The morning pressed down like a weight.
Sirius woke not to comfort, but to shame. The memory of the sabertusks lingered—their snarls, claws raking across his ribs, his breath choking on blood. He remembered how panic had stolen his focus, how his hands had shaken, how he had fumbled for the system. The potion had burned through his veins, sealing wounds that should have killed him. He had lived, yes—but not by discipline. Not by strength.
Not a warrior's survival. A child's mistake.
The crystalline ceiling glowed faintly with the first light of day. Sirius lay there long enough for the light to slide across his face, burning into his eyes. He could have turned away. He didn't. He let it sting, let it fuel the fire in his chest.
Then he rose.
Without breakfast, without a word to his mother, he carried the practice sword Cor had left him into the cramped yard behind the apartment.
The air was sharp, the morning quiet broken only by the hum of the barrier in the distance and the faint chatter of the waking city. Sirius planted his feet on the cracked stone, squared his shoulders, bent his knees. The blade rose.
And he began again.
Basic stance. Guard raised. Step. Cut. Return.
Over and over.
The blade hissed through the air. Each arc was stiff at first, jerky with tension, but grew steadier as the repetition carved into him. His arms ached within minutes, but he refused to falter. Sweat beaded on his brow, rolled down his cheek. His chest rose and fell, breath ragged until he forced it steady.
Basic training must not be faltered.
If fighting starts, form is the key to survival.
Don't forget to breathe. Focus.
The words echoed in rhythm with every cut.
He remembered how his panic in the wilds had left him gasping, how wild swings had wasted his strength, how fear had drowned out his training. That would not happen again.
By midmorning, his shirt clung to his back, hair plastered to his forehead. His legs quivered with each step, arms trembling as the blade grew heavier. Still, he adjusted his stance, corrected the angle of his grip, inhaled through his nose.
Don't falter. Breathe. Focus.
Every mistake of the hunt replayed behind his eyes. Every swing he had thrown wrong, every breath he had lost, every moment he had lost control. With each repetition, he carved those failures out, stroke by stroke, until the mantra burned into his muscles as much as his mind.
At midday, his body buckled. The sword slipped from his hands, clattering onto the stones. He fell with it, gasping for air, arms trembling too violently to lift the blade. His knees ached where they struck the ground.
He lay there for a long moment, fighting the temptation to stop.
Then he forced himself upright. His teeth clenched, breath ragged, he reached for the sword again.
Again. Again.
The sun bled toward evening when his strength finally gave out. He collapsed onto the stones, the blade falling beside him. His chest heaved, sweat dripping into his eyes.
The mantra still rang in his skull. Respect the blade. Respect the body. Don't falter. Breathe. Focus.
"You learned something."
The voice snapped him upright.
Cor stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, presence sharp as steel. How long he had been watching, Sirius couldn't guess.
Heat surged through Sirius' chest—shame, but also resolve.
Cor's gaze was unreadable. "If you insist on walking into the dark," he said, voice low, "then you'll learn to belong to it."
---
The training hall was cloaked in violet shadow by the time Sirius followed Cor inside. Floodlights dimmed to faint threads, wards pulsing low like the heartbeat of the city.
Cor stopped at the center.
"Silence isn't enough," he said. "You've been learning to mute your steps, slow your breath. That's the surface. But shadows don't simply hide you. They erase you."
He drew a circle with his boot. "Your task is simple. Hide. If I find you, you fail. If I don't, you live."
The word live rang in Sirius' chest like iron. Not pass. Not win. Live.
Cor dimmed the lights further. The hall sank into near-darkness. Only the wards' faint violet glow veined the floor.
Sirius pressed against the wall, lowering his stance. His breaths rasped too loud. His heart pounded like a war drum.
Too loud. Too bright.
He tried to still himself, but Cor's footsteps cut across the hall, unhurried. Within seconds, the Immortal loomed over him.
Steel rasped against the floor as Cor's blade tapped beside his boot. "Your fear screams louder than your steps. Again."
---
The second attempt, Sirius slowed his breathing, counting heartbeats. He crouched low, forcing his pulse steady.
Cor's steps drew closer. Closer. Silence stretched.
A pebble clattered across the floor. Sirius' head turned.
Steel kissed his throat an instant later.
"Reaction is noise too," Cor said flatly. "Again."
---
The third attempt, Sirius shut his eyes. He remembered the whispers: White Wolf. Red-eyed prodigy. Too seen. Too obvious.
He forced the words into something else. If they see me, I am weak. If they forget me, I am strong.
He inhaled, slow. Exhaled.
Don't falter. Breathe. Focus.
He matched his breath to the hum of the wards, dulled his heartbeat, lowered even the weight of his gaze. The shadows curled tighter, clinging to him.
Cor's footsteps passed once. Twice. The storm of his presence loomed—then slid past.
For the first time, Sirius felt unseen.
---
The drills continued for hours. Cor pushed him relentlessly—feints, pebbles, sudden clangs of steel to test his nerves. Sirius failed, adjusted, tried again. Adaptive Resonance pulsed in him, rewriting each failure into reflex.
When his lungs begged for air, he repeated the mantra: Don't falter. Breathe. Focus.
When his legs threatened to collapse, he pressed lower, letting the shadows take his weight.
When panic rose, he let it burn out, his breathing syncing with the wards' hum until he was almost part of the hall itself.
By the time Cor dismissed him, Sirius' legs trembled, his shirt clung damp, his body shook. He collapsed to his knees, drenched in sweat, lungs raw.
But inside, something new burned.
Not just survival. Not just strength.
Belonging.
The shadows no longer felt like cover. They felt like allies. The creed whispered sharper than ever: Protect unseen. Bleed without witness.
Sirius clenched his fists. If he could master this, he would be more than a soldier. He would be unseen. Unforgotten.
---
Cor lingered after Sirius left, eyes following the boy's fading steps down the corridor.
Too quick to learn. Too stubborn to stop. A blade honed by secrecy and shame.
The Immortal exhaled, eyes narrowing. "Your path is heavier than you know, boy. Heavier than even the prince's."
Then he turned, the shadows swallowing him whole, leaving the hall silent as Sirius had become.