The apartment was quiet that evening. Insomnia's neon glow filtered through the windows, painting the walls with shifting hues of violet and gold. In the distance, magitek trams hummed softly along their rails.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of herbs. A kettle whistled low on the stove, steam curling upward. Sirius sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea Lyla had brewed. His fingers ached from training, his shoulders throbbed from hunts, but he hid the pain behind calm silence.
Across from him, Lyla stirred her own cup gently, the spoon clinking softly against porcelain. Her face was pale, framed by hair white as snow, but her eyes glowed warm as always.
"You've been busier than ever, Sirius," she said, voice soft but steady. "I can tell."
He looked down into his tea, avoiding her gaze. "School. Training. Nothing unusual."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "And yet… I've noticed the little things. You come home late. You carry yourself differently. Stronger." She reached across the table, her cool hand brushing against his. "You're growing so fast."
Sirius forced a small smile. "I just want to help."
---
That afternoon, when he'd stopped by the markets to sell drops, Sirius had caught sight of children clustered near a toy stall. They laughed as they played with miniature chocobos carved from crystal, their parents smiling nearby. None of them carried blades. None bore bruises under their sleeves.
He remembered watching them from the edge of the crowd, his pouch of Gil hidden under his cloak. He had wanted to smile, to join, but he couldn't. His nights were not spent playing. His Gil wasn't for toys. It was for medicine, for survival, for secrets he couldn't share.
That memory lingered now, sharp and bittersweet, as Lyla watched him with warm eyes.
---
Later, after supper, he sat with her in the living room. Lyla reclined on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her breathing lighter thanks to the medicine. Sirius fetched it for her earlier that day, coins sliding from his pouch onto the pharmacist's counter. To her, it looked like ordinary errands. To him, it was the weight of hunts, sweat, and hidden blood.
She watched him as he tidied the small shelf near the window, organizing books and trinkets. "You remind me of your father sometimes," she murmured. "The way you focus. The way you keep moving forward no matter what's on your shoulders."
Sirius paused, fingers lingering on the worn spine of one of Dominic's old soldier manuals. His throat tightened. "I'm not like him," he said quietly.
"Oh?" Lyla's eyes softened. "And why not?"
"He's… strong. Brave. A real Crownsguard." Sirius' voice dropped. "I just… I'm trying."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Sirius, bravery isn't about titles or armor. It's about doing what you must, even when it's hard. Your father does it on the battlefield. You…" She reached out again, her fingers brushing his cheek. "You do it here, for me. That's no less brave."
The words pierced him like a blade.
If she knew the truth—that his medicine came not from allowance or errands, but from nights spent in the wild, katana cutting through monsters, pouch filled by a secret system—would she still call him brave?
He swallowed hard, pushing the thought down. "I just want you to feel better."
"And I do," Lyla said, smiling. "Because of you."
---
The room dimmed as night deepened. Lyla began humming softly, an old Lucian lullaby. Sirius leaned against her side, listening quietly.
He remembered that song from his earliest years, its gentle rise and fall soothing him after nightmares. Tonight, the sound was faint, but still tender.
"You know," Lyla whispered between verses, "my mother sang this to me when I was little. She sang it to Dominic too, when he was restless before his first day in training." She smiled faintly. "It's old, but it carries strength. Even warriors need songs to remind them they're loved."
Sirius closed his eyes. The warmth of her voice, the history it carried—it was a fragile world he would fight tooth and nail to protect.
But deep inside, the thought whispered again: She doesn't know. She can't know.
---
Later, Dominic returned home, armor plates clicking faintly as he set them aside. He smiled at the sight of his wife and son together, but there was weariness in his eyes.
"You're both still awake?" he asked, easing himself into a chair.
"Just talking," Lyla replied warmly.
Sirius glanced at his father, then back to his mother. The secret pressed on him like a weight. He wanted to tell them. To admit where the medicine came from, how he was already risking himself beyond Cor's drills. But the thought of their worry—of Lyla's disappointment—held him silent.
Dominic noticed his hesitation, but said nothing. Instead, he reached over to ruffle Sirius' hair, the gesture rough but fond. "You're holding up well, son."
Sirius forced another small smile. "Trying to."
Dominic nodded, satisfied. Lyla, however, saw more. She always did.
When Dominic stepped away to hang his cloak, she leaned close and whispered, "Whatever it is you're not saying… thank you. You're helping more than you know."
Sirius froze, throat tight, heart racing. Did she suspect? Could she tell?
He swallowed, forcing a nod. "I'll keep helping."
Her smile returned, faint but warm. "That's all I need to hear."
The night deepened, but none of them moved from the living room. The lanterns cast a soft glow over the walls, and outside the window Insomnia shimmered under its barrier.
Lyla leaned against the couch cushions, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She smiled faintly at Dominic as he loosened the straps of his armor. "Another long day?"
Dominic sighed, setting a gauntlet on the table. "The Guard never rests. Patrols are tighter near the gates—too many reports of daemon activity after dark." He glanced at her, worry flickering in his eyes. "But you don't need to hear about all that."
"I asked, didn't I?" Lyla's smile remained gentle, but her voice carried steel. "You've carried the weight of this kingdom long enough, Dominic. If I can't hear it, then who will?"
Dominic chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You never did let me keep anything to myself."
Sirius sat quietly nearby, listening. He didn't interrupt, only absorbing the rhythm of their voices—the familiar comfort of their bond.
"And you?" Dominic asked, turning toward his wife. "How are you feeling today?"
Lyla shifted slightly beneath the blanket, her expression calm. "Better. The medicine helps. Some days are easier than others."
Dominic's jaw tightened, but he nodded, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Good. That's what matters."
Sirius lowered his gaze, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He stayed silent, but every word carved itself into his chest.
The three of them sat there together, the night stretching long and still. For a fleeting moment, the burdens of secrets and sickness seemed distant, replaced by the simple warmth of family.