Consciousness returned to Kuro not with a jolt, but as a slow, syrupy tide, pulling him up from the deepest, most restful sleep he could remember. The first thing he registered was warmth. A deep, encompassing warmth that seeped into his bones, banishing the fissure's perpetual chill. The second was a soft, rhythmic pressure against his back, a steady, calming motion. The third was a faint, clean scent of sage and starlight.

His brain, still swaddled in the fog of sleep, sluggishly attempted to categorize the data. Warm. Safe. Comfortable.

Then, with the devastating force of a rockslide, full awareness crashed down upon him.

His head was not on a rough sack of straw. It was pillowed on something soft and firm, rising and falling with a gentle breath. And he was not lying flat. He was cradled. His entire body was positioned at an angle, held securely against a supporting frame, his legs drawn up slightly in a way that was utterly, infantilizingly comfortable.

He was lying in Statera's lap.

His storm grey eyes flew open, wide with a horror more profound than any he had felt in the Plaza of Screams or facing Akuma. This was a violation of his very identity. He was a prince, a strategist, a warrior. He was not a babe to be swaddled and rocked.

A soft, amused hum vibrated through Statera's chest and into his ear. "Ah, he stirs," she murmured, her voice a low, warm thrum. "Did the Baby Black Prince have a nice nap? You were making the sweetest little sighing sounds. Like a contented kitten."

Across the chamber, a similar scene of catastrophic humiliation was unfolding. Shiro awoke not with panic, but with a natural, languid stretch that immediately hit the confines of Nyxara's embrace. He had nestled into the curve of her arm, his head tucked perfectly under her chin. For one blissful, ignorant moment, he felt utterly secure.

Then he felt her fingers still gently carding through his hair.

He froze, every muscle locking. His amber eyes, wide with dawning terror, met Nyxara's glittering, triumphant gaze.

"And my little rain baby awakens," she cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine delight. "So peaceful. You even drooled a little. It was utterly adorable. I was tempted to let you sleep through the war council, you looked so precious."

The heat that flooded Shiro's face was volcanic. He tried to push himself upright, but Nyxara's arm was an unyielding band of maternal will. "Aunty Nyx…I…let me up!"

"So soon?" Nyxara pouted, holding him fast. "But you fit so perfectly here. It's as if you were made to be cradled by your mother."

Kuro, meanwhile, was trying to levitate off of Statera's lap through sheer force of will. "Aunty Statera. This is… this is entirely inappropriate. I must insist you release me." His voice was a strained, mortified whisper.

"Inappropriate?" Statera repeated, her tone one of mild, teasing curiosity. "A mother tending to her sleeping son is inappropriate? I must have forgotten that clause in the resistance handbook. Now, up you get. Slowly. We wouldn't want you to get lightheaded, my dear."

She didn't so much release him as she guided him upright, her hands firm on his shoulders until he was unsteadily on his feet. He stood there, swaying slightly, his face a mask of crimson agony. Across from him, Nyxara finally, mercifully, allowed Shiro to scramble to his feet, his own cheeks burning with a spectacular flush.

But their ordeal was not over.

"Now," Nyxara said, rising with regal grace. She stepped forward and seamlessly took Kuro's good hand, her grip surprisingly strong. Statera, in a mirror movement, captured Shiro's.

"Come along, you two," Statera said, her voice cheerful and utterly implacable. "The war council awaits its key assets. And we can't have you wandering off in your drowsy state."

"We are not drowsy!" Kuro and Shiro protested in unison, even as they were firmly, gently, led, or more accurately, tugged, toward the scarred stone table like two recalcitrant children being brought to supper.

They were forced into their seats, the warmth of their mothers

hands lingering on theirs for a deliberate moment before releasing. The boys sat in stunned, humiliated silence, unable to meet anyone's eyes, the memory of being held and rocked like infants branding itself onto their souls more deeply than any battlefield scar.

It was into this atmosphere of profound, flustered shame that Haruto Isamu's voice cut through, cold, clear, and blessedly focused on the abyss ahead.

"Good. You're awake," he stated, his wintery gaze sweeping over them without a hint of amusement. He placed his hands flat on the map. "Phase 2 planning is complete. Now, we finalize Phase 3. "The objective is simple in concept, perilous in execution. We infiltrate the Black Keep. We find Aki. We extract her. Alive." He let the words hang in the air, their stark simplicity belying the ocean of danger they represented. "Everything else, intel, sabotage, scoring points against Ryo, is secondary. This is a rescue mission. It is the entire reason we are taking this risk."

At the sound of his sister's name, Shiro flinched. It was a minute, almost imperceptible tremor, but it ran through his entire frame. His amber eyes, usually so full of defiant fire, clouded with a visceral cocktail of hope and a fear so profound it was a physical weight on his chest. The nightmare from the plaza, the image of Aki replacing his mother on the pyre, flashed behind his eyes, stealing the air from his lungs.

