The deep, dreamless peace Statera's lullaby had granted him was a fragile thing. It shattered in an instant, consumed by a familiar, visceral horror.

Heat. Blistering, oppressive heat that stole the breath from his lungs. The air shimmered, thick with the stink of smoke and the sweet, sickening scent of searing meat and burning hair. He was small again, trapped in a forest of uncaring legs. Aki's hand was a vice over his mouth. And then he saw her. His mother. Adrasteia. Bound to the central stake, her face a mask of pure agony, her skin blistering, her beautiful hair vanishing in a flash of fire. The silent scream that vibrated in his own bones. The smell coating his throat, it was her. It was his mother, burning alive.

"Please! Please don't leave me, Mother! Don't go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The face on the pyre melted, reformed. It was Aki. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto his. "Shiro! SHIRO! HELP ME!"

Shiro jolted awake, a ragged, choked gasp tearing from his throat. His body was drenched in a cold sweat that soaked through his tunic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, panicked drumbeat echoing the screams in his mind. The phantom smell of burning flesh seemed to cling to the air. Instinct, honed over a lifetime of solitary suffering, screamed at him to run. To flee the chamber, to find some dark, isolated corner where he could break down alone.

He pushed himself up on trembling arms, the movement making his head spin. He had to get out. He had to…

He froze, mid motion.

The words surfaced from the depths of his panic, a lifeline thrown to him hours before: "You do not have to drink that poison alone. Let me taste it with you. Let me help you bear it."

His mothers echoed in his mind, cutting through the nightmare's echo. He wasn't alone.

He turned his head. Statera was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching him. Her Polaris light was dimmed to a soft glow, but her eyes were wide with alert concern, reflecting his own terror back at him, not with pity, but with a shared, willing weight.

The fight went out of him. A broken, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and he fell toward her, his body folding into her embrace. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his fists twisting in the fabric of her tunic as silent, body wracking sobs shook him.

She held him tightly, her hand cradling the back of his head, her other arm a solid band across his back. She didn't shush him. She didn't tell him it was just a dream. She simply held him, letting the storm of his terror break against her, sharing the poison as she had promised.

His tears felt different this time. They were not the scalding tears of solitary despair that had choked him in the Plaza of Screams. They were a release. A draining of the poison. Each one felt like a confession he didn't have to speak aloud, a burden transferred and halved.

Slowly, the terrible tension leached from his muscles. His breathing hitched, then evened out, syncing with the steady, reassuring rhythm of her own. The phantom smells and sounds of the nightmare receded, replaced by the simple, clean scent of her and the solid reality of her presence.

He was still afraid. For Aki, for the future, for himself. But he was not alone with that fear. Held fast in his mother's arms, Shiro finally drifted back into a true, peaceful sleep, feeling lighter than he had in years. The first feeble light of dawn was a pale, grey thief, stealing into the fissure chamber and leaching the deep shadows from the corners. Statera was the first to awaken, her internal clock as precise as her measurements for a healing salve. The deep, rhythmic breathing of the others was a soothing symphony after the night's turmoil.

She lay still for a moment, savouring the warmth and weight of the boy nestled against her. Shiro's sleep had finally found a measure of peace after the nightmare's passing, but even in repose, his body told a story of a lifetime on edge. His posture was tense, one hand still fisted loosely in her tunic, his brow faintly furrowed as if even his dreams required vigilance.

A soft, fond smile touched her lips. With infinite care, she shifted and gently nudged his shoulder. "Shiro," she whispered into the quiet. "Time to wake, my love. The dawn is here."

A low, incoherent mumble was her only answer. He burrowed deeper against her side, his face scrunching up. "F'more minutes," he slurred, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. "Jus' five... 's too early..."

Statera's smile widened. The fearless resistance fighter, the master of chaos, reduced to a grumbling, sleepy boy. It was a sight more precious to her than any victory. Her gaze then drifted to where Kuro slept, his own stern mask softened in slumber, and her heart swelled with the same fierce, protective ache.

