Chapter 11: The Source
The road to Fidera was softer than I remembered. The carriage wheels churned through packed earth instead of the stone roads that surrounded Castle Valdrake, and the landscape opened into rolling fields of barley and wheat, green and gold beneath a wide summer sky. I pressed my palm to the window, watching the familiar contours of the land return to me like a half-remembered dream.
Acelor slept against my chest, swaddled in pale blue silk, his small face peaceful. He had his father's brow, the faint suggestion of horns already budding at his temples, and his skin held that same pale green tint that marked him as dragon-touched. But his eyes, when they opened, were mine. Wide and soft, the color of warm honey.
Draven sat across from me, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. He was two years old now, but he looked like a child of six, his limbs growing long and restless. The wings on his back had unfurled fully, small leathery flaps that he kept folded against his spine, and his horns had grown to the length of my fingers. He was beautiful, and he was impatient.
"Mama, is it far?" he asked, his voice high and clear, the words perfectly formed. He had begun speaking in full sentences six months ago, startling everyone except Raevor, who had simply nodded as though he had expected nothing less.
"Soon, little one." I shifted Acelor to my other arm, wincing at the ache in my shoulder. "The village lies just beyond those hills."
Draven pressed his face to the window, his green eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it like the castle?"
"No." I smiled. "It is smaller. Humble. But it is where I grew up."
Raevor had wanted to come. He had stood in the courtyard, his massive frame casting a shadow over the carriage, and told me he would lead the escort himself. But I had placed my hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the scales, and told him this was something I needed to do alone.
"Your mother will want to see her grandsons," he had said.
"She will," I agreed. "But if you are there, she will be too afraid to speak. She was frightened of the lord who took her son. She needs to see me first. To recognize me."
He had not argued. Instead, he had kissed me, long and deep, and placed a pouch of gold coins in my hand. "For her. For the village. Whatever they need."
I had tucked the pouch into my bodice, feeling its weight against my heart.
The carriage crested the final hill, and I saw it. Fidera. My village. The cluster of thatched roofs, the wooden fences, the crooked steeple of the little chapel. It looked smaller than I remembered, poorer, grayer. But it was home.
"Mama, look!" Draven pressed against the window. "The people!"
They had gathered along the road, a crowd of familiar faces I had not seen in three years. They were dressed in their finest, the women in clean aprons, the men with their hair combed, the children scrubbed and wide-eyed. Someone had hung garlands of wildflowers from the gateposts, and the village chief stood at the front, his silver beard neatly trimmed, his hands clasped before him.
They were ready for the lady. The lady who had married their lord. They did not know she had once been their neighbor's son.
My throat tightened. I smoothed the skirts of my gown, a deep rose silk that Helena had insisted on, cut to accentuate the curve of my hips and the fullness of my bodice. My hair had been styled in an elaborate arrangement of braids and curls, fixed with pearl pins, and a light veil trailed from the back of my headdress. The locket my mother had given me hung at my throat, a small piece of my old life against the fine fabric of my new one.
The carriage slowed, then stopped. A footman opened the door, offering his hand. I adjusted Acelor in my arms, took a breath, and stepped out into the sunlight.
The village fell silent.
The chief stepped forward, his eyes flickering over my gown, my jewelry, the silver locket. He bowed low. "My lady Valdrake. We are honored by your visit. If there is anything the village can provide, anything at all, you have only to ask."
I inclined my head, the gesture I had learned from Helena. "Your welcome is generous, Chief Alden. I have come to visit kin. I will not be a burden."
His brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. "Kin, my lady? We have no noble families here."
"I know," I said softly.
I did not wait for his response. I cradled Acelor against my chest, took Draven's hand, and walked past the crowd, past the curious stares and the whispered speculations, down the familiar dirt path that led to the small house at the edge of the village. The house with the crooked chimney and the garden of herbs that my mother had tended for as long as I could remember.
The door was open. She was there, standing in the threshold, her hands folded in her apron, her gray hair pulled back in a bun. She looked older than I remembered, thinner, the lines on her face deeper. She looked at me, at my gown and my veil and the child in my arms, and she bowed.
"My lady. I am honored." Her voice was small, uncertain. "Would you like some water? Some bread? I have little, but—"
"Mother, it's me."
The word came out cracked, raw. I felt tears burning in my eyes.
She froze. Her head lifted slowly, her gaze meeting mine for the first time. I saw the confusion in her face, the disbelief, the dawning recognition that clawed its way through the years of distance.