Statera's hand, which had been resting on the back of his chair, moved instantly. Her fingers found the taut, corded muscle of his shoulder and squeezed, not with pity, but with a firm, grounding pressure. It was an anchor thrown into the storm of his panic, a silent message. I am here. You are not alone in this. The tension in his shoulder fractured under her touch. He didn't relax, but he breathed again, a sharp, ragged inhale that he hoped nobody noticed.

Haruto's gaze, sharp and all seeing, flicked to Shiro. His stern expression softened by a fraction, a rare crack in his armour of pragmatism. "Rain baby," he said, the nickname delivered with a gruff gentleness that stripped it of any mockery, leaving only stark acknowledgment. "I owe you an apology. After we defeated Akuma, my focus was on the broader strategy, on survival. Searching for one girl in the chaos... it fell by the wayside. It was a tactical error born of seeing pieces on a board, not people. For that, I am sorry."

He paused, letting the apology settle. It wasn't flowery or elaborate, but from Haruto, it was a monumental admission. "This time, she is not a secondary objective. She is the heart of the plan. Her rescue is the victory condition. We will make it right. I give you my word."

Shiro looked down at his bandaged hands, the words washing over him. The apology was a balm on an old, festering wound he hadn't dared to acknowledge. He gave a single, sharp nod, unable to trust his voice. "Thank you," he finally managed, the words hoarse but sincere.

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Haruto returned the nod, his respect clear, before turning his attention back to the map, his voice regaining its clinical precision. "The insertion team will be minimal. Small, fast, and precise. We strike at dawn, under the cover of the diversion Lucifera will create at the main gate. The chaos there will be our curtain."

He pointed to a series of faint, almost invisible lines snaking around the Keep's eastern flank. "Corvin has confirmed these paths. They are old, nearly forgotten service routes, unstable in places but minimally guarded. He will lead here," his finger stabbed down on a smaller structure attached to the main Keep, "to the old conservatory. It's been repurposed, but its connection to the main dungeons is our best point of entry."

Nyxara nodded, her voice clear and resonant. "Corvin knows the way. He will get you to the door unseen. The rest... is on you."

"Once inside," Haruto continued, his finger tracing a route through the labyrinthine interior, "speed and silence are your only allies. You find her, and you extract. No engagements unless absolutely necessary. This is not an assault; it is a surgical extraction."

It was then that Kuro, his analytical mind overriding his sullen embarrassment, leaned forward. "The conservatory entrance dumps into the lower servant's passages. They're narrow, poorly lit, and... patrolled by his personal shadows. The Veiled. They don't follow standard shifts. They're... unpredictable."

"Noted," Haruto said, making a subtle mark on the map. "Your knowledge is invaluable, Baby Black Prince. You are the key to navigating that hell."

Nyxara's hand on Kuro's shoulder gave a gentle, teasing squeeze. "And if my little baby black prince gets lost in those narrow, scary corridors," she cooed, her voice dripping with mock concern, "he must promise to call for his mother. I'll come find him, no matter how many Veiled are in the way."

Kuro's neck flushed a spectacular shade of crimson. He kept his eyes locked on the map, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing his embarrassment. "I possess a fully functional memory and a sense of direction, Mother," he ground out, emphasizing the title with strained formality. "I believe I can navigate without a maternal escort."

"Are you sure?" Nyxara pressed, her eyes sparkling. "I recall a certain prince who couldn't even bathe himself properly."

A choked sound that was suspiciously like a suppressed laugh came from Shiro's direction. Kuro shot him a venomous look.

Haruto, fighting a smirk of his own, cleared his throat loudly, wresting control back. "The team composition is non negotiable. Shiro and Kuro lead. They have the personal stake and the intimate knowledge." He looked at Nyxara and Lucifera. "Queen Nyxara, your presence is required not just as a guide, but for your strategic mind and your light. It may be the only thing that can counter the deep shadows in that place. Lucifera, your illusions are our getaway. Once we have Aki, you will project our phantom, leading pursuers on a false trail."

He then looked at Statera. "Councillor, your skills are our insurance. We have been unsuccessful in recruiting more allies. I am sorry to say it is just us seven. You, the Queen, and Lucifera will be with the twins inside. You are our medic. Your priority is to keep them, and Aki, alive."

Statera's expression was grim but resolved. She nodded. "I understand. I will be ready."

"The diversion team will be Ryota, Juro, and myself," Haruto stated, looking at the three veterans. "We will be the hammer at the front gate, making as much noise and causing as much chaos as possible. We are the distraction. Our job is to make every eye turn our way."

Ryota gave a grim nod. "We'll make him think the entire might of the alliance is knocking on his door."

"Every detail must be flawless," Haruto emphasized, his voice dropping into a gravelly seriousness. "Ryo's forces are disciplined and conditioned, but they are not infallible. They are predictable. We exploit that predictability. Baby Black Prince," he said, locking eyes with Kuro, "your mind is our greatest asset inside those walls. Rain baby," his gaze shifted to Shiro, "your chaos, your ability to improvise and break patterns, will be invaluable in the moment. You are the lockpick and the wrecking ball. We need both."

