Chapter 2: Ma

The sun was sinking fast, turning the sky this bruised purple color, and me and Amelia were still messing around under that big oak. She'd started this game—something about knights and bandits, I dunno, I was half-listening 'cause her laugh kept tripping me up. She'd swing a stick like it was a sword, all "Take that, you scoundrel!" and I'd flop on the grass, pretending she got me good. "Oh no, I'm done for!" I'd groan, clutching my chest, and she'd giggle 'til her face went red. It was dumb. It was perfect. I could've stayed there forever, letting her boss me around 'til the stars came out.

But then her dad showed up, stomping through the dust like a bull with a burr up its ass. Big guy—beard patchy like he gave up halfway shaving, eyes hard but twitchy, always scanning the shadows. "Amelia! Get over here—night's creeping in!" he barked, voice rough as gravel. She dropped her stick mid-swing, shoulders hunching like she'd been caught stealing cookies.

"Coming, Pa!" she called, shooting me this quick, sorry look—like she hated leaving but didn't dare argue. He grabbed her arm, not rough exactly, but firm, yanking her toward their little shack on the hill. I got it, though. Eldoria's all sunshine and bread baskets 'til dusk hits—then it's a different beast. Folks here play at being guards, swinging pitchforks like they're heroes, but it's bullshit. Real danger's out there, and her dad knew it. Monsters—some with claws, some with human faces. I'd seen 'em both, back when I was… well, you know. King of the bastards.

She waved as they went, this tiny flick of her hand, and I waved back, feeling like an idiot 'cause my throat was all tight. Then they were gone, swallowed by the twilight, and it was just me, the tree, and the crickets starting their damn chorus. The air cooled fast, prickling my arms, and I should've headed home. Ma'd be there, probably kneading dough or stirring something that'd make my stomach growl from a mile off. But my feet wouldn't move. Couldn't.

Home meant facing her. Ma, with her soft hands and that smile that always saw too much. Last time I saw her—really saw her—she was screaming, smoke choking the air, my flames licking up the walls 'cause I was too far gone to stop. I'd burned her out of my life, out of everyone's, and now what? I'm s'posed to waltz in, say "Hey, Ma, I'm back, didn't mean to torch your whole world"? My chest did that galloping thing again, and I kicked at a root sticking outta the dirt, hard enough my toe throbbed.

"Fuck," I muttered, voice still cracking like a twig. How do you look your ma in the eye when you've got her ashes on your soul? I paced a little, grass crunching under my boots—too small, these stupid kid boots—and the guilt just kept piling up, heavy as a sack of stones. I should've been better. Should've been someone she could brag about down at the well, not the monster who—slap!—I cracked both hands across my cheeks at once, so hard my ears rang. The sting snapped me out of it for a sec, but not enough.

"Stupid," I hissed, and kept walking—marching, really—toward home. Couldn't stay out here forever, even if I wanted to. Night's claws were longer than Eldoria's play-pretend guards could handle, and I wasn't dumb enough to test that yet. Not this body, anyway—twelve-year-old me couldn't punch through a wet sack, let alone a wolf or… worse.

The village faded behind me, houses going dark, lanterns flickering like they were scared of the shadows too. Our place was at the edge—little hut, sagging roof, the kind you'd miss if you blinked. But the smell hit me before I even saw it. Warm, thick, curling up my nose—bread, maybe, or stew, something Ma always had going. My stomach growled, traitor that it was, and I stopped dead, one hand on the doorframe, the wood rough under my fingers.

Inside, I could hear her humming—soft, off-key, the way she always did when she thought no one was listening. The fire'd be crackling, probably, throwing little sparks up the chimney. I pictured her there, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting her apron, glancing at the door every few minutes 'cause I was late again. Same old Ma. Except I wasn't the same old Aron—not the kid she'd sent off to play that morning, not even close.

I pushed the door open, slow, the hinges creaking like they were ratting me out. The smell hit harder—definitely stew, meaty and rich, carrots or something sweet in there too. My mouth watered, but my legs locked up. She'd turn around any second, see me standing there like a ghost, and what the hell was I gonna say? "Hey, Ma, funny story—last time we met, I killed you"? I slapped my cheeks again—quieter this time, just a quick smack-smack—trying to knock some sense into myself. Didn't work.

"Aron?" Her voice came, soft but sharp, cutting through the hum. "That you, boy?"