"Avery?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
I nodded, and the tears spilled over, tracking down my cheeks. "It's me. Mom, it's me."
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes traveling over my face, my hair, my body. I saw her take in the softness of my jaw, the fullness of my chest, the curve of my hips. I saw her struggle to reconcile the son she had lost with the lady standing before her.
Then she was moving, crossing the distance between us, and her arms closed around me, crushing Acelor between us. The baby stirred but did not cry. Draven pressed against my skirts, peering up at his grandmother with curious green eyes.
"My boy," she sobbed. "My sweet boy. I thought I would never see you again. I thought they had taken you somewhere I could never reach."
"I'm here, mother." I held her tight, feeling her tremble against me. "I'm here."
We stood there for a long moment, the door open, the village watching from a distance. I did not care. Let them see. Let them know. I was no longer the boy they had mocked, but I was still her son.
Finally, she pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked down at Acelor, at his pale green skin and the tiny horns at his temples, and her breath caught.
"This is...?"
"Your grandson," I said. "His name is Acelor. And this one—" I nudged Draven forward, "—is Draven. He's two years old."
My mother stared at them, at these small creatures of dragon blood, and I saw the wonder in her face. She reached out, hesitant, and touched Draven's cheek. He did not flinch. Instead, he smiled, a gap-toothed grin that was all mine.
"Grandmother," he said, the word clear and bright.
Her eyes filled with tears again. "Oh, Avery. Oh, my boy. What happened to you?"
I looked down at myself, at the gown and the jewels and the softness of my body. "A lot," I said quietly. "Come inside. I'll tell you everything."
The cottage smelled of herbs and woodsmoke, the familiar scents wrapping around me like a blanket. My mother guided me to the worn wooden table where I had eaten every meal of my childhood, and I sank onto the bench, Acelor still nestled in my arms. Draven climbed up beside me, his small fingers tracing the grain of the wood with fascination.
Mother bustled about, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of decades. She set a kettle on the fire, laid out bread and cheese and a small pot of honey, the best she had. She did not speak, not at first, her back to me as she worked. I watched her shoulders tremble.
"Mother, sit with me. Please."
She turned, and her face was wet with tears she had not bothered to wipe away. She crossed to the table and sat across from me, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white.
"Tell me," she said. "Tell me what they did to you."
I told her. I kept it simple, the way she had always told me stories when I was small, in words that a mother could understand. I told her about the castle, about the gowns and the corsets, about being called Madam Avery. I told her about the plague that had killed the female dragons, and the ancient theory that a human man might carry their child. I told her about Raevor, about how the cold lord had become something else, something warm. I told her about the wedding, about the pregnancy, about Draven's birth in a room full of candlelight and wonder.
She listened without interrupting, her eyes fixed on my face. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"Are you happy?" she asked finally.
It was the only question that mattered. From anyone else, I might have hesitated. But from her, the answer came easily.
"Yes. I am."
She reached across the table and took my hand, her fingers rough and calloused against my soft skin. "Then that is enough. That is all I ever wanted for you, Avery. A life where you were not mocked. A life where you were loved."
The tears came again, and I let them fall. Acelor stirred in my arms, his small face scrunching, and my mother leaned forward to look at him properly. She touched the tiny buds of horns at his temples, traced the faint scales along his shoulders.
"He is beautiful," she breathed. "Like his mother."
I laughed, a wet, startled sound. "He has his father's coloring."
"He has your softness," she said. "Your gentleness. I can see it in his face." She looked at Draven, who had grown bored of the table and was exploring the cottage, peering into the corners and cupboards with wide-eyed curiosity. "And this one. He is all dragon."
"He is," I agreed. "But he is also mine."
Draven found a wooden toy, a carved horse my father had made for me when I was small. He picked it up, turning it over in his small hands, then looked at me with those bright green eyes. "Mama, what is this?"
"Your grandfather made that," I said. "He made it for me, when I was your age."
Draven clutched it to his chest, his wings fluttering with excitement. "Grandfather. I have a grandfather?"
"You did," I said softly. "He went to the sky before you were born. But he would have loved you very much."
Mother made tea, and we sat together as the afternoon wore on. I told her about the royal physicians, about the report they had written, about the other young men who might follow in my path. She listened, her face troubled but not afraid.
"And the lord treats you well?" she asked again, needing the reassurance.
"He loves me," I said. "He calls me beautiful. He holds our son while I sleep. He would burn the world for us."
She nodded slowly. "Then he is worthy of you."
