A Background Character's Path to Power-Chapter 78: His Mother’s Little Knight

Aeron took the sandwich with trembling hands. He opened his mouth—

Bite.

"I—"

Chew. Swallow.

"Am—"

Bite.

My lips twitched.

At this rate, we’ll hear your story by next week.

"Just eat first," I said, tossing him another sandwich. "Then talk."

Aeron paused, a crumb clinging to his lower lip. For a second, I thought he’d argue—but then he nodded stiffly and devoured the next sandwich in three ravenous bites.

What followed was a spectacle.

Five sandwiches disappeared in under a minute and a half. Aeron ate like a man who’d forgotten food existed, barely pausing to breathe.

He hesitated at the sixth, fingers hovering over the last one before nudging it toward me with the solemnity of a knight offering his sword.

So you were starving, I mused, chuckling inwardly. Guess I’ll warn someone to stock up on snacks later.

As I chewed my own sandwich, Aeron straightened, his fingers brushing through his tangled hair. He adjusted his wrinkled collar, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and—with visible effort—lifted his chin.

The transformation was almost comical: from tragic hermit to vaguely presentable protagonist in thirty seconds flat.

Huh. Guess my insults about his looks hit harder than I thought.

Finally, Aeron took a shuddering breath, his hands settling on his knees. The waterfall’s roar filled the silence as he stared at his reflection in the pond. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear.

"...I am a bastard son of the Dunsmere House."

The words hung between us, heavy with years of buried resentment. Aeron’s fingers dug into his knees, his nails leaving crescent marks in the fabric of his trousers.

"My mother was a maid," he continued, his voice flattening into something dangerously calm. "My father never recognized her as his wife. Not even as a concubine." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "To him, I wasn’t blood—just a nuisance. A stain on his perfect noble lineage. He called me ’a mistake’ when he bothered to remember I existed at all."

He looked up slightly, jaw tight.

"And I don’t recognize him as a father either. Never."

I remained silent, chewing slowly.

The story was cliché—the kind of tragic backstory you’d find in any dime-store novel. But clichés became clichés for a reason.

And in reality, stripped of dramatic embellishments, it was just cruel. And unbearably sad.

Aeron’s reflection rippled as he leaned forward. "But it was my mother who suffered the most." His voice cracked on the last word. "His wives, his legitimate children—they never missed a chance to humiliate us. The other servants followed their lead."

"They’d ’accidentally’ spill boiling water on her hands. ’Forget’ to give us meals for days." His breath hitched. "As a child, I could do nothing but watch."

"...I was six the first time I came home to find her crying in bed. She wiped her face the moment she saw me and said... ’Aeron, sweetheart, you’re back early from your lessons!’"

His imitation of her cheerful tone made my chest tighten.

For once, I stayed silent.

Just listening as his story poured out like blood from a reopened wound.

A maple leaf drifted down, landing between us like a bloodstain on the rock. Aeron stared at it, his eyes glazing over with memory.

"...It hurt. But no matter what they did, my mother would always smile." His fingers brushed the leaf gently, almost reverently. "She’d hide her burns under long sleeves. Tell me stories when our stomachs growled with hunger. Say that as long as I was happy, she would be the happiest mother in the world..."

His throat worked, barely able to push the words out.

"When they made her scrub the banquet hall floors on her knees, she’d come home singing about how clean everything looked. When winter came and they ’forgot’ to give us firewood, she’d bundle us together under every rag we owned and tell stories about summer meadows."

I clenched my fists.

"All while her fingers turned blue."

He closed his eyes.

"And then I promised her."

"...I promised myself."

His whisper was barely audible over the waterfall.

"I told her and myself that I’d become a great knight, buy her a house with proper heating, make those who hurt her kneel and apologize." A hollow laugh escaped him. "She’d just kiss my forehead and say... ’My sweet boy is all the recognition I need.’"

"..."

"She was the strongest person I knew."

His voice trailed off, fingers curling into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. Fresh blood welled up, dripping onto the rocks below like scattered rubies.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the waterfall—its steady roar filling the silence where words should have been.

Then, so quiet I almost missed it:

"...And then, one encounter changed everything."

His shoulders tensed, bracing himself.

"It all started at that lake."

"My secret place."

A shaky breath.

"I would go there every day after my... ’lessons.’" His mouth twisted around the word. "Behind the castle, hidden in the forest garden. It was the only place they wouldn’t follow me to mock my wooden sword forms."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face—the echo of a child’s stubborn pride.

"I’d tell my reflection all the things I couldn’t say out loud. How much I hated them. How badly I wanted to be stronger. How one day..." His voice cracked. "...One day I’d make Mother smile without pain behind it."

I could almost see him—small, determined, bruised but unbeaten.

"But for that to happen, I obviously needed to get stronger."

"So I’d hide in the bushes and watch the swordmaster train my... so-called siblings." The word dripped with old bitterness. "Then I’d try to copy the moves alone. Stance all wrong. Grip too tight. Falling on my ass more often than not."

His calloused fingers mimed an awkward child’s grip on an imaginary sword.

"Eight years old and stubborn as hell. I’d fail a hundred times, then cheer when I finally got one tiny thing right." The smile turned fragile. "I’d run home covered in bruises and leaves, bragging to Mother that I’d protect her someday."

Aeron’s throat worked as he stared at his reflection.

"She’d wipe the dirt off my face and say..." His voice broke momentarily. "’My brave little knight. But don’t push yourself too hard.’"

"...Always worrying about me. Never herself."

The maple leaves above us rustled, though there was no wind.

"Then one evening, when the sunset turned the lake to liquid gold..."

His entire body tensed.

"I was practicing a particularly stupid spinning move I’d seen the swordmaster demonstrate. Fell flat on my face, of course." A humorless chuckle. "When I looked up..."

A visible shudder ran through him.

"...I saw her."

His whisper was barely audible.

"..."

"She was standing on the water."

His whisper was hushed, reverent—the voice of an eight-year-old boy seeing magic for the first time.

"Not floating. Not wading. Standing on it like it was solid ground, her silver robes rippling around her ankles without getting wet." His pupils dilated, reflecting phantom moonlight. "And she was smiling at me. Not the sharp, mocking smiles I was used to. But... gentle."

"...Just like my mother."