Kuro nodded, his earlier humiliation giving way to focused determination. He saw the corridors, the guard posts, the vulnerabilities. "I've memorized every stone. We will find her."

Shiro added, his voice stronger now ignoring the humiliating moniker, fuelled by Haruto's faith and Statera's steadying presence, "We can do it. We have to."

Nyxara interjected, her tone shifting from teasing to sharp, maternal authority. "No heroics. Either of you. Stick to the plan. Aki's life depends on precision and discipline, not reckless bravery. Is that understood my boys?"

Shiro's amber eyes met hers, and a silent, fierce promise passed between them. "Understood Aunty."

Kuro gave a curt nod. "Understood."

Nyxara giving him a stern look, "Understood…

Kuro flashing red having to honour the decree, his lobe still sore, "Understood…mother", he whispered flustered.

As the plan solidified into a terrifying, tangible thing, Nyxara couldn't resist lightening the mood once more, a deliberate pressure valve on the escalating tension. She leaned down slightly, her voice a playful whisper meant for Kuro but audible to all. "And remember, if you see a particularly dark shadow, just offer it a blanket. It might be the mighty baby black prince, lost without his morning porridge."

This time, Shiro did laugh, a short, sharp burst of sound that broke the grim atmosphere. "He'd probably try to negotiate with it. 'Unhand me, shadow! I am the Baby Black Prince!'

Kuro's glare could have curdled milk. "I would not," he hissed. "And my title is not up for communal discussion."

Statera chuckled softly, her hand still on Shiro's shoulder. "Oh, I don't know. I think it has a certain ring to it. It pairs nicely with 'rain baby,' don't you think?"

Shiro groaned, the sound long and suffering, and buried his face in his hands. "Please, no. Not you too. I will be good. I will sit still. I will heal. Just... please don't say it in front of the others its humiliating."

Statera's smile was warm and wicked. "I make no promises, my little rain baby. A mother's love is a merciless thing."

Haruto watched the exchange, a wry, almost invisible smile touching his lips. This was it. This was the alloy they had become: hardened strategy tempered by fierce, familial bonds. He stepped back from the table, his gaze sweeping the chamber one final time.

"Until then, rest is not a suggestion, it is an order. Your bodies are your weapons, and they need to be sharpened, not broken. That means no training, no straining those injuries." His eyes landed squarely on Kuro and Shiro, who were still visibly flustered from their waking humiliation. "That is an order. Especially for our... infant soldiers."

The meeting was adjourned. Ryota, Juro, and Mira immediately moved out, their footsteps purposeful as they headed out to Elara's training grounds to begin drilling for their role as the diversionary hammer. Haruto began rolling the maps with efficient, precise movements.

Shiro and Kuro made to stand, instinct pushing them to follow, to do something.

Haruto's voice stopped them cold without him even looking up. "Did I say something in a foreign language?"

They froze, identical looks of protest forming on their faces.

Haruto finally glanced at them, his expression unyielding. "Both of you, your priority is healing and rest, your in good hands with your mothers. Your part in this plan requires you to be whole, not heroes crippled by their own impatience. No exceptions."

The heavy, purposeful footsteps of Haruto and the others faded into the Plaza Of Screams, leaving the fissure chamber in a silence that was both profound and strangely intimate. The air, still humming with the residual energy of the battle plan, slowly began to settle. The sharp scent of urgency was gradually replaced by the earthy aroma of the damp stone and the lingering, clean smell of the herbal salves on Kuro's and Shiro's bandages.

Statera was the first to move, her movements fluid and purposeful as she began to clear a space on a smoother section of the stone floor. "Right," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet with a gentle but firm authority. "The strategist has spoken. No training. No straining. That does not, however, mean no thinking." Her Polaris light flickered with a hint of mischief as she glanced between her charge and her queen. "An idle mind is a devil's workshop, and we have two particularly devilish minds to occupy."

Nyxara, catching her meaning instantly, smiled. A real, warm smile that reached her multi hued eyes. "An excellent notion, Councillor. We must keep our key assets sharp. And what hones the wit better than a game?"

From her shadowed corner near the small firepit, Lucifera let out a soft, non committal hum. She was meticulously pouring hot water from a waterskin into a pot, the sharp, cleansing scent of Sirius green tea beginning to permeate the air. "A game," she repeated, her tone dry as dust. "I assume you refer to something more stimulating than 'I Spy,' which would be a short and depressing affair given our surroundings." She gestured with the kettle at the dark, dripping walls.

"Something with stakes," Nyxara agreed, her eyes glinting. "Something to remind these two that while they may be our precious infants, they are also formidable opponents and not completely useless."

Kuro, who had been trying to maintain an air of sullen, dignified resignation, looked up, a spark of interest igniting in his stormy eyes. Shiro, too, perked up, the constant, dull throb in his wrists momentarily forgotten in the face of a potential challenge. Being coddled was torture; a competition was a language they both understood.

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