Chapter 3: Ambition

The bed was small—too damn small, really—just a creaky frame shoved against the wall, straw mattress poking me through the thin blanket like it was pissed I was there. I lay on my side, curled up tight, the stew still warm in my belly, and for once, my head wasn't screaming. Peace, you know? Like the world finally shut up for a minute. Ma was right there, pressed close, her breathing soft and steady, her hair tickling my neck where it spilled over the pillow. Gods, it was embarrassing—me, twelve again, squished up with my ma like some clingy toddler. She used to sleep on the floor by the table, 'cause this hut's so tiny it's more a suggestion than a house, but tonight she'd climbed in with me, no fuss, just slid under the blanket like it was nothing.

"Aron, you're fidgetin' like a squirrel," she'd mumbled earlier, half-asleep, when I kept shifting, trying to give her space that didn't exist. I'd frozen, face hot, muttering something dumb like, "Uh, sorry, Ma." But she just patted my arm—those calloused hands, gentle as hell—and stayed put. She knew I was off, all twitchy and weird after bawling into her apron, and instead of asking why, she just… stayed. Like she always used to. Kind and caring, same as I remembered before I went and fucked it all up.

I couldn't forget it, though—what I'd done. The fire, her screams, the way I'd stood there, cold as stone, watching her burn 'cause I thought I was meant for more. It clawed at me, even now, lying here with her snoring soft next to me. But staring at the ceiling—cracked mud, lit faint by the dying embers in the hearth—I figured it wasn't time to brood. Not tonight. Not with her warm against my back, alive, real, her heartbeat thumping through the thin wall of my ribs. I'd done enough moping, enough slapping myself stupid. This was… something else.

I rolled over, careful not to wake her, and propped up on an elbow, looking around. The hut was cozy in that beat-up way—walls patched with whatever Ma could scrounge, a single shelf sagging under chipped clay mugs, the table wobbling like it was drunk. Firelight flickered over it all, throwing these long, lazy shadows that danced slow across the floor. The air smelled like stew still, mixed with woodsmoke and that dusty, lived-in scent of home. It was peaceful, yeah—more than I deserved—but it hit me hard: she deserved better than this.

Ma, with her shaky hands and her patched apron—she shouldn't be scraping by in this cramped little shack, cooking over a fire that smoked half the time, sleeping on a floor when I wasn't hogging the bed. She oughta have a real house, you know? Something sturdy, with a proper roof that didn't leak when the rains came. A warm bed with a quilt that wasn't threadbare, good food—not just scraps she stretched into miracles—maybe even someone to check those hands she hid when they trembled too much. She was beautiful, tough, the kind of woman who'd give you her last crust and call it nothing, but damn it, she deserved more.

I flopped back down, staring at the dark now, my chest doing that tight thing again—not guilt this time, but something bigger, something itchy. A son's gift, that's what it'd be. I'd make it happen. Me, Aron—who'd been the Demon King, who'd had power to crack mountains and gold to drown in—I could figure this out. Not with fire or blood, not this time, but with… shit, I dunno, something. Work, maybe. Hustle. Whatever it took to give her a life that didn't wear her down to the bone.

She shifted beside me, muttering something garbled—probably dreaming about chasing chickens or yelling at me for tracking mud in—and I couldn't help it, I grinned. Dumb, lopsided thing, my face half-buried in the pillow. "Yeah, Ma," I whispered, real quiet so she wouldn't hear, "you're stuck with me now." And I meant it—more than I'd meant anything in either damn life I'd lived. I'd screwed her over once, let her burn while I played king. Not again. This cramped little bed, this smoky little hut—it was a start, and I'd build it into something she could lean on.

Morning snuck up quiet, the kind of early where the sky's still half-asleep, all gray and soft around the edges. I woke up before Ma—her snores were little puffs now, barely there—and I slipped outta that straw-stuffed bed, careful not to make the frame squeak too loud. She didn't stir, just rolled a bit, her white hair fanning over the pillow like a messy halo. I stood there a sec, watching her, my chest doing that tight thing again, but I shook it off. No time for sappy shit today.

I crept out, boots in hand 'til I hit the porch—didn't wanna wake her with my clomping—and the air hit me, cool and crisp, smelling like dew and dirt instead of the blood and ash I used to choke on. Fucking weird, that. Used to be I'd wake up to screams, the tang of iron in my nose, my hands itching for a fight. Now it's just… this. Eldoria at dawn, all sleepy and green, chickens clucking somewhere down the hill like they're gossiping about last night's scraps. I sucked in a big breath, let it out slow, and glanced back at the hut—sagging roof, walls patched like a quilt gone wrong. Home. My home. For now.

I was twelve, right? Scrawny, knobby-kneed, voice still cracking like a dumbass—but in this world, that's when you start being a man. No more kid games, not really. Shit runs on power and money here, always has—same as back when I was the Demon King, only now I don't have a throne or a pile of gold to throw around. I kicked at a pebble, watched it skitter across the dirt path, and my brain started churning. I didn't have much—two hands, a head full of memories, and a stomach that growled too damn loud—but I had something. Knowledge. I knew what was coming.

