Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner-Chapter 620: A witch

Back at home, since Burt left for the dragon knight training camp, life had changed in ways his mother never thought possible.

The mockery had stopped first. The cruelty that had followed her through the market streets for years, the whispered comments about the coward’s son, the pitying looks that weren’t really pity at all but thinly veiled contempt. All of it had evaporated like morning mist under sun, replaced by something she trusted even less at first.

Respect.

People nodded when she passed now. Shopkeepers who’d once shortchanged her suddenly discovered they’d made errors in her favor. The baker’s wife, who hadn’t spoken to her in a year, stopped her last week to ask after Burt’s health with what seemed like genuine concern. Even Lord Carstein’s steward, a man whose default expression suggested he’d been weaned on vinegar, had acknowledged her in the castle hallways with something approaching courtesy.

It was disorienting. Wonderful and terrible in equal measure, because she knew how quickly public opinion could turn. The same people praising her son today would abandon him tomorrow if fortune shifted. That was how the world worked when you existed at the bottom of society’s ladder. You learned not to trust the kindness of those above you, because kindness from that direction usually came with conditions.

But still. It was nice not to be spat at.

She knelt now in one of the castle’s upper hallways, her bucket of soapy water beside her, scrub brush in hand, working her way across stone floors that stretched the length of the corridor. The work was familiar, meditative almost. Scrub in circles, rinse, move forward six inches, repeat. Her knees ached despite the folded cloth she used as padding, and her lower back had been complaining for the past hour, but the rhythm was soothing in its predictability.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows that lined one wall, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air currents. The castle was beautiful in the mornings, before the day’s business filled it with nobles and servants and the general chaos of running a kingdom. In these quiet hours, she could almost pretend she belonged here, that she was something more than just the woman who cleaned other people’s messes.

Footsteps echoed from further down the corridor, light and quick. A young woman appeared around the corner, maybe twenty years old, wearing the simple dress of a castle servant but with her hair done up in an elaborate style that suggested vanity beyond her station. She carried a stack of folded linens that looked freshly laundered, the smell of soap and lavender preceding her.

"Oh, Mistress Aldric!" the girl called out, her voice bright with manufactured enthusiasm. "I was hoping I’d find you this morning!"

Burt’s mother suppressed a sigh and sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "Good morning, Elara."

Elara set down her linens and practically bounced over, her energy level entirely too high for this early in the day. "Please, let me help you with that! You shouldn’t be working so hard at your age."

"I’m thirty-seven, not ancient," she replied dryly, but Elara had already grabbed a spare brush from the bucket and started scrubbing the section ahead.

The girl worked with enthusiasm if not skill, her circles too small and her pressure inconsistent. She kept glancing sideways, clearly wanting to talk but waiting for an opening.

"Your son must be settling in at the training camp by now," Elara said finally, unable to contain herself any longer. "How exciting! A dragon knight in training! Your family must be so proud!"

"We are," she agreed carefully, dunking her brush back in the bucket. "Though I confess I worry. Dragon knights face terrible dangers."

"Oh, but Burt is so strong! Everyone’s heard about how he fought that red death dragon and survived! That takes incredible courage!" Elara’s eyes went slightly unfocused, her expression taking on a quality that made Burt’s mother internally groan. "And he’s so tall now, isn’t he? I remember seeing him at the tavern last month. Such broad shoulders for someone his age."

Here it came.

"He’s seventeen," she said pointedly, scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain with more force than necessary.

"Oh, I know! The perfect age really. Old enough to be a man, young enough to still..." Elara trailed off, apparently realizing she was heading into inappropriate territory. She recovered quickly, her smile brightening. "What I mean is, when he returns from training, a celebrated dragon knight, he’ll surely be looking for a wife. Someone who appreciates his accomplishments. Someone who could support him in his new position."

Burt’s mother stopped scrubbing and looked directly at the girl. "Elara, my son is going to be gone for months, possibly years. When he returns, if he returns, he’ll have his choice of marriage prospects from families far above our station. Dragon knights marry well. That’s one of the privileges that comes with the position."

Elara’s face fell slightly, but her determination remained. "But surely he’d prefer someone who knew him before his fame? Someone who isn’t just interested in his status?"

"You didn’t know him before his fame," she pointed out gently but firmly. "A month ago, you wouldn’t have looked twice at the coward’s son. Now that he’s fought a dragon and gained the dragon knights’ sponsorship, suddenly he’s worth noticing."

The girl had the decency to blush. "I... that’s not..."

"It’s fine, Elara. I’m not judging you. That’s how the world works. But don’t mistake your current interest for something it isn’t. You’re a sweet girl, but you’re not pursuing my son out of affection. You’re pursuing opportunity."

Elara stood abruptly, her face flushed with embarrassment. "I should get these linens to Lady Constance’s chambers. She’ll be wanting them for the noon meal."

She gathered her stack and left quickly, her earlier enthusiasm completely deflated. Burt’s mother watched her go, feeling only mild guilt. The girl would recover, find some other prospect to attach her hopes to. That was the nature of ambition at this level of society. You scrambled for any advantage you could find, any connection that might lift you higher.

