The fissure chamber, so often a stage for whispered conspiracies and grim strategy, was bathed in the soft, honeyed light of a proper dawn. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through cracks in the ceiling high above, and the air, usually thick with tension, was cool and carried the faint, clean aroma of the healing salves applied the night before. The deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep had replaced the anxious silence of waiting.

Statera was the first to awaken, her internal clock as precise as her healing measurements. As she began to stir, to plan her day of making another haling salve, she felt a gentle, insistent tug on her tunic. She looked down.

Shiro was still fast asleep, curled on his side facing her. In the night, his hand had curled itself in the fabric of her sleeve, holding on with a grip that spoke of a deep, subconscious need for anchor. His face, in the repose of sleep, was a stark contrast to the tear streaked, anguished mask of the night before. The lines of worry and defiance were smoothed away, leaving behind the youth he so often tried to hide. He looked peaceful. Young. Vulnerable.

Statera's heart contracted with a surge of such fierce, protective love it stole her breath. All thoughts of herbs and missions vanished. "Ah, my little rain baby," she whispered, the words a soft, tender sigh in the quiet chamber. She hesitated for only a second before her maternal instinct won out completely. She carefully, so carefully, settled back down onto the pallet. She shifted onto her side to face him and gently wrapped her arm around him, pulling him a little closer. He instinctively nestled into the warmth, his grip on her tunic relaxing slightly, a soft, contented sigh escaping his lips. For a long, precious moment, she simply watched him sleep, her heart feeling too large for her chest. The world and its wars could wait.

Nearby, Nyxara stirred. She stretched her arms above her head with a quiet, graceful yawn, her multi hued light pulsing softly in the dawn light. As she rolled onto her other side, she felt an unexpected, firm weight pinning the edge of her blanket and her tunic. Turning her head, she saw Kuro, still deeply asleep, turned away from her. In his sleep, his arm had flung back and latched onto her clothes with a possessiveness he would never allow himself consciously.

A slow, deeply amused smile spread across Nyxara's face. Oh, this is perfect, she thought, her mind already cataloguing the exquisite teasing material this would provide for weeks to come. The mighty Baby Black Prince, clinging to his mother in his sleep. She left his hand where it was, a living trophy of his hidden vulnerability.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the two sleeping boys, she slipped out from under his loose grip and rose. Her first mission of the day: rousing the dead. Or, more accurately, rousing Lucifera.

She moved to the Sirius woman's pallet. Lucifera was not a morning person. She was a tangled mess of limbs and unruly silver hair, her face buried deep in her pillow. Her usual razor sharp aura was completely absent, replaced by a profound, disgruntled grogginess. Her brilliant white eyes were squeezed shut against the offending dawn.

Nyxara knelt and shook her shoulder gently. "Lucifera," she whispered. "Time to wake. The sun is up. We need to think about breakfast."

A low, guttural, utterly incoherent sound was muffled by the pillow. Lucifera curled into a tighter ball, attempting to vanish entirely.

Nyxara persisted, her voice taking on a playful, singsong quality. "Come now. The great councillor of the Sirius Clan, defeated by the sunrise? I never thought I'd see the day. The day won't wait for you, my friend."

With a final, resigned, and deeply put upon sigh, Lucifera pushed herself up. She moved like a puppet with its strings cut, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. She blinked owlishly, her dazzling white eyes dull and unfocused. Without a word, she stumbled to her feet and followed Nyxara to the small, makeshift kitchen area where a few banked embers from the night's fire still glowed.

Nyxara gestured to two pots. "Porridge and stew, I think. Something simple and fortifying."

Lucifera merely grunted in acknowledgment, her mind clearly still half in the world of dreams. But as she began to move, pouring water, measuring oats, her hands took over with the efficiency of long practice. The act of doing something familiar seemed to jump start her system, and slowly, precision returned to her movements. The grogginess began to recede, burned away by the simple focus of a task.

Satisfied her first objective was underway, Nyxara turned her attention to her second. And her favourite.

She returned to her pallet. Kuro was still deep in slumber, his face now half buried in his pillow, his dark hair a wild mess. The picture of peaceful rest was utterly deceptive. She smiled, a predator moving in for a playful kill. She reached out and shook his shoulder, not roughly, but firmly enough to penetrate his dreams.

"Kuro," she said, her voice low. "Time to wake up."

A low groan escaped him. He swatted vaguely at her hand, his eyes still tightly closed. "Piss off," he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep, the words slurred together. "'S too early. 'M sleeping."

Nyxara's smile widened she didn't hear the remark. She shook him again, a little more insistently. "Kuro. Up. Now. The day won't wait for you."

This time, the response was clearer, laced with genuine irritation. He burrowed deeper into his pillow. "Fuck sake, I swear… just fuck off for five more minutes," he growled, the profanity casual and effortless in his sleepy state. He was clearly accustomed to such early morning pestering from his brother.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Nyxara's eyes sparkled. She leaned closer. "That is no way to speak to anyone," she chided, though her voice still held a playful note.

"Fuck off," he repeated, more clearly this time, his annoyance mounting. "I'm not playing. Leave me alone."

This was getting better and better. Nyxara decided to escalate. She grabbed a handful of the blanket and gave it a sharp, yanking tug. "I said, up."

That did it. The theft of his warmth and the sharp movement finally breached the last walls of his sleep. He jerked upright, his eyes still squinted shut against the light, his patience utterly evaporated. "For fuck's sake, Shiro! FUCK OFF AND LET ME SLEEP!" he roared, the words echoing in the chamber, loud enough to make several other sleepers stir.

It was in the echoing silence that followed his shout that he finally, truly registered the presence before him. It wasn't Shiro's mocking laughter that met his outburst. It was a profound, chilling silence. His sleep addled brain finally processed the scent, starlight and sage, not the slum dust and defiance of his brother. His eyes snapped open, blinking against the light, focusing on the figure standing over him.