My future—my old one—was a fucking train wreck. I remembered it clear as day: ambition wasn't what screwed me, not on its own. Sure, I wanted to climb, wanted to be untouchable, but it was the temptations that got me. Power whispering in my ear, dark deals I couldn't say no to, that first taste of magic that burned so good I chased it 'til I lost everything. Ma. Amelia. Me. It started a year from now—some asshole with a silver tongue and a cursed trinket, dangling it like candy 'til I bit. That's what turned me cold, turned me into the bastard who torched his own roots. Not this time. Not fucking again.

I leaned against the porch post, wood creaking under my elbow, and chewed my lip. What'd I have, really? A head full of what-ifs—battles I'd fought, deals I'd made, tricks I'd pulled. Couldn't snap my fingers and burn shit down anymore—hell, I'd break my wrist trying—but I knew stuff. Where the bandits'd hit next spring, which merchant'd cheat you blind, how to spot a good blade from a junk one. Little things, maybe, but they'd stack up if I played it right.

"Gotta start somewhere," I muttered, voice still half a squeak, and snorted at myself. Great, Aron, real kingly—talking to the chickens like they're your council. I shoved my hands in my pockets—empty, 'course, not even a coin to flip—and started walking, no real plan, just moving 'cause standing still felt like choking. The grass was wet under my boots, soaking the hems of these ratty trousers, and the air had that sharp bite like rain might come later. Good. Rain'd keep folks inside, give me space to think.

A year. That's what I had 'til the shit hit—'til that slick-talking bastard showed up with her poison promises. I'd need muscle by then—not Demon King muscle, just enough to swing a stick and not fall over—and some coin. Enough to get Ma a bed that didn't stab her, a roof that held, maybe a healer for those hands she thought I didn't notice shaking. I'd do it legit this time—or close enough. No shortcuts, no dark shit. Just me, twelve and dumb, clawing up for her.

I plopped down right there at the village edge, legs crossed on the damp grass, the morning chill still clinging to my bones. No one was around—too early for even Tully's creaky ass to hobble out—so I figured, hell, why not? I'd done this a thousand times before—back when I was Aron the Big Bad, sitting on thrones made of skulls, sucking in power like it was breakfast. Meditation, yeah, but not the soft shit saints preach about. Mine was sharper, hungrier. I shut my eyes, took a breath—slow, deep, in through the nose—and let my mind settle, like water going still after you toss a rock in it.

It started soft, this hum in my head, like a string plucked way down deep. I knew that buzz—felt it a million times when I was the Demon King, pulling magic outta the air 'til it roared through me. My forehead tingled, right smack in the middle, vibrating harder, and there it was—ember. That spark, the root of all the good shit, the stuff that turns men into gods or monsters. Took me years to figure this out back then, hunched in caves, sweating through nights, learning to grab it raw. I'd just let it flood me before, no filter, no finesse—pure chaos, burning me up as much as it fueled me. Dumbass move. Got me strong, sure, but it turned me into… well, you know.

Not this time. I had a year 'til temptation came knocking, and I wasn't gonna be some sloppy kid scrambling for scraps. I'd use what I knew—steal a page from Amelia, even. She'd done it different, back when she was the Hero—all saintly and pure, soaking ember through her forehead like me, but filtering it down to her heart. Called it cleansing, sanctifying, whatever bullshit the priests yapped about. Made her glow like a damn lantern, all righteous and steady. Me? I wasn't about that noise. I let it hum stronger, pushed it past my skull, down my spine—prickling, electric—spreading it out, slow and deliberate, into every nerve, every twitchy corner of this scrawny body. My way. Not pure, not holy—just mine.

Hours slipped by—don't ask me how many, I lost track—grass soaking my trousers, sun creeping higher, warming my face 'til the chill faded. My breathing stayed steady, in and out, chest rising like a bellows, and that ember flowed, little sparks crackling through me, waking up bits I hadn't felt since I was twelve the first time. Not enough to hurl fireballs or scare the chickens—shit, I'd probably set my own hair on fire if I tried—but enough to feel something. A start. Strength I could build on, maybe enough to haul Ma outta this dirt-pit village before the bad shit rolled in.

I finally cracked my eyes open, blinking against the light—midday now, sun high and smug overhead—and there she was. 

'…..Amelia.'

 Right in front of me, sitting cross-legged in the grass, maybe three feet away, staring like I'd grown horns again. Her pigtails were lopsided, one drooping lower than the other, and those green eyes were locked on me, wide and weird, like she'd caught me picking my nose or something.

"Fuck—'Melia!" I yelped, voice cracking halfway through—goddamn puberty—and I jerked back, nearly toppling over. My heart slammed into my ribs, ember still buzzing in my veins, making my fingers twitch. "How long you been there…?"