The God of Nothing.-Chapter 14: A Mother’s Resolve

The scent of roasted meat filled the air, rich and intoxicating

Flames crackled, licking at the skewered cuts of venison, turning slowly over the fire.

Tankards clanked together, laughter rumbled from deep-chested men, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the tension that usually hung over the Stormont estate seemed to fade—if only for one night.

Caelith stood at the edge of the gathering, watching the guards laugh and drink, their voices loud and uninhibited.

He had spent months among them, enduring their jeers, tests of strength, and harsh lessons, but tonight, there was no mockery.

Tonight, they called his name with something dangerously close to respect.

"Come on, Stubborn Bastard, drink!" one of the older guards, a burly man named Garrik, bellowed, shoving a tankard toward him.

"You earned it, didn't you?"

Caelith smirked, pushing it away. "Not much of a drinker."

Garrik scoffed. "A man who fights like you and doesn't drink? What a waste!"

"Give him some time," another guard chimed in. "He's still just a pup. You don't waste ale on pups!"

The group roared with laughter, and Caelith shook his head, amused despite himself.

He wasn't sure when things had changed—when the sneers had turned to grins, when the disdain had morphed into camaraderie—but he wasn't going to question it tonight.

He let himself enjoy it.

The firelight danced in their eyes, glinting off armor, highlighting old scars and fresh wounds alike. It was a gathering of warriors, of men who lived by their blades and their bonds, and for the first time, Caelith felt like he belonged.

"You should be proud," Kaden's calm and measured voice came from behind him.

Caelith turned to find his mentor leaning against a tree, arms crossed, watching the festivities with a faint smirk.

"Not bad for a bastard with no mana, hm?" Kaden remarked.

Caelith exhaled, rolling his shoulder. "I think Vaerin might disagree."

Kaden let out a low chuckle.

"Oh, he definitely disagrees. Which makes this even better."

The two of them stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the flames flicker.

Then, Caelith shifted. "I should go."

Kaden arched a brow. "And miss the best part of the night? The part where Garrik gets too drunk and falls into the fire?"

Caelith huffed a laugh. "Tempting. But I have someone waiting."

Kaden's smirk faded slightly, replaced by something unreadable. He didn't question it, merely nodded. "Then don't keep her waiting."

Caelith slipped away from the gathering, stepping into the cool night air, away from the fire's warmth. The walk back to his quarters was quiet, the echoes of laughter growing fainter with every step.

When Caelith approached the cramped door of their quarters.

The faint scent of herbs and something softly floral drifted toward him, unfamiliar but comforting. For a moment, he paused, hand resting lightly against the splintered wood of the door, wondering at the unexpected fragrance.

He pushed the door open slowly.

Inside, the small room was dimly lit by a single, stolen candle.

The flame danced unsteadily, casting distorted shadows across the cracked walls and worn floorboards.

His mother sat hunched at their tiny, rickety table, hands working quietly over a ceramic bowl. Her movements were careful and precise as she mixed a thick, honey-coloured salve, occasionally pausing to brush back a stray lock of raven-black hair from her weary but gentle face.

She looked up sharply as he entered, and her blue eyes immediately scanned him for injuries. Caelith watched as relief, quickly chased by quiet concern, softened her features.

"You're back," she whispered, her voice laced with exhaustion and worry.

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He gave a slight nod, stepping further into the cramped room. "Yeah."

Her gaze sharpened instantly, tracing over every bruise and scrape visible on his face and arms. Her lips pressed together, forming a thin line. She motioned toward the small wooden stool next to her.

"Sit down," she instructed softly, already reaching toward a neatly folded strip of cloth beside her.

Caelith hesitated, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "I just walked in—"

She cut him off gently, her tone firm.

"Exactly. Sit."

He sighed quietly, recognizing the stubborn glint in her azure eyes.

With slow movements, he lowered himself onto the stool.

Feeling its uneven legs wobble beneath his weight.

She dipped two fingers into the salve and began gently applying it to his bruises, her fingertips cool and soothing against his battered skin.