"Who," Nyxara said, her voice low and razor sharp, "are you speaking to in that manner, young man?"

. "I…I didn't mean…Aunty Nyx! I thought you were…I thought it was Shiro!" he stammered, his voice jumping an octave in his panic, the excuse tumbling out in a desperate, hopeful rush.

Nyxara was utterly unmoved. She crossed her arms; a gesture of such finality it made his hopes wither. "Your attempted justification only makes it worse," she declared, her tone laced with a mocking chill that was far more effective than any shout. "You reserve that kind of vitriol for your brother? Charming. It seems I need to teach you manners as well as strategy."

Before he could form a coherent sentence, her hand shot out. But it didn't go for his shoulder. Her fingers, precise and unerring, closed firmly around his earlobe, applying a sharp, pinching pressure that was less about pain and more about ultimate, humiliating dominance.

Kuro yelped, more in shock than pain, his hand flying up to hers. "That hurts aunty stop please!"

"Good it should," she stated calmly, folding the blanket and draping it over her own arm as if it were a trophy. "Your punishment for verbally abusing your mother," she announced, her voice carrying a note of finality that brooked no argument and now drew the amused attention of a now fully awake Ryota and a subtly smirking Juro, "is that you have lost the privilege of personal space until I say so. You will stay by my side, my shadow. You will do as I say, without question or complaint. And you will address me properly. Is that clear?"

Kuro stared at her, his mouth agape. The chill on his skin was nothing compared to the cold dread of her decree. "You can't be serious. That's…that's not a punishment, that's… tyranny! I'm not a child to be led around on a leash!"

"Tsk, tsk. You've lost that privilege my baby black prince," she said, her voice dripping with a dangerous sweetness that promised swift retribution for any further dissent. Her fingers closed around the lobe tighter with a more precise, pinching grip that was more humiliating than painful, a classic and universally understood sign of maternal authority. "You've lost the privilege of arguing, too. Now. Say it."

Kuro winced, humiliation burning hotter than the pinch on his ear. He was a prince, a strategist, a warrior who had faced down his father's wrath. And he was being publicly scolded and held by his ear like a toddler caught stealing sweets. He could feel every eye in the chamber on him; Ryota's amused chuckle, the way Juro was suddenly interested in the ceiling to hide his laughter. His face was on fire. "Y...yes, Mother," he whispered, the title feeling foreign and utterly defeating on his tongue.

Nyxara did not release his ear. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so only he could hear the steely command beneath the playful tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. The chamber has an echo this morning. I need to hear it properly from my son."

A low groan of utter defeat escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for the plaza to open up and swallow him whole. "Yes, Mother," he repeated, louder, his voice tight with utter, resigned humiliation.

Nyxara's smile was one of pure, unadulterated triumph. She released his ear. "Excellent. Your first task is to go and wake Statera for breakfast. And try to be polite. We're cultivating manners today, remember?"

Kuro rubbed his sore ear, shooting her a look of profound betrayal. But under her stern, expectant gaze, he knew he was beaten. He nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head, and got to his feet. He shuffled across the chamber, his posture radiating sullen embarrassment, feeling the weight of the room's amused attention on his back.

He approached Statera's pallet. She was already awake, having watched the entire spectacle with soft, knowing eyes. Shiro was still asleep beside her, his grip on her tunic unchanged, blissfully unaware of his brother's downfall.

"Sta… te… ra," Kuro mumbled, the name feeling awkward and formal in his mouth. He couldn't even look at her, his gaze fixed on a fascinating crack in the stone floor near her feet. His face was still a brilliant shade of red. "Aun... Mother… says breakfast will be ready soon." He practically choked on the word.

Statera's expression was a masterpiece of gentle comprehension. She smiled, teasing him further, offering him no mercy in his moment of crisis. She nodded. "Thank you, baby black prince. Tell her I'll be there shortly."

Kuro nodded miserably and turned to shuffle back to his tormentor; his shoulders slumped in absolute defeat.

Statera looked down. Shiro's amber eyes were open, heavy lidded with sleep but glinting with wicked amusement. He had witnessed the entire spectacle through barely parted lashes.

"It was," Statera confirmed, her voice a soft, conspiratorial murmur. "It seems his mouth wrote a cheque his dignity couldn't cash."

A slow, triumphant smirk spread across Shiro's face. "He called her 'Mother'," he breathed, the words dripping with gleeful mock "Out loud. In front of everyone."

"He did indeed," Statera said, gently untangling his fingers from her tunic. "And don't think for a second that gives you the high ground, my little rain cloud. You're the one who spent the night glued to my side like a barnacle."

The smirk vanished, replaced by a flush. "That's… different. I was… recuperating."

"Oh, were you?" she teased, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "And what, precisely, were you recuperating from? An excess of emotional honesty? A surplus of tears? You were making little snuffling sounds in your sleep. It was very… infantile."

"I do not snuffle!" he protested, his voice rising in pitch.

"You do," she stated with utter finality. "It's part of your charm. My snuffly, weepy, cuddly little rain baby. Perhaps I should start carrying a handkerchief for you, too. We could coordinate with Nyxara. She can have the ear pulling duty, and I'll be on snot patrol."

Shiro groaned, burying his face back into her sleeve. "You're both monsters. A tyranny of mothers."

"It's called love, you impossible boy," she laughed, the sound rich and warm. "And you are stuck with it. Now, are you going to get up, or do I have to carry you to breakfast like the infant you so clearly are?"

"I'm getting up, I'm getting up!" he grumbled, pushing himself upright with a show of great effort, though he couldn't quite hide the small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.