She returned to her scrubbing, the quiet settling back over the corridor like a comfortable blanket.

The morning continued its familiar pattern. Finish the upper hallway, move to the servant stairs, scrub those down, then tackle the entrance hall before the nobles started their daily business. Her hands moved automatically, her mind drifting to Gertrude at home, probably struggling with the garden weeding by herself. The girl was only nine, too young to handle all the household chores alone, but they’d managed to hire old Marta from down the hill to check in twice daily. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could afford with Burt’s tavern wages no longer coming in.

Though those wages would seem insignificant if he actually became a dragon knight. The thought made something warm bloom in her chest despite her worries. Dragon knights earned gold, real gold, enough to support entire families in comfort. Enough that she could stop cleaning floors and Gertrude could attend a proper school instead of learning letters from whatever books they could borrow.

The sound of heavy boots echoed from the main entrance, pulling her from her thoughts. She looked up from where she knelt at the base of the grand staircase to see four men entering, their armor catching the morning light streaming through the high windows.

She recognized them immediately despite the distance. Egor’s commanding presence at the front, his expression unreadable as always. Roland’s distinctive swagger, Marcus’s perpetual grin, Davos’s careful posture, Brom’s massive frame making the others look almost small by comparison. They were laughing about something, their voices carrying across the entrance hall with the easy camaraderie of men who’d survived death together repeatedly, though Egor remained silent, listening more than participating.

Her heart clenched. These were the men who’d brought Burt to the training camp, who’d vouched for him, who’d given him this chance.

The knights spotted her as they crossed toward the interior corridors, their conversation dying mid-sentence. For a moment she tensed, old instincts expecting dismissal or worse.

Roland approached first, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile. "Mistress Aldric! Good morning!"

She set down her brush and started to stand, but Marcus waved her down. "No need for that! We’re just passing through on our way to bore ourselves to death in a council meeting."

"Your son’s doing well," Davos added, his tone more reserved but sincere. "We received word from the training camp yesterday. He’s been assigned to the red hoods, which means they recognize his strength. That’s a good sign."

Burt’s mother felt tears prick at her eyes despite her best efforts to maintain composure. "Thank you for telling me. I’ve been so worried, not knowing how he’s managing."

"He’s managing better than most recruits twice his age," Brom rumbled, his deep voice carrying certainty. "The instructors are impressed. Constable Ironside mentioned him specifically in the dispatch, said he shows remarkable potential."

"Ironside doesn’t praise anyone," Roland explained, seeing her confusion. "The man’s seen so much death that nothing impresses him anymore. For him to note your son by name in official correspondence means Burt’s doing something exceptional."

Egor stepped forward then, silent as always, but his eyes met hers with something that might have been approval. He nodded once, a small gesture that somehow carried more weight than all the others’ words combined.

The warmth in her chest intensified, mixing with pride and fear in equal measure.

"I know you’re worried," Marcus said, his usual levity fading into something more serious. "Every mother worries when her child faces danger. But I promise you, Mistress Aldric, we wouldn’t have brought him to that camp if we didn’t believe he could survive it. Your son is special. He’s going to be a great dragon knight."

She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady.

Roland reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small cloth purse, pressing it into her hands despite her immediate protest. "From the crew. We know Burt’s wages aren’t coming in anymore, and we know how hard it is to manage on a cleaning woman’s pay. This should help with expenses until he starts earning a dragon knight’s salary."

She wanted to refuse. Pride demanded she refuse. But pride didn’t feed Gertrude or pay old Marta for her help or replace the shoes that had worn through last week.

"Thank you," she whispered, closing her fingers around the purse. "You’re all very kind."

"It’s nothing," Davos replied, though his expression suggested it meant more than he was saying. "We take care of our own. And Burt’s one of ours now."

They left with final nods and reassurances, Egor leading them away toward whatever tedious political business awaited them deeper in the castle. She stood there in the entrance hall, clutching the purse, tears finally spilling over despite her best efforts.

Good men. They were good men, despite their profession’s violence. They cared about her son, truly cared, not because of what he might become but because of who he was.

***

Roland’s good mood evaporated the moment they turned down the corridor leading to the council chambers.

"I hate politics," he muttered, his hand unconsciously moving to check his sword’s position despite knowing weapons weren’t allowed in council meetings. "I hate standing around listening to nobles argue about tax revenues and trade agreements and which lord insulted which other lord at some stupid party."

"We all hate it," Marcus agreed, his earlier enthusiasm completely gone. "But we’re the kingdom’s most decorated dragon knights. They want us there to look impressive while they discuss things we don’t understand."

"I understand plenty," Brom grumbled. "I understand that they talk for three hours when five minutes would suffice. I understand that half of them care more about their family’s reputation than the kingdom’s security. And I understand that if I have to listen to Lord Pembrook drone on about grain tariffs one more time, I’m going to fall asleep standing up."