The scent from the bowl rose between them, floral with a hint of medicinal bitterness. Caelith watched her, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

"What is that?" he asked softly.

"A remedy," she answered without looking up, her concentration never wavering as she applied more of the mixture. He felt its coolness seep slowly into his skin, numbing the dull ache that had become his constant companion.

He tilted his head, quietly watching her work. "You've been practicing."

She nodded faintly, her eyes never leaving the injuries she carefully tended. "I had to."

He caught the undertone in her voice, the quiet but unmistakable determination hidden beneath her gentle manner.

It was well understood by caelith. He fought to protect her, while she had found her own way to protect him, quiet and subtle, through knowledge and skill rather than force.

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional scrape of her spoon against the ceramic bowl.

Her fingers moved carefully, avoiding causing him unnecessary pain.

Yet beneath his mother's soft touch, Caelith felt a firm resolve. It was something familiar—a strength born of quiet determination.

"You shouldn't have to do this," he murmured.

She paused briefly, her fingers hovering in midair. "Neither should you."

"But it's different for me," he said quietly. "I'm supposed to get hurt."

"No," she whispered sharply, her gaze finally rising to meet his. Her eyes blazed with quiet intensity, unyielding despite the exhaustion etched deeply into her face.

"No one deserves this, Caelith. Especially not you."

He remained silent, feeling the weight of her words settle in his chest.

She was right, he knew. Yet their reality was what it was—a cramped room in the peasant quarters, battered bodies hidden beneath patched clothing, bruises concealed behind stolen salves and carefully kept secrets.

Her hands stilled, and a weary smile tugged at her lips. "Try moving your arm. Does it feel better?"

Caelith flexed his muscles experimentally, noticing the immediate ease in the previously stiff joints. He nodded appreciatively.

"It helps."

His mother offered him a gentle, relieved smile, her exhaustion momentarily easing. "It's not perfect yet. I'm still missing some ingredients. But soon, I'll be able to make something even better."

She drained the remaining liquid into a silk pouch and tied it at the top before handing it to Caelith, tucking it into his pants.

Then, she placed the jar on their shelf, along with a handful of battered books and makeshift medicine.

She turned back toward him, expression softening. There was pride in her eyes, a sense of purpose that seemed to lift the shadows from her face.

For a brief moment, as they sat together in their cramped quarters—the walls cracked, the floor warped with age—Caelith felt something stir within him.

It wasn't resignation or despair but a flicker of warmth.

He realized that no matter how bleak their surroundings, no matter how oppressive the walls of the Stormont estate seemed, his mother had managed to create a tiny sanctuary.

Not a grand home, not even a comfortable one, but still something more valuable—a place where, for a fleeting moment, he felt safe.

Caelith reached out, hesitating briefly before gently resting his hand atop hers. Her fingers paused, stilling in surprise. Then she squeezed his hand gently, the calloused skin of her palm warm and comforting.

"It's late. Get some rest," she whispered softly.

He nodded again, rising slowly from the stool, his muscles stiff and weary. He moved toward the straw mattress in the corner, its surface thin and barely offering any respite, but tonight, it seemed less uncomfortable than usual.

As he laid there, eyes closing slowly, Caelith listened to the soft rustle of his mother tidying the table. He heard her gentle humming, a quiet lullaby she'd often sung to him when he was younger, before things had gotten this bad.

It filled him with quiet resolve, reminding him exactly why he needed to grow stronger.

And yet, he couldn't shake the lingering unease—a whisper in the back of his mind.

His mother's strength was admirable, but her eyes revealed a quiet desperation she'd never voice aloud. How long could she continue like this?

How long before the bruises became too numerous, too dark, to hide beneath salves and sleeves?

His eyelids grew heavier, sleep tugging at him insistently. But just before exhaustion claimed him entirely, a thought crystallized in his mind:

He needed power—not only for himself, but for her. He would not fail again. No matter the cost.

Sleep claimed him then, the darkness closing gently around him, yet tonight, strangely, it felt less empty.

Because for the first time in years, he felt a quiet, unwavering determination shared between mother and son, holding them both upright against the weight of their world.

And perhaps, for now, that was enough.