She gently smoothed Shiro's hair back from his forehead but let him be for the moment. There were others to rouse.

Her gaze drifted across the chamber to where Nyxara and Kuro lay. The sight that met her eyes made her breath catch in her chest. Nyxara was already awake, her multi hued eyes soft and open, gazing down at the young man sleeping beside her. Kuro was turned away from the room, his back pressed against her side. In his sleep, one arm had flung back, his hand latched onto the fabric of Nyxara's robe with a possessiveness he would never allow himself if he was conscious. His face, usually a mask of stern control or fiery anger, was smoothed in sleep, making him look heartbreakingly young.

Nyxara's arm was wrapped around him, holding him securely. She was not just allowing the contact; she was cherishing it, her thumb making slow, absent minded circles on his shoulder.

Statera rose silently and padded over to them. She knelt beside their pallet. "Good morning Your Majesty," she murmured.

Nyxara looked up, a slow, deeply contented smile spreading across her face. She made no move to extricate herself from Kuro's grip. "Is it?" she whispered back. "It feels rather perfect right here."

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"He's clinging to you," Statera observed, her voice warm with amusement.

"Like a particularly stubborn barnacle," Nyxara agreed, her tone overflowing with affection, her gaze flicking to where Shiro was grumbling under Statera's attention. "They play at being mighty warriors, but sleep reduces them to boys in need of their mothers."

"Let him sleep a few minutes more," Statera said softly. "They both deserve it."

The two women sat in a comfortable silence, watching over their sleeping sons. The chamber was quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing and the distant drip of water.

"I have to confess I cannot imagine it now," Nyxara said after a long moment, her voice barely a breath. "A world without them in it. Without their weight." She gestured slightly with her chin, first to Kuro's hand fisted in her clothes, then towards Shiro's sleeping form. "It is a weight I would carry for a thousand lifetimes."

Statera nodded, her gaze drifting from Shiro to Kuro. "I know. It feels as if my heart has grown two new, external chambers that walk and talk and get into trouble. It is terrifying. And it is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me." She looked at Nyxara, a deep understanding passing between them. "This alliance was meant to be about thrones and strategy and vengeance. I thought I was offering healing and counsel. I never knew I was coming to find my sons."

Nyxara's eyes glistened. "Nor I. I thought I was gaining valuable, if damaged, assets. Pieces on the board. I did not know those pieces would crawl into our hearts and call us 'Mother' and remake the entire board around themselves." She gently, so gently, pried Kuro's fingers loose, though he grunted in protest in his sleep. "We are not the women we were a season ago."

"No," Statera agreed, her hand resting protectively on Shiro's back. "We are more."

With a final, shared look of profound solidarity, the two queens began the business of waking their children. Nyxara shook Kuro's shoulder with a gentle firmness. He awoke with less of a battle than the previous morning, though a scowl was already forming on his features as consciousness returned and with it, the memory of his decree.

Statera returned to Shiro. This time, she was less gentle. She gave him a firmer shake. "Up you get, my little rain baby. The sun is up, and your term of service begins now."

The effect was instantaneous. Shiro's eyes snapped open, the last vestiges of sleep burned away by a flare of pure, horrified dread. He sat bolt upright, staring at her as the full weight of her victory, and his defeat crashed down upon him.

"The... the two days," he stammered, his amber eyes wide. "You... you were serious."

"Deadly serious," Statera said, her expression a perfect blend of maternal love and mischievous tyranny. "A decree is a decree. For the next two days, you are my shadow. You are at my beck and call. You will fetch what I need, you will follow where I go, and you will do so with a willing heart." Her eyes sparkled. "Think of it as an apprenticeship in humility for my brilliant, chaotic boy."

Shiro's face flushed a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked over at Kuro, who was now also awake and looking similarly mortified as Nyxara reminded him of his own duties. Their eyes met, a brief, fleeting moment of absolute, shared solidarity in their humiliation. They were warriors, the famed Twin Stars... and they were now permanent fixtures at their mothers' sides.

