The Aetherviel floated among the stars of fate, cloaked in silence. Sirius stood in the heart of the ship, surrounded by the endless threads of destiny that shimmered like constellations. He had walked among these countless strands for hours, his eyes sharp, tracing the lives of men and women whose choices shaped worlds.
And then, one thread caught him.
It burned strangely—bright yet fractured, every twist tangled with self-reproach. The thread was heavy, burdened by a soul convinced it had to give everything away to justify its existence. Guilt clung to it like thorns. He saw a boy who carried overwhelming jealousy, who loved his brother yet despised himself in equal measure. A boy who would one day grow into a man so self-sacrificial that he would try to turn his body into a weapon, into a symbol, because he believed his own worth was nothing.
Sirius frowned. "…That's dangerous. But I can manage."
Aether's voice pulsed in his mind. "Master, shall I prepare the course?"
"Yes. Send me the location."
The veil shimmered. The ship folded between seams of reality, and when it reappeared, Sirius stood on Rosarian soil beneath the torchlit walls of a fortress. The night air smelled of smoke and polished steel.
In the courtyard, he saw him.
Clive Rosfield. The firstborn son of the Archduke of Rosaria.
He was still young—barely past boyhood, sword in hand, posture proud but strained. He leaned against the wall, eyes fixed across the courtyard where Joshua laughed among retainers. Clive's jaw tightened. His hand flexed on the hilt of his blade.
"I was meant to protect him," Clive muttered. "I will protect him. Even if it costs me everything. That's all I'm good for, isn't it?"
The bitterness in his voice was raw, sharper than the blade at his side. He loved his brother—no one could doubt that—but jealousy and self-loathing twisted it into poison. Clive was the older brother, yet it was Joshua, not him, who bore the Phoenix, who was celebrated as Rosaria's hope. Clive's role was only to stand beside him, a shield in the shadows.
And part of him hated himself for resenting it.
"If I burn out for him, if I throw everything away… maybe then I'll have worth," he whispered, pressing a hand against his temple.
The thought sank claws into him, turning his heartbeat into thunder.
Sirius stepped from the shadows, voice quiet but firm. "Self-sacrifice. You think it's noble?"
Clive jerked upright, his hand snapping to his sword. "Who's there?!"
Sirius raised both hands, palms open, his stance calm. "Not your enemy. Only one who knows what it means to carry too much."
Clive's blade hovered halfway from its sheath. His eyes narrowed at the stranger. "…Then say it. What do you mean?"
Sirius' gaze did not waver. "You'd give everything for your brother. For Rosaria. You'd throw yourself into the fire. But if you vanish into ashes, who will remember you? Who will carry your name? Sacrifice doesn't only protect others. It erases you. And that is not strength—it is surrender."
Clive froze, those words cutting deeper than any blade. He swallowed, his voice rough. "If Joshua lives… if Rosaria lives… then isn't that enough?"
"No." Sirius stepped closer. "Because if you're gone, they will carry only grief. They won't be free of burden—they'll be crushed beneath it. Do you want your brother to remember you only as the one who burned himself away?"
Clive's throat tightened. The sword trembled in his grip. He thought of Joshua's soft smile, his kind words. He thought of his father's hand on his shoulder, urging him to train harder, fight better, protect what he could.
And he thought of how small he felt, standing beside the Phoenix, overshadowed no matter how hard he swung his blade.
"…Then what am I supposed to be?" His voice cracked, torn between pride and despair. "If not his shield… then what?"
Sirius reached into his cloak and withdrew a small trinket. It glowed faintly, a warmth in the night, simple yet alive. He extended it toward the boy.
"A good luck charm," Sirius said.
Clive blinked. "…For me?"
"For when the doubt is too heavy," Sirius replied. "For when you think you're nothing but a shield or a weapon. Keep it close. It will remind you—your worth is not measured only in sacrifice."
Clive's hand shook as he reached for it. The moment his fingers touched the charm, warmth spread through him. The fog of jealousy and despair that had been choking him softened, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He didn't understand why, but the ache in his chest eased.
His eyes widened. "…What is this?"
Sirius smiled faintly. "As I said. A good luck charm." He did not tell Clive the truth—that the trinket's subtle power shielded not his body, but his heart, protecting him from the worst claws of guilt and despair.
Clive closed his fist around it, holding it tightly. For the first time, his breath came easier. He looked back toward Joshua, still laughing among the attendants. Something shifted in his chest—not gone, not healed, but softened.
"…Why give this to me?" he asked quietly.
Sirius' smile grew faint, almost wistful. "Because you'll need it. And because one day, you'll understand that your life has value beyond what you throw away."
Before Clive could answer, Sirius stepped back into the shadows. His form faded, the night reclaiming him.
Clive stood alone in the courtyard, the trinket warm in his palm. He stared at it for a long moment before slipping it into his pocket. The jealousy, the guilt—they were still there. But for the first time, they no longer ruled him completely.
High above, Sirius watched unseen. His eyes followed Clive's thread as it shimmered faintly brighter.
"You'll learn, boy," he murmured. "Not today, not tomorrow. But you'll learn. And when you do, your strength will shake the world."