" What if the princess sees I picked them and scolds you," I admitted honestly, feeling my cheeks flush. "I decided to gather them so they'd live on. And so, I just sort of replanted them and cared for them."
Mom looked at me long and hard. Her gaze held pride, tenderness, and a hint of sadness at the fact that her son had grown up and was thinking about difficult things. She came over and hugged me as simply and tightly as only mothers can. She smelled of dampness, home, and something else—unconditional love.
" Thank you, my sweetie," she said finally, and the whole world fit into those simple words. "For the flowers, for your care, don't worry so much about me. And about yourself too. The main thing is that your heart is in the right place."
She stroked my head, just like she did when I was a child, and I didn't pull away. I may be a nearly grown warrior, preparing to become a knight, but here, in my own home, I'm still her little boy.
At that moment, I realized: this is real magic. Not in mana crystals, not in spells. But in the way a mother's love warms the soul, how simple flowers become a symbol of care, how a crooked ice pot turns into a treasure. When my mother's dirty hands gently touched mine, also stained with water, all the world's sorrow, all the dilemmas of choice seemed distant. Almost unimportant.
Perhaps my useless magic isn't a curse, but a blessing? Perhaps it's precisely because I can't perform miracles with a wave of my hand that I've learned to appreciate miracles that are simple and true?
" Help me plant them," said Mom. "Let them grow and bring us joy every day."
We planted flowers in a rough pot and watered them with the water I'd brought—sweet, reminiscent of mountain springs. The flowers seemed to understand they'd arrived in a home where they'd be loved, and they reached for the sun with renewed vigor.
And I thought: if the princess really sees this, she'll understand that love for a mother only makes a person better. No one can forbid a son from giving flowers to the one who gave him life. There was only this crooked pot, the flowers smelling of earth, and the warmth of my mother's hands. And that was far more real than all the philosophical treatises put together.
Perhaps this is the truth, embodied in a simple ice vessel? My soul felt unexpectedly lighter. At least until the next bout of doubt. For now, it's just us, the flowers, and our small, crooked, but sincere miracle.
After our shared labor—a symbol of patience and love—was completed, I realized my journey wasn't over. A little knight can't linger in the shadows of a workshop, for every moment is a chance to grow stronger.
I stepped out into the courtyard, where the ball became my companion and the sunlight a challenge. The day was blindingly bright, as if the sky itself had decided to test my resolve. In this light, there was no room for doubt—only forward movement.
The sun, that ancient witness of human passions, had barely managed to gild the tops of the pine trees when I stood on the training ground, clutching the hilt of my sword as if the honor of the entire world depended on it. Dust, kicked up by my feet, danced in the slanting morning rays, mingling with my sweat, and it seemed the very air hummed with the strain of my youthful will.