The air was thick with the comforting, earthy scent of Lucifera's expertly prepared porridge and the rich, savoury aroma of her stew, a tantalizing contrast to the faint, medicinal sweetness of the healing salves that had become a constant in their lives. The stone table was set, a quiet testament to the councillors unspoken care. But the peace was a prelude to the main event.

Nyxara was the first to move, a queen advancing on her chosen battlefield. She picked up a bowl of steaming porridge and a spoon, her multi hued light flickering with a potent mix of amusement and iron determination. She descended upon Kuro, who was trying to look as small and inconspicuous as possible on his stool.

"Now, my little Storm Baby," she began, her voice a silken trap of mock sweetness. "It's time to fuel that brilliant, if occasionally tragically misguided, mind of yours. You'll need your strength for your duties today. Open wide."

Kuro's reaction was instantaneous and vehement. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, a fortress wall going up. "I am perfectly capable of feeding myself," he stated, his voice low and gravelly with a night's worth of pent up embarrassment. "I have been doing so since I was weaned. This is unnecessary, Mother, and you know it."

Nyxara's smile didn't falter. "Oh, my dear boy, I never said you were incapable," she purred, her voice dropping to a gentle, almost conspiratorial whisper. She leaned in, her free hand reaching out to ghost over the bandages on his forearm. "But this arm is healing from a corruption that would have felled a lesser man. It deserves rest. It deserves care. Is it so weak to accept it from the person who loves you most?"

The touch, light as it was, was a precision strike. Frustrated and cornered, Kuro attempted to prove his point. He made a swift, sharp gesture to grab the spoon from her hand. The movement was too abrupt. A visible jolt of pain shot up his arm, forcing a sharp, involuntary hiss through his clenched teeth. His fingers spasmed, fumbling the air well short of the spoon.

Nyxara didn't gloat. She tsked softly, her expression one of affectionate exasperation. "Must you always turn the simplest act of care into a grand, tragic battle, my little Storm Baby?" she asked, her tone light but edged with genuine concern. "You are your own worst enemy. Now, stop being a martyr to your pride and open your mouth. It's a simple instruction."

Kuro's cheeks flushed a spectacular, furious crimson. "I am not a martyr, and I am not a storm baby!" he snapped, his voice tight. "I am a prince and a strategist, and I will not be spoon fed like an invalid in front of everyone. It is demeaning."

"You are acting like an infant," Nyxara countered, her own voice rising a fraction in mock indignation. "Making a spectacle of a spoon! This is not about your title. This is about your health. Now, open. Your. Mouth." Her tone shifted again, softening into something genuine and pleading. Her fingers gently lifted his stubborn chin. "Please, Kuro. For me. Let me do this one small thing for you."

The earnest plea in her voice, the love shining in her constellation eyes, was the final crack in his defences. With a heavy, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his entire fraught history, he relented. His shoulders slumped in surrender. He opened his mouth, a tense, reluctant line, allowing her to place the spoonful of porridge inside. But his storm grey eyes remained fixed on hers, blazing with a silent, humiliated protest.

Across the table, Statera had engaged her own target. She held a bowl of the hearty stew, her Polaris light a steady, calm beam. "Your turn, rain baby," she announced, her voice warm but leaving no room for negotiation. "This isn't just food; it's medicine. Every bite is packed with herbs to knit those nerves back together. You need both hands for that, and until they're healed, you get help. No arguments."

Shiro's defiance was less regal and more street level stubbornness. His amber eyes flashed, and he physically leaned back, putting space between himself and the offending spoon. "I've eaten with broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder," he insisted, his voice strained as he glanced toward the exit. "I think I can handle a bowl of stew. This is overkill, Mother."

"Ah, but here is the core of the issue, my dear," Statera said, her voice firm. "You are not in the slums anymore, fighting just to survive. You are in a family. And in this family, when you lose a bet, you pay your debts. And when you are hurt, you are cared for. The decree stands. This is part of it."

"This is humiliating," Shiro grumbled, his face flushing. "Do you have to do this here? In front of him?" He jerked his head toward Kuro.

"Everywhere," Statera replied, her tone brooking no argument. "But think of it as growth. A little enforced humility is good for the soul. Now, are you going to open up, or do I need to making mocking noises?"

With a groan that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul, Shiro reluctantly nodded, his gaze dropping to his lap. "Fine," he muttered, the word dripping with resentment. "But this is ridiculous. And I'm not enjoying it."

As the spoon feeding commenced, the chamber was filled with the soft clinks of pottery and the sound of exaggerated, put upon sighs.

"Must you make such a performance out of every bite?" Kuro grumbled around a mouthful of porridge, glaring at Nyxara. "It's just porridge."

"Oh, but it's not just oats when it's being taken by the mighty Storm Baby," Nyxara teased, her eyes sparkling. "Each spoonful is a tactical victory over your stubbornness." She leaned in, her voice softening to a private murmur. "You're doing remarkably well, my brave, ridiculous boy. I am proud of you for not throwing the bowl."

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Kuro's flush deepened, but he held her gaze for a second longer, a flicker of something other than anger in his eyes, before focusing intently on the next spoonful as if it were a complex battle plan.

Across the table, Shiro was enduring his own trial. "It's hot," he complained, after a sip of stew.

"It's supposed to be hot, it's stew," Statera replied evenly, blowing on the next spoonful with deliberate care before offering it. "Better?"