I stood there, one foot in, one foot still on the porch, the door creaking shut behind me like it was daring me to move. That smell—gods, that smell—stew simmering, thick with meat and something sweet, maybe carrots, tugging me forward like a rope 'round my gut. I missed it. Missed her. Ma. More than I could've admitted back when I was busy burning everything she'd ever touched. My chest was all knotted up—half scared, half aching—like I didn't know if I'd laugh or bawl when I saw her.

I shuffled in, slow, boots scuffing the warped floorboards, following that aroma like it was the only thing keeping me from bolting. The hut was dim, just the firelight flickering from the kitchen, throwing shadows that danced on the walls—old walls, patched with mud and love, the kind that hold a family together 'til they don't. I peeked around the corner, breath stuck somewhere dumb, and there she was.

Ma. Twenties still, somehow—beautiful like they always said, white hair like mine spilling down her back, tied loose with a scrap of cloth. Her apron was this patchwork mess—bits of old shirts and skirts stitched together, wrapped tight 'round her waist, flour dusted across it like snow. She was stirring the pot, humming that same off-key tune, her hands moving steady even though I knew—I knew—they'd shake if she ever stopped pretending she was fine.

"Ma…" It slipped out, quiet, wobbly, like part of me still thought this was a dream, some cruel trick my head cooked up to twist the knife deeper. She turned, just her head at first, and her voice came back—calm, soft, warm as the fire. "Aron, love, you're late again."

That was it. That voice. I didn't think—just ran, feet slapping the floor, and crashed into her from behind, arms wrapping 'round her middle like I was five again. She yelped, this little "Oh!" jumping out of her, the spoon clattering against the pot. I scared her—shit, I didn't mean to—but I couldn't let go. "Sorry," I mumbled into her back, voice cracking, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. "Sorry, Ma—sorry, sorry—"

"Aron, what in the—" She twisted, trying to look at me, but I kept my face buried in her apron, clinging like if I let go she'd vanish again, turn to ash like last time. The tears wouldn't stop, these big, ugly sobs shaking me, and I kept choking out "sorry" 'til it didn't even sound like a word anymore. All I could see was her screaming, flames roaring, me standing there with that cold, dead grin—sorry, Ma, sorry I fucked it all up.

"Hey, hey now," she said, firm but gentle, peeling my arms off just enough to turn around. Her hands—calloused, warm—grabbed my face, thumbs swiping at the mess streaming outta my blue eyes. "What's this, huh? You think I'm mad 'cause you're late? I ain't gonna tan your hide over a cold supper, boy."

She thought that's what it was—me bawling 'cause I'd missed curfew. She didn't know. Didn't know these weren't sad tears, not really—they were alive, bursting out 'cause she was here, real, her apron scratching my cheek, her voice wrapping 'round me like a blanket I'd forgotten I needed. I'd lost this—her kindness, her humbling, stupid love—and I'd let it slip away 'til I was nothing but a monster in a crown. Not anymore.

I sniffed, loud and gross, and she laughed—this soft, hiccupy sound that made my chest hurt worse. "Gods, you're a mess," she said, ruffling my hair like I was still her little shadow. "C'mon, sit. Stew's hot, and you look half-starved."

She nudged me to the table—that rickety thing with one leg shorter than the rest, wobbling every time you breathed on it—and ladled out a bowl. The steam hit my face, meat and herbs and home, and she sat across from me, sliding it over. I grabbed the spoon, still sniffling, and she just watched, chin in her hand, eyes soft like she was trying to figure me out.

"Ma," I said, voice thick, staring at the broth 'til it blurred. "I—I missed you."

She blinked, head tilting. "Missed me? I've been right here, you goof. Where you been at all day?"

"Out," I mumbled, shoving a spoonful in my mouth 'cause I couldn't look at her too long—those eyes'd see right through me if I let 'em. It burned my tongue, but I didn't care. Tasted like every supper I'd forgotten, every night I'd traded for blood and fire. I promised myself, right then, chewing that too-hot bite—I'd cherish this. Her. This life. No more letting her cry, no more watching her burn 'cause my dumb ass thought power was worth more than her smile.

"You're actin' funny," she said, squinting at me, but there was a grin tugging at her mouth. "What'd you get into out there? Fall in a creek or somethin'?"

I snorted, almost choked on the stew, and wiped my nose with my sleeve. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

She shook her head, still grinning, and got up to grab more bread from the counter—fresh, crusty, the kind that crackles when you tear it. I watched her move, the way the firelight caught her hair, turning it gold at the edges, and I swore—quiet, to myself—I wouldn't let it happen again. Not to her. Not to me. This was mine now, this little kitchen, this wobbly table, this woman who didn't know I'd lost her once.

I'd hold onto it 'til my hands bled if I had to.