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In the southwestern part of the Ridill Kingdom, a town where Cyril was born, Ashendarte. It was a town with its specialty was weaving since all the women in the town have been taught weaving since they can remember. It was no different with Cyril's mother, as she always sat in front of the loom weaving beautifully patterned cloth using colorful threads.
Although hand weaving had been declining recently with the advent of automatic looms that are powered by water, the ‘Ashend Weaving' of Ascendarte was still very popular among local aristocrats because of its exquisite patterns and vivid colors.
He had not visited his hometown in a long time and the townscape had changed in many ways from Cyril's memory, but hearing the clattering sound of weaving was still the same made him feel awfully nostalgic.
Getting off of the coach, Cyril walked down the nostalgic streets with a travel bag in his hand.
Marquis Highon had offered him to use their carriage for his return to his home, but Cyril politely decline as people can recognize the noble's carriage instantly and it would only make him stand out if it was parked near his parent's house.
His mother does not like to draw attention. Therefore, he didn't wear the clothes Marquis Highon had given him, but he wore plain clothes for traveling.
His appearance–the lustrous platinum blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and gorgeous face–always gave people the impression of a noble, as a result, Cyrils always stand out among the children around him.
Cyril still remembered how it made her mother concerned more than himself.
The look she gave him when looking at his face always looked so frightened, since it always reminded her of her husband. After all, she was afraid that one day Cyril would become good for nothing like his father.
Cyril lowered his hat down as he walked with his gaze down.
He might have used to the neighbors' fear and peculiar gaze directed at him. But that doesn't mean he wants those stares directed at his mother.
＊ ＊ ＊
The house where Cyril grew up remained the same after all these years. Despite all the financial support Cyril's mother received from the Marquis Highon, which should be enough for her to live without working, she still maintains the same lifestyle as she did in the past.
Cyril gulped as he was standing in front of the door. The right hand which was raised to knock on the door stopped abruptly.
What if he opened this door and says, "I'm home"…but his mother replies, "This is not your house anymore, is it?" Such a thought passed through his mind.
"………"
After standing in distress, Cyril eventually settled down to one conclusion.
Yeah, he can just say, ‘It's been a while.' That way, the conversation would flow more naturally. Then, he would first ask how she has been…
"Oh, welcome home."
Cyril almost inadvertently dropped his luggage when he heard a voice behind him.
Turning around awkwardly, he saw his mother standing behind him with a broom in her hand. Apparently, she was cleaning up around the house.
"I-I-I'm ho-home!"
With this, he couldn't laugh at Monica Norton anymore. That was how clumsily his reply sounded.
His mother looked at Cyril somewhat absentmindedly, but she propped the broomstick up against the wall and opened the door to the house.
"It must have been cold. I'll fire up the fireplace now."
"L-Let me do it."
"Is that so? Then, can I ask you to fire up the fireplace?"
His mother was welcoming his arrival. His mother asked him for help as if it was a natural thing to do. Just knowing that fact had made things that burdened his mind relieved and it also made him want to cry.
＊ ＊ ＊
It had been a long time since he visited his parent's house, which had not changed from Cyril's memory as much as its outward appearance.
In the corner of the room lay a loom, the tool she always uses for work, on which multicolored threads drew beautiful and exquisite patterns.
White roses were woven with glossy threads into an ultramarine fabric. The roses themselves were all white, but upon closer inspection, several types of threads with slightly different luster and color were actually woven into the fabric, giving it a three-dimensional impression.
As soon as the fireplace was lit, his mother boiled water to make tea.
"Here's your tea"
"Thank you."
For a person who can't handle a hot drink, the tea at a moderate temperature was sweetened on his tongue. He had loved this taste since he was a child.
Taking another sip, he can feel his chest tightening with nostalgia.
His mother, seated across from him, was drinking her tea in silence, but when the cup was about half empty, she said in a slightly stiff tone.
"How was your school life?"
Cyril straightened his back in nervousness.
He had been thinking about what he was going to talk to his mother about all the way in the carriage on the way home, but when he finally actually faced her, his mind went blank and the words could not come out properly.
