His mother's smile deepened, her eyes softening. "No," she said quietly. "You've changed. You carry yourself differently now. There's weight in your voice—even when you're calm. People listen."
Asher glanced toward the distant street where his family had gone, the noise of the market rising like a living current. "Maybe that's what happens when you spend too long in battlefields," he murmured. "You learn how to keep people together… even when everything's falling apart."
She studied him for a long moment, then reached up and brushed his hair back gently—an almost nostalgic gesture. "You're doing well," she said simply. "Your father would've been proud."
He paused at that, the faintest flicker passing through his eyes—something between memory and silence. "I hope so," he said at last, his voice low but steady.
