I was lying on Amara's lap, limbs tangled like a little kid, even though—I'm totally not a little kid anymore. I mean, c'mon, I'm eleven! But... I didn't really mind right now.
The moon hung outside our window, glowing like it knew all my secrets. A soft breeze wandered in, playing with the curtains and brushing against my cheeks like it was trying to eavesdrop. Everything felt still. Sacred, even.
My eyes drifted across the room. Home. Worn-out furniture with stubborn creaks, old tapestries that smelled like history and cinnamon—it wasn't fancy, but it was safe.
Mother's fingers moved gently through my hair, weaving it into one of those fancy braids she always did when she was in a soft mood. Every little tug felt like a whisper. Like she was saying, I'm here. You're okay.
Nights like these didn't happen often. Not when she had to play chief, warrior, and the terrifying lady who yelled at the village guards for slacking. But tonight? Tonight, she was just Mother. Just... my mother.
Outside, the village was quiet. A few murmurs of life in the distance, but mostly just the hush of night wrapping around us like a blanket. The silence felt thick. Not heavy, exactly, but like something invisible was breathing in it. Waiting.
"U-umm... Mother?" I whispered, my voice doing that weird wobbly thing again. My fingers twisted the edge of my sleeve, a nervous habit I never could shake.
She hummed, still braiding. That sound was warm and steady, like tea after a storm.
"I... I've b-been meaning to ask you something..." My voice dropped to a mouse-whisper.
Mother paused. Her smile spread slowly, soft like honey melting on warm bread. She tied off the braid with her usual perfect knot and gently lifted my chin so I'd look at her. Her eyes were so unfair—warm, steady, and strong, like they could melt steel but still hold you without letting you fall.
"Hmm? And what is it, my wonderful little daughter?" she asked.
Before I could reply, she pulled me into her arms. My head landed against her chest, right where her heart beat loud and steady.
My face went blast furnace red. "I-I'm eleven, Mother," I muttered, half grumbling, half hiding a smile. "I-I should be treated like an adult!"
She laughed, and even the lantern flickered like it was in on the joke. "Well, you're not an adult just yet, little one. Not until you've reached your full maturity."
I puffed my cheeks in protest. "Yeah, right! Well, I don't see any actual adults beating up four bandits on their own!"
Without warning, I jumped up onto the chair, standing tall like some kind of warrior queen. Okay—maybe I was still shorter than the ladder... but hey, confidence counts!
Mother chuckled; calm and sweet, then reached out and gently guided me back down like I was made of feathers. Her hands landed on my shoulders—warm, always warm.
"That was merely luck, my dear," she said, leaning back against the couch with a thoughtful sigh. "If you were to meet them again, I doubt you'd be able to do the same thing."
I crossed my arms, lifting my chin high like a sword hilt. "Don't worry, Mother. If those bandits are smart, they'll never come back. Not unless they want round two—with extra bruises."
It happened a few weeks ago—those creeps sneaking past the gates thinking we were some easy target. But fate—or, you know, me—had different plans. They expected a scared, helpless kid.
Instead, they got Kaya Ashworth. Topaz-eyed fury incarnate.
Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic. But still—I sent them running like wet cats, magic and all.
I chuckled to myself at the memory. Then... something tightened in my chest. I wished—just for a second—that Dad could've seen it. He would've cheered the loudest.
My grin faded, just a little. That ache came back, quiet and sharp.
Mother must've felt it too. She squeezed my hands gently. "I hope what you say is true, dear," she said. Her smile returned, soft but distant, like she was trying to hide something behind it. Something heavy.
I leaned into her, wrapping my arms around her and pressing my face into the crook of her neck. She was warm. She was safe. She was everything that kept the shadows from creeping too far in.
"So," she said quietly, "what was it you wanted to ask, my little star?"
I pulled back, heart thudding like a drum in my chest. "When I... become an adult, as you say," I whispered, "will I be as strong as Dad?"
For a moment, her smile faltered. Just a flicker. Like the lantern flame caught a draft and almost went out. And in that moment, I felt it. That weird pressure in my stomach. The kind of silence that isn't really silent at all.
Just like that, the shadow in her eyes faded, and that familiar spark returned to my mother's smile. But it wasn't the same—it was softer now, quieter, like a lullaby you didn't know you needed until it hit you.
"So, you do agree that you're not an adult just yet?" she teased, and ughhh that tone. All light and teasing and mother-knows-best.
I could feel my face heating up like someone set a fire beneath my skin. "I NEVER SAID THAT!!!" I yelped, throwing my hands over my face like a shield, my voice all muffled but still brave in the way kids think they're being brave.
She laughed. Not just any laugh, though—my mother's laugh was this gentle melody, like the world had suddenly decided to be kind. And then, just like the wind shifting, her voice got serious again.
"Yes, if you work hard enough, you might even become stronger than him."
My heart skipped. Stronger than him? The thought made my eyes sparkle—like, literally. "You really think so?" I asked, and yeah, I sounded breathless. Wonderstruck. A little scared, even.
She nodded. So calm. So sure. "Of course. With enough training, you will become the perfect leader. In fact, when you come of age, you'll be the chief of this village."
The words hit me like a thousand lanterns lifting into the sky. Me? Chief? My whole body lit up with this warm, wild joy and I jumped—literally bounced around the room, limbs everywhere—before I flung myself into her arms with zero warning.
"I love you, Mother, and I truly hope you will be with me forever," I whispered into her shoulder, my voice all sticky with love and that weird achey joy that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
She smiled against my hair—this kind of deep, glowing smile that didn't come from embarrassment or politeness or anything shallow. No, this was one of those smiles that felt like home. Her arms wrapped around me tighter, and in that moment, I felt like I was wrapped in the safest blanket in the universe.
"Don't worry, my little star," she said, her voice low and certain, like a promise etched into the night. "Your time will come. But until then, you'll need to work hard. Everything in its own time."
I nodded against her, my lips curving into a smile so wide it actually hurt. "I will," I promised. No hesitation. Just the stubborn fire in my chest and the love that made everything else feel tiny.
And for a second—just a heartbeat of a moment—I let myself fall. Like, really fall into it. Her arms. Her warmth. The smell of lilacs and late spring and something sweet I could never name. This was the kind of moment I wished I could freeze, bottle up, and carry around for the rest of my life.
The kind you hold tight to when the world gets loud.