Davos, ever the diplomat of their group, tried for optimism. "Perhaps today’s meeting will be different. The summons mentioned matters of kingdom security. That usually means dragon activity or border disputes, things we actually have useful input on."

"Or," Roland countered, "it means they want us standing behind them looking intimidating while they posture at each other about whose family contributed more soldiers to the war thirty years ago."

Egor said nothing, walking at the front of their group with his usual silence. But Roland noticed the slight tension in his captain’s shoulders. Egor hated these meetings even more than the rest of them, but he never complained.

They reached the ornate double doors leading to the main council chamber, where two guards in formal livery stood watch. The guards recognized them immediately, their eyes lingering on Egor with obvious respect, and pulled the doors open without question.

The council chamber was exactly as pretentious as Roland remembered from last time. High vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams carved with decorative patterns that probably cost more than his annual salary. Tall windows along one wall letting in natural light that illuminated a massive table dominating the room’s center. That table, polished oak that reflected the ceiling like dark water, could seat thirty people comfortably and currently hosted maybe twenty nobles in various states of important-looking conversation.

Tapestries hung along the walls depicting historical battles, royal lineages, and scenes of agricultural prosperity that were supposed to inspire confidence in the kingdom’s strength. Portraits of previous monarchs stared down with expressions ranging from stern to constipated, their painted eyes following visitors with unsettling persistence.

At the head of the table sat King Aldren, a man in his late fifties whose face showed the wear of decades managing a kingdom perpetually on the edge of crisis. His crown, simpler than the ornate monstrosities previous rulers had worn, sat slightly crooked on his graying hair. He wore fine clothes but not ostentatiously so, understanding that looking too wealthy while your people struggled was poor politics.

The king’s eyes tracked the dragon knights as they entered, his gaze settling on Egor with a nod of acknowledgment that bordered on deferential.

Egor and his companions moved to their designated positions along the wall near the king’s seat, where they could be seen but weren’t expected to participate unless directly addressed. The position was simultaneously respectful and dismissive. Important enough to warrant presence, not important enough to have opinions.

The meeting proceeded exactly as Roland had predicted. Tedious discussions about dragon sightings, recruitment challenges, resource allocation. Arguments circling endlessly without resolution.

Then Lord Carstein said something that made all five dragon knights snap to full attention.

"The real issue isn’t dragons at all. The real issue is that we’re wasting resources on them when we should be preparing for actual threats."

The chamber went quiet. Even the nobles who’d been having side conversations stopped to look at Carstein.

King Aldren leaned forward slightly. "Explain."

Carstein stood, clearly relishing the attention. "Dragons are dangerous, yes. But they’re animals. Predictable. They hunt livestock, defend territory, occasionally attack travelers who get too close to their nests. We know how to deal with them. We’ve been dealing with them for generations."

He paused dramatically.

"But there are developments beyond our borders that should concern us far more. Our scouts report increased military activity in King Arthur’s territories. Troop movements. Supply lines being established. Fortifications being reinforced."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

The arguments erupted, nobles taking sides, voices rising. Roland felt his attention sharpening, the boredom completely gone now.

Finally, after extensive debate, King Aldren raised his hand for silence.

"Lord Carstein, you mentioned informants seeing these preparations. Do these informants have any intelligence regarding Arthur’s intentions?"

Carstein hesitated. "Perhaps this would be better discussed in private council, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps it would be better discussed now."

The lord shifted uncomfortably. "The reports mention unusual activity. There are rumors of Arthur consulting with someone. Someone with abilities beyond normal military tactics."

"Be specific."

"A witch, Your Majesty. The rumors speak of a powerful witch advising Arthur."

The chamber erupted in panic. Witches meant devastation that regular armies couldn’t counter.

King Aldren’s expression darkened. He gave orders for increased patrols, better intelligence, discretion to avoid public panic.

As nobles began filing out, the king called out: "Dragon knights. A moment."

The five of them waited until the chamber cleared.

"Speak freely," the king said, his composure slipping to reveal genuine worry. "What do you think of Carstein’s intelligence?"

Davos spoke first, diplomatic as always. "If King Arthur has been preparing this extensively, he’s not doing it impulsively. That suggests years of planning."

"Which means," Brom added, "if he moves, it won’t be a border skirmish. It’ll be a full invasion."

"And the witch?" the king pressed.

"That’s the concerning part," Marcus said, his levity gone. "Witches don’t advise kings out of loyalty. They do it because they want something."

Then Egor spoke, his voice quiet but carrying across the empty chamber with weight that made even King Aldren straighten slightly.

"If the witch is real, Your Majesty, and if she’s been planning this with Arthur for years..." He paused, his eyes meeting the king’s. "We’re not facing a conventional threat. We’re facing something that will devastate us before we understand what we’re fighting."

The king cleared his throat awkwardly, the sound breaking the heavy silence that had followed Egor’s words.

"Prepare your knights," King Aldren said finally. "Quietly. Make sure they’re ready if Arthur makes his move."

They left the council chamber with considerably more weight on their shoulders than when they’d entered.

The flames had been lit.

Now it was just a matter of time until they consumed everything.