"The torment," Shiro whispered, despairing. "Kuro will never let me hear the end of it. He'll tell the entire resistance once they're back from training. I'll be a laughingstock!"

Statera leaned in, her voice a playful, wicked whisper. "Oh, I certainly hope so. Now, come along, my little servant. Your mother is parched. Your first duty is to fetch us some water. And do try to be quick about it. Chaos may be your forte, but efficiency is now your new calling."

With a groan that came from the very depths of his soul, Shiro dragged himself to his feet, his shoulders already slumped in anticipation of the relentless, affectionate teasing that was to be his world for the next forty eight hours. He was a conquered king, and his mother was a merciful, but utterly ruthless, victor.

The air, still cool from the night, carried the earthy scent of herbs as Statera began organizing her supplies with quiet efficiency. Nyxara was a silent, watchful presence nearby, her multi hued eyes fixed on Kuro with a mixture of amusement and deep affection as he sat on the edge of his pallet, looking like a man awaiting his own execution, his shoulders slumped in sullen resignation.

Shiro, seeing a momentary lapse in Statera's attention, saw his chance. He moved with the exaggerated slowness of a prisoner attempting a jailbreak, sliding one foot off his pallet and then the other. If he could just make it to the chamber entrance, he could claim he was checking the perimeter, a duty no one could fault him for.

He didn't make it two steps.

A gentle but immovably firm hand settled on his shoulder. "And just where do you think you are going, my little rain baby?" Statera asked, her voice a model of calm precision. "We have a great deal to do today, but first, we must attend to fundamentals. You need to bathe. Properly."

Shiro's entire body went rigid. He turned, his amber eyes wide with genuine panic. "I can bathe myself," he insisted, his voice strained. "I'm not an infant. I've been doing it on my own since I was five. I know how to use soap."

Statera raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "And how many of those times did you actually scrub properly versus just splashing water on your face and calling it a day? Your hair still has traces of plaza mist and yesterday's sweat. We will ensure cleanliness. No arguments. It is part of your... tutelage."

"This isn't tutelage, it's tyranny!" Shiro protested, his voice rising in pitch. "This is a violation of my basic rights as a... a person!"

"Your rights," Statera said smoothly, beginning to gently but firmly guide him toward the back of the fissure where buckets of steam rose invitingly, "are currently forfeit. Per the terms of your defeat. Now, come along."

Noticing the commotion and not one to be left out, Nyxara decided it was the perfect time to escalate Kuro's morning. She approached his pallet with a predator's grace. "Rise and shine, my prince," she chirped, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "The sun is up, and so are your responsibilities. It's bath time."

Kuro, who had been trying to mentally calculate the exact number of hours left in his servitude, groaned and buried his face in his hands. "By the gods, not you too. Five more minutes," he mumbled, the plea muffled by his palms. "Just five minutes of dignity, please, Mother."

Nyxara laughed, a light, musical sound. "Oh, no. Statera is already leading your brother to the cleansing waters. We can't have the Baby Black Prince falling behind in his hygiene, can we? It would be a poor reflection on my motherhood." She leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "In fact, Statera's 'rain baby' has inspired me. I've come up with a new nickname for you. How does 'Little Storm Baby' sound? It has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"

Kuro's head snapped up, his storm grey eyes wide with horror. "What? No. Absolutely not. I will not answer to that. I forbid it."

Nyxara's grin was utterly victorious. "Oh, but it's perfect! 'Little Storm Baby', it's catchy! And it goes so well with 'Rain Baby.' We'll be the most adorable pair of mothers, raising our little weather disasters. Now, up you get, my little tempest."

Despite his vehement protests and a look of utter betrayal, Kuro was hauled to his feet and steered toward the same secluded area where Shiro was already standing, looking like a deer caught in a trap. The two young men faced each other, a mirror of crimson faced, utterly mortified humiliation. For a fleeting second, their rivalry was forgotten, replaced by a profound, shared solidarity in their plight

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