---
The village looked different when I stepped outside. The same crooked houses, the same dusty paths, but the light had changed, golden and low, and the people had come out of their homes. They stood in clusters, watching me with a wariness that I understood. I had been one of them once. Now I was something else entirely.
Finn was the first to approach. He had grown broader in the years since I had seen him, his shoulders thick with farm work, his face weathered by the sun. But his eyes were the same, bright and restless, and they went wide when they saw me.
"Avery." He stopped a few paces away, as if uncertain whether he was allowed closer. "I heard. I mean, I saw the carriage, and everyone said the lady had come, and I didn't believe it, not until I saw you."
"Finn." I smiled, and it felt strange on my face, like wearing a mask I had not used in years. "It's good to see you."
He looked at me, really looked, taking in the gown and the veil and the child in my arms. "You look... you're so different."
"I know."
"It's not bad," he said quickly. "You look beautiful, actually. I just never imagined."
A laugh escaped me, surprising us both. "Neither did I, Finn. Neither did I."
Tobin came next, quieter, his carpenter's hands clasped behind his back. He did not speak at first, just looked at me, and I saw the guilt in his eyes, the same guilt he had carried when they had taken me away.
"You tried to stop them," I said softly. "I remember."
He shook his head. "I didn't do enough."
"You did what you could. That matters."
Draven tugged at my skirt, peering up at the two men with suspicious green eyes. "Mama, who are these people?"
"Old friends," I said. "This is Finn, and this is Tobin. They grew up with me."
Draven considered them for a long moment, then nodded gravely, as if approving of their presence. Finn laughed, a surprised bark of sound.
"He's got your face, Avery. All of it."
"He has his father's temperament," I said dryly.
Tobin crouched, holding out a hand to Draven. "Hello, little lord. I made things. When I was young, I made toys for your mother. Would you like to see?"
Draven's eyes lit up. He looked at me, waiting for permission, and I nodded. He took Tobin's hand and let himself be led toward the carpenter's workshop, chattering about the wooden horse he had found.
Finn watched them go, then looked at me. "You're a mother now. I still can't wrap my head around it."
"Neither can I, sometimes." I shifted Acelor, who had begun to fuss. His mouth opened, searching, and I recognized the hunger in his movements. "Could we... is there somewhere quiet?"
Finn led me to the old mill, empty and still, the waterwheel silent. I settled onto a bale of hay, loosening my bodice with practiced ease. Acelor latched immediately, and I let out a breath.
Finn sat across from me, his back against the wall, his eyes carefully averted. "I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it. For the way I teased you. For the way we all treated you. You didn't deserve that."
"It was a long time ago, Finn."
"It still happened. And I never got to say I was sorry, not really. Not until you were already gone."
I looked at him, at this man who had once been a boy throwing stones and cruel words. He had grown, too, in ways that had nothing to do with his broad shoulders.
"I forgive you," I said. "And I thank you for saying it."
He nodded, and the silence between us felt lighter.
---
The sun was low when the carriage was made ready. I had said my goodbyes to Finn and Tobin, had watched Draven hug his new wooden toys to his chest, had stood with my mother as she looked at the cottage she had called home for forty years.
"It is only a house," she said, her voice steady. "You are my home now."
The villagers gathered again, their faces soft in the evening light. Chief Alden stepped forward, his hands clasped.
"My lady," he said, and there was something new in his voice, something like respect. "We have spoken, the village and I. We know now what you were taken for, and what you have become. We know that the lords will be coming for other boys, boys like you were, soft and gentle and afraid."
I waited.
"I want you to know," he continued, "that we will not hide them. We will not mock them. We will send them with blessings, as we should have sent you."
My throat tightened. "Thank you, Chief Alden."
He bowed. "Your lady mother will be well cared for in your castle, I know. But if she ever wishes to return, she will find her home waiting."
The carriage door opened, and I helped my mother inside. She settled onto the cushioned seat with a small, uncertain look, as if she had never sat on silk before. Draven climbed up beside her, already showing her his new toys, and she smiled, the first true smile I had seen on her face.
I took one last look at Fidera. At the crooked houses and the dusty paths and the memories that had shaped me. Then I stepped into the carriage, and the door closed behind me.
The horses moved, and the village began to recede. Through the window, I watched the people wave, watched the garlands of wildflowers sway in the evening breeze. My mother's hand found mine, warm and rough, and I held it tight.
"I am proud of you," she said softly. "My son. My daughter. My child. I am so proud of you."
I leaned my head against her shoulder, letting my eyes close. Acelor slept against my chest, Draven chattered to his grandmother, and the carriage carried us home.