Days blurred into weeks, and Insomnia moved with its usual rhythm — the steady pulse of magitek energy through the streets, the endless shimmer of the barrier overhead.
For most people, it was ordinary life.
For Sirius Blake, it was balance.
He lived now between two worlds — the light of his family's home and the shadowed halls of the Citadel.
---
Morning.
The first light through the windows painted the Blake home in gold. Sirius would wake before the alarm, stretch quietly, and slip into his uniform.
Lyla would already be in the kitchen, humming softly over tea. The faint scent of citrus and steam filled the air.
"Early again," she'd say.
"Cor doesn't like late," he'd answer.
She'd smile. "Neither do I. Eat something before you go."
He'd take toast and tea, not because he was hungry, but because it made her happy.
Dominic would join them halfway through, rubbing his eyes, still half asleep in his uniform. "You two start the day like a ritual."
Lyla would chuckle. "Discipline runs in the blood."
Dominic grumbled, "So does exhaustion."
Sirius smiled faintly, sipping his tea. "It's worth it."
Those mornings were simple, gentle — and more precious than he realized.
---
Afternoons were for duty.
After morning drills, Sirius and the others trained with the Candidate Corps under Cor's direct command.
The sessions were brutal but methodical — reconnaissance, silent movement through magitek fields, coordinated takedowns.
Kael thrived on structure, turning every order into a checklist. Rhea treated every mission as a game, her laughter often the only sound in the silence. Sirius balanced them both, filling gaps, adapting to whatever they missed.
Cor's voice echoed through the field one day: "No sound. No trace. Move like water — flow through, not against."
Rhea muttered under her breath, "Move like water, he says, while Kael moves like a tank."
Kael scowled. "You talk too much."
Sirius smiled faintly. "And you both break the rule in the first ten seconds."
They laughed quietly — even Cor didn't stop them this time.
It wasn't rebellion. It was living.
---
Evenings were quieter.
Sometimes, Sirius stayed late after drills to practice alone — refining the lessons Zangan had drilled into him. He moved through the motions with slow precision, his breathing steady, blade arcs smooth as flowing ink.
Balance in motion.
He didn't chase perfection anymore. He simply listened — to his heartbeat, to the hum of mana, to the city's distant rhythm.
When exhaustion came, he didn't fight it. He let it remind him he was still human.
---
Other nights, he slipped away from the Citadel's light and hunted beyond the barrier's rim.
Low-level monsters roamed the rocky outskirts — sabertusks, iron giants, the occasional daemon wandering too close to the city's reach.
He didn't hunt for glory or sport. He hunted for medicine, for Gil, for the discipline of surviving where rules didn't apply.
Each fight was clean — no wasted movement, no anger.
Just precision.
When the last beast fell, he'd kneel beside it briefly, murmuring a quiet thanks before collecting the drops.
It wasn't worship. It was respect — an acknowledgment that even darkness had a place in the balance of things.
---
At night, he'd return home quietly, slipping through the door while his parents were still awake.
Sometimes, Dominic would be reading reports at the table, Lyla sewing quietly beside him.
"You're late," Dominic would say without looking up.
"Practice," Sirius would answer.
Lyla would smile softly. "And you didn't eat."
He'd take the plate she had waiting for him — food she always somehow knew he'd need.
After dinner, she'd ask about his day, and he'd tell her enough to make her smile, but never enough to worry her.
Dominic listened silently, pride and unease always intertwined in his gaze.
It was their ritual — small words holding larger truths.
---
School life, too, continued in its strange parallel.
Though Sirius attended less often now, when he did, he still drew whispers.
"The White Wolf's here again."
"He's actually real?"
"He's scarier in person."
Sirius ignored them. The attention no longer bothered him — it simply passed through, like wind through trees.
Ignis occasionally joined him during study breaks, bringing quiet companionship. "You've been absent for weeks," Ignis said once, pushing his glasses up.
"Training," Sirius replied.
Ignis nodded. "Cor's lessons, I assume."
Sirius smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised how much he believes in silence as a teaching method."
Ignis chuckled softly. "Some lessons are best absorbed without words."
Sirius liked Ignis for that — someone who understood without needing to ask.
---
Weekends were the rarest reprieve.
When Cor permitted, Sirius would spend the day helping Lyla at home — small repairs, carrying groceries, or simply sitting with her in the garden as she talked about nothing in particular.
Once, she caught him glancing at the barrier above and said, "You always look at it like it's a cage."
He hesitated. "Sometimes it feels that way."
She smiled gently. "Or maybe it's keeping something worse out."
He looked at her then — the quiet strength in her eyes — and nodded. "Maybe both."
---
There were nights when Sirius found himself wandering through Insomnia's sleeping streets.
He'd walk past the magitek trams, past the glowing signs and the hum of machinery, until he reached the old bridges that overlooked the city's edge.
From there, the barrier shimmered like a horizon of light — vast, unending, protecting and imprisoning all at once.
He'd lean on the railing, listening to the hum of the world beneath.
Even the city had a heartbeat.
He'd close his eyes, feeling it sync with his own.
And in that stillness, he'd think: This is peace. This is what I fight for.
---
Sometimes, Kael and Rhea joined him.
Rhea would complain about Cor's impossible standards.
Kael would gripe about his blisters.
Sirius would listen, amused.
"You know," Kael said once, tossing a pebble off the bridge, "for people who live in shadows, we sure talk a lot."
Rhea smirked. "If we didn't, we'd go insane."
Sirius chuckled softly. "You might already be."
She grinned. "You say that like you aren't."
Kael leaned back. "We're all insane. Just differently."
The laughter that followed was easy, genuine.
Three shadows under the city lights — not enemies, not soldiers. Just friends caught between youth and destiny.
---
On one quiet evening, Sirius returned home later than usual.
The house was dim, only the soft light of the kitchen lamp left on. Lyla was asleep on the couch, a book in her lap.
He approached quietly, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.
She murmured something in her sleep — his name, half-whispered, half-prayer.
He smiled softly. "I'm here, Mom."
Then he stood by the window, looking out at the city, the reflection of the barrier glinting faintly in his eyes.
He could feel it — the stillness before change, the calm before the tide shifted.
He didn't know when or how, but peace never lasted in Eos.
Still, he intended to remember it — every moment, every laugh, every night of quiet warmth — because these, not battles, were what gave meaning to strength.