius and Kain arguing by the fence, Melissa cleaning her shield, Acker perched on a post sharpening his arrows, Noile dozing under the tree.
Even Chera was flapping lazily in the air, humming to herself.
No one near his age.
Not one child in sight.
That night, as I tucked Riaz into bed, I kept thinking about it — the pond, the silence, the strange half-conversations.
Rooga needed more than drills and solitude.
He needed people.
Friends. Laughter that didn’t sound like training or lessons.
So the next morning, while he sat by the pond again, I came out carrying a basket.
“Rooga,” I called.
He turned, blinking. “Morning, Mother.”
I smiled. “Come with me. We’re going to the village.”
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He looked confused. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” I said lightly. “You’ve trained enough. It’s time you met someone other than your father’s old war friends.”
He hesitated, looking toward the water, then nodded slowly. “Alright.”
“Good,” I said, ruffling his hair. “The pond will still be here when you get back. Maybe it’ll miss you for a change.”
He smiled — a real one this time.
As we walked down the path toward the village, I caught him glancing at the trees, the fields, even the people in the distance.
It hit me then how rarely he’d left the estate since he was old enough to walk.
He’d grown up surrounded by warriors, mages, and ancient powers — but never children.
I reached down and squeezed his hand gently.
He looked up, puzzled.
“You’re not in trouble,” I said. “I just want you to see that there’s more to life than swords and spells.”
He nodded, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
And in that moment, I made a quiet promise to myself.
Whatever secrets this family held, whatever shadows haunted our bloodline — I’d make sure Rooga had something normal to hold onto.
Even if it was just a few friends in a small, peaceful village.
(Rooga POV)
The village was louder than I expected.
The hum of chatter, the clank of metal, the smell of roasted grain — it all pressed in on me like a wave of life I wasn’t used to.
Mother had walked me to the edge of the market square and left me there with a soft smile.
“Go on,” she said. “Find someone your age. I’ll be nearby.”
So I did.
At first, it felt awkward — everyone was busy, faces unfamiliar. But near the well, I saw a group of boys laughing as they tossed pebbles into a bucket, turning it into some kind of game.
“Hey,” one of them called, noticing me. “You’re from the Valemont house, right?”
I nodded.
“Come play, then. You look bored.”
There were four of them — older than me by a year or two, dusty clothes, easy smiles.
They played rough but laughed loud, and for a moment, I forgot the quiet mornings by the pond, the lessons, the drills.
I was just another kid throwing stones.
We made teams, cheered when someone missed, booed when they scored. It was messy, loud, and real.
Then, as the sun climbed higher, one of the boys spotted someone down the road.
“Hey… look who’s here,” he said, his grin turning sharp.
I followed his gaze.
A girl about our age stood near the fence, holding a small basket of herbs.
Her clothes were plain, her hair pale, her eyes a strange light-gray — almost like mist. She looked shy, quiet.
“That’s the weird one,” one of the boys whispered. “She talks to plants.”
Another snickered. “She probably thinks they talk back.”
They laughed. Even the boy who said it looked nervous, trying to impress the others.
I froze.
Part of me wanted to walk away. The other part — the part that remembered Mother’s words about being normal — thought maybe laughing with them would make me fit in.
So I forced a small grin. “Maybe the plants like her more than people do.”
The boys laughed louder.
The girl looked down. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her basket tighter.
Someone added another joke. Then another.
And somehow, it became easier to say worse things.
Easier to pretend it was harmless.
Until I said one thing too many.
“I guess even the trees pity her — that’s why they never let her grow roots with people.”
The laughter stopped.
The girl’s lip quivered. She turned and ran, the basket dropping to the ground, herbs scattering across the dirt.
For a second, I didn’t understand what I’d done. Then I felt the sting on my cheek.
It happened so fast I barely saw it.
A sharp sound, a flash of red hair, and pain blooming across my face.
Standing before me was a girl slightly older than the rest, her stance like someone ready to swing again if I moved.
She had freckles across her nose and the kind of glare that could melt stone.
“Apologize,” she snapped.
I blinked. “What?”
“You made her cry. Apologize.”
I hesitated — pride, shame, confusion all mixing together — and before I could speak, she turned toward the other boys.
“You too. All of you.”
They stared at the ground. None of them said a word.
The red-haired girl sighed, shaking her head. Then she went after the quiet one, her boots kicking up dust.
One of the boys muttered, “That’s Torren’s daughter, Fera. She’s crazy.”
Another mumbled, “She’s got a temper like her old man’s forge.”
And just like that, they scattered, leaving me standing alone.
I rubbed my cheek. It still stung.
The herbs were still scattered on the ground where the quiet girl had dropped them — green leaves against brown dirt.
I sighed and sat down beside the well.
“Kids these days,” I muttered to myself, “are hard to understand.”
The irony didn’t escape me.
The wind blew softly through the square, carrying the faint scent of crushed mint from the girl’s basket.
For a moment, I thought I heard the plants whisper back — but maybe that was just guilt talking.