The Blake home was quiet without Sirius.
Their modest apartment stood on one of Insomnia's lower residential tiers, built of smooth stone walls threaded faintly with crystalline veins that glowed with residual magitek light. The soft hum of the city's powerlines was ever-present, a low vibration that resonated through the floor. It was the kind of sound Insomnians hardly noticed anymore, the background of their lives.
Dominic Blake sat at the family table. It was Lucian-made — polished dark wood reinforced with steel trim, practical yet elegant — and bore the small scars of years lived. One corner showed a faint scorch where a magitek lamp had once flickered out of control, a reminder of how even modern devices sometimes failed.
Tonight, the table bore something heavier.
A notebook.
Its cover was worn, its edges bent from constant use. Dominic turned the pages slowly, the hovering lamp above him casting clean white light across his face. Line after line of cramped writing filled the paper: diagrams of daemon anatomy, names of Astrals, notes about the kings of Lucis, sketches of blades and arcane sigils. Some passages read like a soldier's field manual. Others read like prophecy.
He had seen odd doodles before, but this was different. Too detailed. Too precise. A boy of nine should not know half the words written here, much less what they implied.
Dominic's eyes lingered on one page longer than the rest. In between diagrams of monsters, Sirius had scrawled: The king dies willingly. The Crystal darkens. Ten years of night.
Dominic's throat tightened.
The sliding door hissed softly as Lyla entered, her frail frame silhouetted against the glow of the corridor lights. Her white hair caught the lamp's radiance, making her seem more spectral than alive. Yet her eyes were sharp, and the moment they fell upon the notebook, they widened.
"You found it," she said, voice tinged with both fear and awe.
"I had to," Dominic replied. He shut the book with a heavy hand. "He's nine years old, Lyla. Nine. And he writes like a soldier who's seen the front lines."
Lyla stepped closer, fingers brushing the book as if to shield it. "He's always been different. He watches with those eyes of his… older than his years. But this—" She hesitated, voice trembling. "This is not normal."
Dominic rubbed at his temples, the magitek hum of the house pressing against his ears. "No. It isn't."
A firm knock broke the silence.
The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and Cor Leonis stepped inside. The corridor light framed him for a moment before he closed the door, boots heavy against the smooth flooring. He removed his gloves and set them on the counter before approaching. His presence filled the small space, his gaze sweeping between his sister and Dominic.
"You called me," he said simply.
Dominic pushed the notebook across the table. "Read."
---
Cor flipped the pages without hurry. The magitek lamp cast sharp shadows over his face as his eyes lingered on the words. Notes on daemon weaknesses written in exacting detail. A page on Ardyn Izunia, the name underlined twice. Then one that made him pause longer than the others:
Insomnia burns. The chosen king walks into the dark. The light dies, and only the night remains.
Cor closed the book with deliberate calm.
"Well?" Dominic asked.
Cor folded his hands. "This is not a child's fantasy."
Lyla flinched. "So you believe it too."
"I believe," Cor said slowly, "that a boy should not know these things. That is enough."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "He's my son. I've watched him bruise, bleed, train harder than boys his age should. But this—he knows things no child should. Things no one told him."
"Which means," Cor said, his voice flat, "that if the Citadel learns of this…" He let the thought hang, unfinished.
"They'll use him." Lyla's voice cracked. Her hands trembled against the table. "Or worse."
Dominic reached for her hand, steadying it. "That's why I called you both. This never leaves us. Whatever this is—it stays here. With us."
---
Cor leaned back, folding his arms. The magitek lamp above them flickered faintly, its glow steadying again as if the city itself listened.
"You're proposing a secret," he said. "Secrets don't last in Lucis. The king's eyes see much."
"Then it never reaches the king," Dominic snapped. "It never leaves this house."
Lyla turned to Cor, eyes pleading. "Please. He's our boy. He deserves to live as a child, not… not to be turned into a weapon."
Cor's gaze shifted between them. His sister — fragile but fierce in her love. Dominic — soldier and father, bound by loyalty but torn by fear.
Finally, he said, "Very well. The Citadel will not hear of this. His secret stays between us."
Relief softened Lyla's face. Dominic exhaled, shoulders easing.
But Cor wasn't finished.
"I will train him," he said, voice low. "Harder than before. If he carries this knowledge, whatever its source, he cannot be left unprepared. I won't have him stumble blind into a future he already half-sees."
Dominic frowned. "He's still a boy."
"Then he'll grow faster." Cor's tone was steel. "Better bruised now than broken later."
---
Lyla's lips trembled. "Will he ever… be normal?"
Cor looked at her, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Not pity. Not softness. But recognition.
"No," he said. "But he can be strong. Strong enough to survive what's coming."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "Then it's settled. We keep this secret. We protect him. Always."
Tears traced Lyla's cheeks. "For Sirius. Whatever it takes."
Cor inclined his head. "Then it's a pact."
The three of them sat in silence around the notebook. A soldier, a mother, a commander. Bound by fear, love, and duty.
---
Hours later, the door slid open again. Sirius returned from the academy, satchel over his shoulder, a faint bruise on his arm from sparring. He stepped inside, blinking at the quiet.
Dominic smiled at him, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. Lyla brushed his hair gently, memorizing his face. Cor stood near the door, arms folded, gaze sharp and unreadable.
Sirius felt their eyes on him but said nothing. He set his satchel down and went to wash his hands, unaware of the pact sealed in his absence.
---
When the boy was gone, Cor lingered. His voice dropped to a murmur only Dominic and Lyla could hear.
"You know what this means."
Dominic's expression hardened. "Yes."
Lyla pressed her hands together, whispering a prayer.
Cor's eyes narrowed, his thoughts unspoken but clear: This boy must walk the path of shadows.
His gaze lingered once more on the notebook glowing faintly beneath the lamp's light. The words etched in his mind seemed to whisper a creed he already knew:
Protect unseen. Bleed without witness.
The creed had not yet passed Sirius' lips, but in Cor's mind, the boy was already walking its path.