In the first place, everything related to school life has always been written in letters, so he can't think of any new topic to talk about.
Cyril put the cup back on the table and mulled it over.
That's right. In times like these, I could talk about His Highness.
Cyril had the confidence to carry on talking about Felix until the end of the day.
Whenever Cyril speaks passionately about Felix, Elliot always looks at him as if he is looking at something extremely regrettable, but in Cyril's perspective, he has always thought that Elliot doesn't have enough respect for his highness.
"Things are going well at the Student Council. Though things have been a bit hectic this year due to the change of treasurer, His Highness' excellent leadership has enabled us to finish all the events without a hitch, and I am once again impressed by His Highness' excellent command of the situation. In particular, His Highness' speech at the school festival…"
"I wish to hear about you more than about His Highness…"
Her words made him stop his speech.
After a few awkward glances, Cyril finally opened his mouth.
"…well, I've written you all my stories in the letters, so I don't think…"
"I want to hear it directly from you."
At his mother's words, Cyril fell silent with a tense face.
In his childhood when he still attended school in the city, he used to proudly tell his mother about how he was praised by his teachers after getting good test scores, but now he feels afraid to talk about himself.
–Mother, I got a hundred points on the exam today. I actually got first!
Every time he made a report with such enthusiasm, his mother would mutter ‘is that so?' with a sigh, and look away.
If it were a letter, he could simply write and reflect on it calmly. But he feared how his mother would react, and that's why he was afraid to speak directly to his mother, in this case, Cyril stopped his words.
But he can't keep quiet forever.
Moreover, he had things to tell his mother.
"This year, I have been invited to be taken along in the New Year's Ceremony."
New Year's Ceremonies, which take place on the day after the winter solstice, are ceremonies where nobles from all over the country take turns to visit the castle and greet the king.
Essentially, only those who hold peerage participate in this New Year's ceremony, and it is customary for their families to stay at home.
But Marquis Highon declared that he would take Cyril with him to this year's New Year's Ceremony.
In other words, Marquis Highon has accepted Cyril, his adopted son, as his successor.
It has been several years since he was adopted by the Marquis family, yet Cyril still felt uneasy all the time. Clearly, everyone could see that he was inferior to Claudia in terms of brainpower.
Even when he tried to learn magic to acquire his own unique skills, he ended up developing a mana overdose.
He could not live up to their expectation and finds himself lacking in everything. At this rate, the Marquis might abandon him altogether… such fears always drive Cyril to the edge.
Fortunately, for the past few months or so, he has been so busy that he hasn't had time to feel such anxieties. Mainly because of a junior of his who he can't take his eyes off.
When the Marquis of Highon brought up the subject of the New Year's ceremony, Cyril was so moved with emotion that he nearly broke down in tears. That was how happy he was.
At the same time, however, a sense of uneasiness welled up in his heart.
What kind of face would his mother make when she hears this news?
However many times he imagines it, he could only think of his mother in his memory saying, ‘I knew it. You are indeed a nobleman's son.' with a sigh.
Cyril's fingertips trembled with fear for what would happen if he were to be told the same thing again.
He was afraid to look at his mother's face. He didn't know what to do if she sighs with a resigned look on her face.
When Cyril turned his head down, his mother told him softly.
"…You have worked hard."
Cyril's slender shoulders shuddered and his downcast face slowly lifted.
His mother, sitting across from him, looked serene.
"When I visited the school festival, I met a girl who showed me around. She told me that you are a kind person… she told me you always steadily teach her how to do the job properly."
"………"
"Marquis Highon must have seen that in you."
Reflected at the edge of his blurred vision was his mother's loom.
As a child, Cyril always loved watching his mother weaving from this seat as beautiful patterns gradually formed along with the clattering sound of the weaving.
"Weave it steadily, one by one. You have to be steady and careful when weaving."
Therefore, Cyril has been working hard, steadily and carefully, one thing at a time.
Cyril reflected on his mother's words, "You have worked hard," which he received for the first time.
And so he replied, with a face like a tearful smile, but still proud.
"I am your son, after all."
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