"...A little," he admitted grudgingly.

"See? Progress. Your highness accepts a minor adjustment," she announced to the room, making Shiro roll his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in his head.

The playful jabs continued, but a tangible shift occurred halfway through the meal. Kuro's rigid posture began to soften into a resigned acceptance. The act of being fed, stripped of its power struggle, became simply an act of care. Shiro's theatrical sighs grew less frequent, replaced by a quiet, almost unconscious leaning into Statera's ministrations.

Nyxara noticed the change first. "See, my little Storm Baby?" she whispered, her voice genuinely gentle as she used the spoon to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "This isn't a siege. It's a truce."

Kuro's response was a muttered, "If I concede that it is not utter torture, will you retire that accursed nickname?" But the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Across the table, Statera shared a warm, knowing glance with Nyxara. "We're making progress," she murmured, her Polaris light glowing with quiet triumph. "Slow, stubborn, and full of protest, but progress nonetheless."

By the time the bowls were empty, the chamber felt lighter. The bonds between them, tested by embarrassment and defiance, had been strengthened in the strangest of ways: through a shared, spoon fed surrender. The twins sat back, their stomachs full and their pride wounded but intact, having learned, once again, that some battles were not meant to be fought alone.

The chamber settled into a profound quiet after the meal, the playful energy of the "spoon wars" dissipating into a thoughtful, almost sacred stillness. The clatter of bowls being gathered by a silently disapproving Lucifera was the only sound, a soft counterpoint to the heavy weight of unspoken histories that now filled the air.

Shiro, picking absently at a loose thread on his tunic, was the first to break the silence. His amber eyes were distant, fixed on some point in the shadows as if trying to discern the ghosts of his own bloodline. The question, when it came, was soft, tentative, a pebble dropped into a deep, dark well.

"Mother?" he began, the title still new and wondrous on his tongue. "Polaris... my grandparents... do you think they would even recognize me? If I ever... if I went looking?"

Statera's gaze softened instantly, her Polaris light dimming to a gentle, comforting glow. She had known this question would come and had dreaded the day he would. "Your grandparents?" she clarified, her tone warm but layered with a deep, instinctive caution. She chose her words with the precision of a surgeon navigating a vital organ. "I believe a part of them would, my little rain baby. A mother always knows her blood, even when it has been lost to her. But I also think... it is best if you do not seek them out."

She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes and rushed to clarify, her hand covering his where it lay on the table. "After what happened with your mother… the pride of Polaris is a brittle, fragile thing. Many turned their backs on her when she needed them most. In doing so, they lost the right to know you. They lost the right to see the magnificent, resilient man she created." She squeezed his hand. "You are not their legacy to claim. You are mine."

Shiro's eyes dropped to his lap, his fingers tightening beneath hers. "I just… I wanted to know if they're alive," he whispered, the words barely audible. "If they're safe. If they ever... wondered about us."

Statera's heart ached. "They are alive," she said, her voice firm though it carried the weight of a sorrow she could never fully share with him. "They are safe, in their way. But their path is one of silence and regret. Yours is not. Your path is here, with us. With your family."

The moment hung heavy between them, charged with all the things she could not say. They are alive, but they would not welcome you. They see the daughter they failed in your eyes. To tell you would be to poison you with their own failure. She shielded him with her silence.

Emboldened by the first answer, Shiro ventured further into the dark water. "What did she do?" he asked, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. "My mother. Why was she exiled? What was so terrible that her own clan would cast her out?"

The question was a physical blow.

A shock, cold and paralyzing, shot through Statera's entire body. Her mind went blank, then raced, a frantic whirlwind of images and memories. How could she say it? How could she form the words? She saw Adrasteia's fierce, defiant face, heard her sister's laughter, felt the icy chill of the clan elders judgment.

He thinks it was a crime, she realized with a fresh wave of horror. He thinks she did something wrong.

The truth was a thousand times more cruel. His mother's "crime" was falling in love. Her "transgression" was believing a prince's sweet lies, in trusting a man who promised her the world and instead gave her a pyre. The clan hadn't exiled her for a misdeed; they had exiled her for her "poor judgment," for bringing "shame" upon them by being seduced and abandoned. They had blamed the victim to spare their own pride. Then framed it as "she tried to usurp the throne".

To tell him that it would reduce Adrasteia's brave defiance to a cautionary tale about a naive girl. It would be the final, unforgivable cruelty.

Her throat closed. She could feel the blood draining from her face. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She saw the eager, trusting look in his amber eyes, so like his mother's, and her heart fractured.

"I... I..." she stammered, the words choking her. She shook her head, a desperate, helpless motion. "I'm sorry, Shiro. I... I can't. I can't tell you that. Not yet. Please don't ask me that I'm sorry."

The light of hopeful curiosity in his eyes dimmed, replaced by confusion, then a dawning, heartbreaking acceptance. She saw the walls go up behind his gaze, not in anger, but in a weary resignation that was so much worse. He had been denied the truth so many times; he was an expert in swallowing his questions.

His mind, so accustomed to pain, rationalized it for her. It's okay. It must be bad. She's protecting me. She'll tell me when I'm stronger.

He looked down, nodding slowly. "Oh. Okay," he murmured, his voice flat. "I understand. I trust you, Mother."

The quiet acceptance in his voice was a knife in her heart. He was so brave, and she felt like a coward.

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