Insomnia Academy gleamed like a fortress of knowledge. Its walls of glass and steel rose proudly within the city, magitek veins glowing faintly in the morning sun. Inside, tradition and modernity blended seamlessly: crystal projectors hummed as they displayed constellations of the Astrals, while Lucian tablets shimmered with maps of old wars.
That morning's lecture was history. The instructor, a lean man in a black coat, paced before the class. With a flick of his hand, the projector cast the image of the Six Astrals into the air, each towering figure rendered in light. Bahamut's wings filled the room, Leviathan's coils shimmered like water.
"The fall of Solheim," he intoned, "reminds us what happens when kingdoms forget duty. Magitek was born of greed, and Niflheim wields it to this day. Lucis stands because of the Crystal—but the Crystal alone is not enough. Each of you will serve. The line of kings fights with blades. The rest of us fight with discipline."
His hand swept, and images of the kings of Lucis appeared one by one: warriors, scholars, conquerors, guardians. Their phantom blades glowed at their sides.
Sirius sat near the back, crimson eyes fixed on the glowing figures. He listened in silence, answering when called but volunteering nothing. His white hair caught the light, drawing glances from classmates who whispered just low enough to sting.
"That's him—Blake's kid."
"The one with red eyes."
"Cursed, maybe."
"He never talks. Creepy."
He kept his jaw still. Once, whispers like that would have burrowed deep. Now, he let them pass over him like rain on stone. He had heavier things to think about—training, growing stronger, maybe even bending the canon of this world away from the tragedies he remembered.
---
When the bell chimed, class spilled into the courtyard. The square was broad, paved with etched steel and lined with crystalline lampposts that glowed faintly even in daylight. Groups of students clustered together—some laughing, others sparring with wooden blades under the watch of instructors.
Sirius' gaze froze when he spotted them.
Noctis.
The prince sat under the shade of a tree, Ignis beside him with a book balanced in his lap, Gladio standing like a wall even out of uniform. Noctis leaned against the trunk, eyes half-closed, utterly indifferent to the bustle around him.
Sirius' chest tightened. He knew that face. That destiny. The chosen king… and the death that awaits him.
He looked away quickly. Better to keep distance.
Nearby, voices drifted.
"Prince Noctis doesn't even try, but the teachers don't care."
"Would you argue with the king's son?"
"He's lucky. Sleeping through class while the rest of us break our backs."
Sirius swallowed. Even Noctis was an outsider, though for the opposite reason. Noctis was untouchable. Sirius was unwanted.
---
"Sirius!"
The shout pulled him from his thoughts. A boy strode forward, taller and broader, wooden practice sword slung over his shoulder. His voice carried, enough for a circle of students to turn.
"You think you're special, don't you? Walking around with those freak eyes, acting better than us."
Sirius straightened, calm. "I don't act like anything."
"Then prove it." The boy tossed him a blade. "Fight me."
"I don't want to."
"Scared?"
The circle tightened. Whispers sharpened, instructors watching from a distance but not stepping in. Pride matches were tradition.
Sirius sighed inwardly, weighing his options. Walking away would feed the whispers. Accepting would end them faster. He gripped the blade. "Fine."
---
The boy charged first, blade arcing down. Sirius blocked, the impact rattling through his arms. He stumbled, then steadied.
"See? Nothing special," the boy jeered.
Sirius ducked the next swing, sidestepped the one after. His stance faltered—but then adjusted. Every mistake rewrote itself in his body. Adaptive Resonance thrummed, subtle but relentless.
Strike. Miss. Adjust. Strike. Block. Correct.
The boy pressed harder, sweat glistening on his brow. Sirius parried, countered, each motion cleaner than the last. He slipped inside, blade thudding against ribs. The boy staggered back, gasping.
Murmurs rippled.
"He hit him!"
"Too fast—how'd he learn that?"
"Those eyes—unnatural."
"No… that was skill."
Anger flared in the boy's face. He lunged recklessly. Sirius pivoted, caught the strike, and slammed the flat of his blade into his chest. The boy fell flat, breath knocked out.
The courtyard went still. Then whispers erupted.
"The White Wolf."
"Red-eyed prodigy."
"Dangerous."
Sirius stood in the ring, calm. He hated the attention, but unlike before, he didn't let it cut him. These were just words. His focus was elsewhere—on blades, on shadows, on finding a way to tilt destiny's scales.
---
Under the tree, Ignis closed his book, eyes sharp. "His form corrected mid-fight. Each error vanished as though overwritten. That isn't normal."
Gladio chuckled faintly. "Or maybe he's just good."
Ignis' gaze lingered. "No. It's more than skill."
Noctis cracked one eye open, looked briefly at Sirius, then closed it again with a faint sigh. Uninterested.
---
Sirius left the ring quietly, ignoring the defeated boy's glare. Rivalries born of pride meant nothing. His battles were elsewhere. Still, he could feel the stares following him, whispers already spreading like wildfire.
By the time he left the academy gates, students were still talking. He caught fragments in the halls.
"The White Wolf."
"He's dangerous—did you see how fast?"
"Maybe he's cursed."
"No, maybe he's the strongest one here."
Let them whisper. He walked on without flinching.
---
That evening, the gossip had already reached the barracks. Crownsguards chuckled about it in passing, the way men did when they caught a story worth repeating.
"They're calling him the White Wolf," one said. "Blake's boy. White hair, red eyes. Beat a kid bloody fast."
And so it reached Cor Leonis.
The Immortal listened without expression, his arms folded. "The White Wolf," he repeated softly, the words flat in his mouth. His eyes narrowed, but his face gave nothing else away. He dismissed the man with a nod, then stood alone in silence.
Another piece added to the puzzle of his nephew.
---
On his way home, Sirius passed the stables. A sharp kweh! split the dusk. Rex lifted his head, amber feathers glowing in the fading light.
Sirius stopped, allowed himself a faint smile, and raised a hand in greeting. Rex chirped softly, settling back into straw.
For the first time that day, the whispers faded.