The training grounds of Insomnia gleamed under magitek floodlights, their glow spilling across the steel floor. Crystal wards pulsed faintly in the corners, suppressing the echoes of steel on steel. Dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces reinforced with enchanted plating to withstand repeated punishment. Above, the city's towers glittered like silver teeth, veins of crystal light running up their spines.
Inside the barrier, the kingdom looked like the future itself — towers of glass, magitek trams whispering along rails, and lanterns floating in midair. But here, in the arena's silence, Cor Leonis thought only of blood and shadows.
He stood at the edge of the grounds, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He had been silent all morning, saying nothing as the candidates sparred. His gaze, however, never left Sirius Blake.
The boy moved with measured strikes, his short sword cutting clean arcs through the air. His stance was better now, tighter. His breathing controlled. He had been shaken after the last mission—Cor had seen it in his eyes, the hollow stare that lingered long after they returned. But here, the boy looked steady. Perhaps too steady.
Kael shifted through shadows nearby, his footwork nearly noiseless as he tested feints. Rhea darted around him with playful sharpness, her wooden daggers flashing, always looking for the trick that would turn a fight her way. Both had talent. Both had potential.
But it was Sirius who drew Cor's gaze again and again.
The boy fought like someone who had already lived through loss.
---
When the drills ended, Cor dismissed the group with a curt nod. Kael melted into the shade at the far end of the yard, already vanishing like smoke. Rhea left humming, tossing her daggers and catching them with a smirk.
But Sirius remained. He knelt by the rack of practice blades, carefully wiping his weapon clean, as though the steel itself deserved reverence. Not the casual gesture of a soldier, but something quieter — almost ritual.
Cor approached slowly, his boots striking the steel floor with weight. Sirius stiffened but didn't look up.
"You've stopped shaking," Cor said.
Sirius hesitated. "…Yes, sir."
"You understand what happened out there?"
The boy's grip on the cloth tightened. "…We left him."
Cor's expression remained stone. "We left him because he was already gone. If you'd gone to him, you'd be dead too. And so would the others."
Sirius' jaw clenched. He didn't argue, but the silence in his eyes burned hotter than words.
Cor studied him for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, "That's the creed. Protect unseen. Bleed without witness. It's not meant to be clean."
"I know." Sirius finally looked up, his red eyes glinting under the magitek floodlight. "But knowing doesn't make it easier."
Cor's lips twitched — the closest thing to a smile he had shown in days. "Good. If it ever gets easy, you've lost something you can't get back."
---
Later, when the grounds were empty, Cor lingered alone. He leaned against the railing, watching the night deepen as Insomnia's towers lit brighter against the barrier.
In his mind, the memory of the boy's face replayed — the candidate left bleeding in the dirt, eyes wide with fear. Cor had seen that look a hundred times in his life. He had taught himself not to flinch from it. But Sirius… Sirius had carried it with him like a wound.
The boy was not like the others.
Most children broke or hardened after their first death. Sirius had not broken. He had not hardened, either. He had… changed. Quietly, steadily, as though his very body rewrote itself around the pain.
Cor had heard the whispers. White Wolf. A nickname murmured among candidates, muttered with a mix of awe and resentment. Some dismissed it as childish boasting. Others wondered if the name would stick.
But Cor knew the truth wasn't in the name — it was in Sirius' eyes.
Eyes too old for his age.
Eyes that no child should carry.
---
Cor's thoughts strayed, unbidden, to another boy. To a prince who bore a kingdom on his shoulders before he was ready. Noctis had a destiny written in prophecy and sealed by gods. His burdens were inescapable, and Cor had sworn to make sure he lived long enough to carry them.
But Sirius—Sirius carried a different weight. One chosen, not forced. One he should not have had to bear at all, and yet took up willingly, silently, without asking.
For the first time, Cor wondered if the road before Sirius was heavier than the one laid out for Noctis.
He straightened, exhaling slowly. The creed demanded silence, demanded that burdens be carried alone. But Cor knew better than most that silence could destroy the unprepared. He would not coddle Sirius—never—but he would watch him. Closely.
The boy's path was not the prince's. But it would be no less vital.
---
Later that evening, as Cor passed through the Citadel's lower corridors, he found Dominic Blake waiting. The man leaned against the wall, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned, exhaustion etched in the lines of his face.
"You watched him again," Dominic said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Cor grunted. "He's improving."
"Too fast," Dominic muttered. His eyes flicked toward the window, where the city lights shimmered against the barrier. "I know my son. He pushes himself harder than he should. And you—" Dominic's gaze sharpened. "You'll let him. Won't you?"
Cor didn't answer immediately. His silence stretched like iron between them. Then, at last, he said, "If I don't push him, the world will. Better he breaks here, where I can build him back, than out there where no one can."
Dominic's jaw worked, but he said nothing more. The silence between them carried both trust and fear.
Cor turned, pulling his cloak tighter. "You should be proud. Most boys his age would have broken already."
"I am proud," Dominic said softly. "That doesn't mean I don't worry."
Cor left without another word, boots echoing down the hall.
---
Back at the training grounds, the floodlights dimmed one by one, leaving the steel floor in darkness. Only one blade remained on the rack — Sirius' practice sword, wiped clean, gleaming faintly in the last glow.
The boy had left it as though honoring the steel itself. Not yet a soldier's habit. Something deeper. Something quieter.
Cor narrowed his eyes, a whisper of thought brushing his mind.
The White Wolf. Perhaps that name will hold truth after all.
He stepped into the night, his expression grim. For now, he would say nothing. He would only watch.
But in the silence of his heart, he knew: Sirius Blake had already begun walking a road darker than most men could endure.
And Cor Leonis would make certain he survived it.