She sat on a small wooden bench, draped in a plain robe that barely hid the weight she had lost. Her back was straight, her hands folded calmly in her lap, but the faint tremble in her fingers betrayed her. Her once-lustrous hair was tied back loosely, silver strands glinting at the edges, and her face was pale, thinner than he remembered, yet her presence, her grace, hadn't faded. When she looked up and met his eyes, the world around them fell silent.
"Rowan?" she breathed, her voice fragile, wavering between disbelief and hope.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He ran to her. She caught him in her arms, nearly staggering under the weight of his embrace, and though her hands trembled, they wrapped around him with a desperate strength, as though anchoring herself to reality. He buried his face in her shoulder, clutching her like she might vanish at any second.
"I missed you," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.
She pressed her forehead gently to his, her breath warm and unsteady. "I missed you more."
For a long while, they stood there motionless, lost in a fragile moment that neither of them dared disturb. As if by holding on tightly enough, they could pause time itself. For a few precious minutes, the prison walls disappeared. There was no war. No captivity. Only a mother and her son, reunited at last.
When they finally sat down again, Rowan took a proper look at her, and his heart clenched. Her cheeks were hollow, the skin beneath her eyes dark and bruised with exhaustion, and her frame seemed more fragile than he had ever imagined it could be, as if a strong breeze might carry her away. And yet she smiled, that same warm, comforting smile he remembered from childhood.
"You look… tired," he said quietly. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she replied, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with a trembling hand. "A little weaker, perhaps. But nothing I can't handle."
"What about your illness?" he asked, leaning closer. "Are they treating you properly? Are they giving you medicine, food… anything?"
She nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "Yes. They do what they can. They won't let their hostage die from something as mundane as illness."
Rowan lowered his eyes, guilt rising like bile in his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't stop this. I wasn't strong enough. I failed you."
"You don't need to carry that weight," she said, her voice gaining an edge of firmness. "You're just a child, Rowan. None of this is your fault. You were never meant to bear such a burden. You've done more than anyone could have asked of you."
His jaw tightened, tears burning in his eyes. "I'll find a way to get you out of here," he vowed. "I don't care how long it takes. Just give me a little more time… I'll become strong enough. I promise."
She smiled then, a soft, trembling expression that was both proud and unbearably sad. "I believe you," she whispered. "You always did keep your promises, even when you were little."
Time passed unnoticed as they talked. For the first time in what felt like forever, laughter—small and quiet—echoed in the cell. Rowan told her about his progress, how he had reached the Disciple stage. Her eyes lit up in surprise, the pride in them unmistakable.
"Looks like my child truly has the talent of a knight," she said with a soft chuckle. "You're progressing so fast. I'm proud of you, Rowan. One day, you'll be the best knight this world has ever seen."
But when he spoke of Reene, when he finally allowed himself to say the name aloud, her joy dimmed. Her expression cracked, her fingers curling into the folds of her robe.
"She… she died because of me," she whispered. "Because they wanted to use me. I never wanted that. Not for her. Not for anyone."
A heavy silence fell between them until Rowan reached out, but it was she who cupped his cheek first. Her touch was gentle, a ghost of comfort from days long past, and her thumb brushed his skin like it was trying to remember the shape of him.
"Rowan… I need you to promise me something."
He nodded, lips pressed together. "What is it?"
"Don't push yourself too hard," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not for me. Not like this. I know how badly you want to be strong, but strength means nothing if it breaks you. Once the war ends, once the world calms down, please, just live. Let yourself be free. You've endured enough."
"I will," he said softly. "I'll live. And I'll bring you home."
A knock echoed through the cell door. Time was up. Rowan stood slowly, every part of him protesting the motion. He didn't want to leave. Not now. Not after finally meeting her.
"I'll come again soon," he promised.
She rose to her feet, slower than before. "I'll be waiting."
Their final hug was longer. Tighter. Fiercer. She whispered into his ear, "Don't look back, Rowan. Not yet. Keep moving forward. Always." He nodded into her shoulder, clinging to her warmth. She held him like she used to when he had nightmares as a child, her voice calm, her body trembling. He never saw the tears that slipped down her face. She wouldn't let him. Not while he still needed hope.
When she let go, she smiled again, that same smile that used to lull him to sleep and convince him that the world wasn't so scary.
"I'll see you soon," he said.
"Yes," she replied, voice barely audible. "Soon."
He turned and walked away, refusing to look back. She watched him disappear, her eyes memorizing every detail of his silhouette. Only when he was gone did her smile fall. Only then did she allow herself to cry. She clenched her hands against her robe, her body shaking silently. A mother's grief, not for herself, but for the child she would eventually leave behind. She couldn't bear the thought of him facing the world alone. But for his sake, for his future, she would keep enduring. Even if it broke her a thousand times over.
The days that followed their reunion were different. Rowan still trained, still woke before dawn and pushed himself until his arms trembled and his breath burned in his lungs. But there was a faint steadiness to him now. A fragile hope. His mother was fine. She had held him. Smiled at him. Promised that she would be fine. He clung to that.
Every time he heard footsteps outside his door, he would glance up, hoping. Perhaps the guards had come again to take him to meet her. And then one day, they did come.
Three weeks had passed since he last saw her. Rowan opened the door before they could even knock properly, his heart racing. But the guard who stood there was not the one he remembered. And his face was wrong. Too blank. Too cold.
"What is it?" Rowan asked, already uneasy. "Are you here to take me to her again?"
The guard didn't answer right away. He looked away, then back at Rowan with stiff detachment.
"Your mother has passed," he said. "She died in her cell last night because of her illness."
Silence. The words hit like a hammer, dull and distant at first. Rowan blinked. Then blinked again.
"No," he said.
The guard didn't speak.
"You're lying," Rowan said, stepping forward, his voice rising. "Take me to her. Let me see her."
"Orders are to inform you only," the guard said firmly.
"I said TAKE ME TO HER!" His voice cracked, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. And then something inside him broke.
He lunged. A punch, wild, furious, grief-driven, slammed into the guard's chest. But the man didn't even stumble. With a single, brutal shove, the guard sent Rowan flying. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding in his ribs as he slid across the stone.
His breath caught. The world spun.
The guards turned away. "You've been informed," one of them said coldly, already walking down the hall.
The door shut behind them.
Rowan didn't move. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide, unblinking.
She was gone. Just like that. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye. His fists scraped the stone floor, his knuckles bleeding, but he didn't feel it. Couldn't.
His mother had died alone. And he hadn't been there. Not to hold her hand. Not to comfort her. The promise he made had come too late.
And now the world had lost its color. She was gone. And everything inside him shattered.