A Mother’s Touch
"Son... where are you going? I was so worried..."
Those words immobilized Victor. His chest tightened as if invisible shackles held him back. That voice—so soft, shaking with anxiety—was no ordinary voice. He recognized it.
Not from this existence, but from the residual mories he had been left with.
This was the voice of no one else but the most vital woman to Victor Lionheart—the mother of this flesh.
Queen Anna Lionheart.
Her arms held him tight, warm and shaking, as if she was afraid he would disappear the mont she released him. Victor’s breathing was ragged. In his previous life, he had never felt this way. No comforting arms. No mother’s hug. No soft voice filled with anxiety. Only hunger, aloneness, and betrayal.
But now... now his chest pounded out a beat against his ribs as though it wanted to rip itself loose.
Slowly, his trembling hand lifted. His fingers brushed along the smooth fabric of her royal gown, before he dared to wrap his arm around her back. His throat burned, his voice hoarse, cracking with emotion.
"Mo... mom... I’m back."
The word spilled from his lips for the very first ti. And the mont he spoke it, Anna froze.
Her entire body locked rigid, as if bolted by lightning. She receded just far enough to glimpse his face, eyes wide, glimring with incredulity.
Victor saw her at last.
Her loveliness was otherworldly—no, beyond otherworldly. More stunning than any goddess he’d read about, more ideal than Violet, more perfect than any of his forr world’s premier models. Masses of long, flowing purple hair hung down her back like silk, shimring dimly in the dying light. Her eyes were a dramatic violet, burning like fire-polished athysts. Her lips were reddened and full, shining with vitality, her cheekbones sharp yet gentle, her skin porcelain-smooth, shining like moon-whitened ivory. Clothed in a rich, royal gown of dark purple, each fold and glimr proclaid her to be the Queen that she was.
Victor looked at her, unable to blink, searing every feature of her face into his mind. He longed to burn her picture into his very being, to never allow it to be erased.
Then—a touch.
Warm. Soft. Her fingers against his cheek. Victor jerked at the shock of contact, blinking, jolted back from his reverie. He lifted his eyes and looked at hers.
Her purple eyes, glinting with love and concern, pierced him.
Son... why are your eyes wet?" she whispered, her voice husky, cajoling, shaking.
Victor’s breath froze. He hadn’t even noticed. But as she stroked his cheek with her hand, he raised his own shuddering hand, wiping across his face. His palm ca away wet. His chest lurched. Tears. His own tears.
He had not cried in decades. Not when he was beaten. Not when he starved. Not even when he was betrayed and killed. Yet here, in her arms, they fell without his permission.
Anna leaned closer, her brows knitting. "Victor... my son. You’ve lost yourself in thought again. Tell , why are your eyes wet?"
Victor stood still. What could he tell her? That the orphan within him was crying for the first ti in his life? That the heat of a mother’s love was lting all his steel defenses?
He tried to smile, shaking, clumsy. "Mo... mom... nothing. Just dust. It must have entered my eyes."
Her piercing gaze rested on him, suspicious, not believing. But after a mont of long hesitation, she nodded gently, though the anxiety did not dissipate.
"Fine. But... son, promise , no more straying off like this."
A response was even denied him by another voice ringing through the evening—the low, commanding voice that carried power like a knife.
"My love, please... may I pass? I too looked for our son."
Anna spun with a half-sigh, irritation flickering in her eyes. "Ben... you’re too slow. So I went first and located him. Look, our son is right here."
Victor glanced over her shoulder, and his chest tightened once more.
Walking towards them was a man whose appearance was no less imposing. Shoulder-length black locks set off the face of harsh, commanding features—straight brows, cutting jawline, every line carved like stone. His sharp blue eyes glinted with both wisdom and authority, bearing the stamp of a man who had reigned for decades. He dressed in robes of black and gold, their cut lavish but regal, the seal of utter sovereignty.
This was none other but Ben Lionheart. The King. His father.
Behind him marched a phalanx of soldiers, advancing in disciplined ranks. They wore black armor, and each chest bore the emblem of the Lionheart family: a lion’s face, defiant and proud, roaring perpetual defiance. Their helts hid their faces, but the lines of their bodies spoke of brutal training and allegiance. Their swords shone at their belts, reflecting the dying sunlight.
Victor’s throat constricted once more. His family. His blood.
Anna let out a little snort, jabbing her finger at Victor as if she was reprimanding her husband. "See? I said so. You always do it slowly. If you had your way, we would’ve looked till midnight. I was the one who saw him first."
Her voice was edgy, guarding, nearly childlike in its possessiveness.
Ben let the air out slowly, obviously flustered, but didn’t say a word. Rather, a small smile crossed his lips. He was accustod to this—accustod to his wife’s tongue, accustod to her fire. He didn’t struggle against it.
Victor nearly laughed, but caught himself. From the mories he’d inherited, he knew—his mother had always been quick with her tongue, fiercely defendant, particularly of him. It wasn’t disrespect. It wasn’t loyalty. It was just who she was. And his father... tolerated her just the way she was.
Ben’s eyes, though, imdiately changed. His blue eyes focused on Victor with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. In an instant, his body was gone.
Victor didn’t even notice the movent.
The King was a few paces away one instant, in his face the next.
Victor was grabbed around the waist by strong arms, hard but not cruel. His pulse was taken, fingers digging into his wrist, his chest, his neck.
Victor froze, shocked, surprised.
Anna’s eyes flew wide. "Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy? Are you trying to manhandle my son?"
Ben disdained her words entirely, his brows knit together, his piercing eyes raking over Victor’s face as if looking for sothing concealed. His silence was oppressive, weighing on them all.
Victor remained motionless, his heart pounding. He wasn’t frightened—but the unbridled alarm in his father’s actions disturbed him.
For the first ti, he understood... they weren’t rely monarchs. Not rely symbols of power. They were his parents. His family.
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