The faint gray of dawn spilled through the shoji doors, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Birds chirped distantly, and the house was still.
Shirou lay awake.
Not because of a nightmare—just because his body refused to stay still. Old habits died hard. This body's internal clock, honed through years of pre-dawn cooking, ignored the exhaustion from the day before.
So after a few moments of quiet staring at the ceiling, he sat up with a low sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and padded out into the hallway.
He was halfway to the kitchen when he glanced through the open panels that led to the garden—and paused.
There, in the early morning light, Yan Qing moved with silent grace.
Barefoot on the soft grass, sleeves rolled to the elbow, he moved through katas with a dancer's precision and a swordsman's breath control. Each movement flowed into the next—not for show, not even for power. It was meditative. Beautiful.
Shirou smiled faintly, but decided not to interrupt. He made his way to the kitchen instead.
He'd just opened the cabinet and started pulling out rice, miso paste, and eggs when he turned—and nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Gah—!"
Yan Qing was leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unapologetically amused.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to scare you."
Shirou held a hand over his rapidly beating heart. "You move like a ghost."
"Occupational habit." He stepped into the kitchen and glanced over the ingredients. "Need help?"
Shirou exhaled and nodded, recovering. "Yeah. Can you set the table?"
"On it."
As Yan Qing moved with quiet efficiency toward the dining area, he added, "You're up early. Didn't think school starts until eight."
Shirou shrugged as he rinsed the rice. "I've always been an early riser. What about you? I saw you in the garden earlier. That part of your training?"
"Not exactly," Yan Qing said, pausing with a plate in hand. "I don't need to train. Heroic Spirits retain our skill perfectly. But the motions soothe me. Especially when... it's hard to sleep."
Shirou looked up, slightly startled. "Hard to sleep?"
Yan Qing gave a half-smile, distant. "Probably. Truth is—I don't know what sleep really feels like. I was a legend, not a man. A whisper of myth. A story of shadows and perfect kills. I don't remember ever needing rest. Or being allowed to."
Shirou frowned, guilt tugging at his chest. "…I should've asked. I didn't think—"
"You were exhausted," Yan Qing said, voice calm as he returned to Shirou's side. "You collapsed after summoning us. I could wait."
"You shouldn't have to," Shirou said softly, gripping the rice scoop tighter. "I could have turned you into devils, instead."
Yan Qing reached out and tapped Shirou gently on the forehead.
Shirou blinked.
"You're giving us a chance," he said, voice just above a whisper. "I can wait however long I need to feel alive."
Shirou swallowed hard, then looked up at him. "And you won't regret it?"
Yan Qing smiled. "For getting a chance to live? I don't think so."
The tension eased between them, just a bit.
Then he gestured toward the stove. "Now hurry up and cook. You've got six more mouths to feed—and if Achilles gets up first again, there'll be no rice left for the rest of us."
Shirou laughed under his breath. "Right. Breakfast, then questions."
.
As Shirou plated the grilled fish and stirred the miso soup, Yan Qing moved silently around the table, placing utensils and filling cups. The quiet clink of dishes and the gentle hiss of the kettle filled the early morning peace.
Then, the door to the garden slid open again.
Karna stepped in without a word, his movements calm and silent. His golden eyes swept the room, noting the warmth in the air, the smell of rice, the ease between Yan Qing and Shirou. He gave a slight nod.
"Morning," Shirou greeted, voice warm.
Karna inclined his head. "Do you require help?"
"You can start scooping rice," Shirou said, smiling faintly. "Just don't burn your hands."
"I don't burn," Karna replied, utterly deadpan, already reaching for the ladle.
Moments later, another quiet step echoed from the hall and Arjuna appeared, straight-backed and alert despite the early hour. His eyes flicked toward the table and then to Karna.
They exchanged a silent glance. Cool. Not unfriendly, but… aware.
"Arjuna," Shirou said, trying to keep it casual. "Sleep well?"
"I don't need to sleep," he replied simply, but took a seat at the table without argument. His words made some of the guilt return.
Not long after, Florence arrived—straight-spined, dressed, and already giving Shirou's plating a quick critical once-over as she walked in.
She was followed closely by Sigurd, hair perfectly in place, posture like a knight at court. He paused only to say, "The aroma is... grounding," and then sat beside Arjuna with military grace.
"Where's Achilles?" Shirou asked, turning over a pan of tamagoyaki.
"Probably still snoring," Florence said. "Like a warhorse in a stable."
Yan Qing snorted. "He sleeps like he fights—loud and flailing."
As if on cue, a faint crash came from the hallway.
A few moments later, Achilles stumbled in, shirt half-buttoned and hair a mess. "Is that breakfast? Smells like heaven hit a frying pan."
"You're late," Karna noted without judgment.
"I forgive myself," Achilles grinned.
Shirou served the final portions just as they all settled at the table. Only one seat remained empty.
"Romani?" Shirou asked, glancing toward the guest room hallway.
Florence stood without a word.
"…Should we—?"
"I'll get him," she said.
Less than a minute later, they heard grumbling and soft scuffling, followed by a very pitiful whine of, "Florence, I need five more minutes—"
Then Florence reentered the kitchen, dragging Romani by the back of his coat, his hair mussed and sticking out in ten directions, a single slipper missing from one foot.
"I was meditating," he said, face flat on the table now.
"You were drooling," Florence corrected as she pushed a cup of tea in front of him.
The table finally full, the first real morning in the Emiya estate began—not with fanfare or battles, but with breakfast.
Shirou looked around as bowls clinked softly, chopsticks moved with practiced ease, and for a while the only sound at the table was breakfast being enjoyed in peace—as strange as that was with seven legendary beings sharing a meal in a modern kitchen.
As the second pot of tea brewed, Shirou leaned forward, elbows lightly resting on the table, curiosity replacing fatigue in his expression.
"So…" he asked, looking around, "how did everyone sleep?"
Sigurd straightened slightly. "I had sufficient magical energy. I did not require rest."
Arjuna, seated beside him, nodded. "I remained in a meditative state. Sleep was unnecessary."
Karna echoed them with a slight tilt of his head. "The same."
Achilles, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head and a proud grin on his face. "Then you guys are missing out. That bed? Softest thing I've ever laid on. I could've drowned in those blankets."
Across from him, Romani groaned, face still buried in his arms. "I was so close to hitting that perfect five-minute drift. Then she dragged me out like a criminal."
Florence, utterly unbothered, sipped her tea. "Your punishment was earned."
Shirou gave a soft laugh at the contrast, but it faded into something thoughtful. He looked at Karna, Arjuna, Sigurd.
"I know you don't need to sleep," he said, "but… sleeping's nice. You should let yourselves enjoy it. While you can."
There was a pause. The three gave him polite, blank looks.
"…Right," Shirou muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I forgot—your bodies are still tied to me through the Lesser Grail. You're not... alive. Not yet."
He glanced toward the open box of Evil Pieces, where fourteen remained—waiting.
"I'll fix that right after breakfast. I'll use the Pieces. You'll be alive. I promise."
Before he could move, Yan Qing lightly tapped him on the head with the blunt end of his chopsticks. "You're doing that thing again."
Shirou blinked. "What thing?"
"Guilt. Self-blame. Trying to fix everyone before fixing yourself."
Before Shirou could answer, Florence added, her tone gentle but firm, "You don't need to rush. We're not falling apart."
Romani finally sat up, pushing his hair out of his face with both hands. "We're here, Shirou. Stable. A little weirded out, sure, but alive. You gave us that. So next time... just don't burn yourself out trying to make it perfect."
Shirou frowned. "But once I use the Pieces… you'll be part of my Peerage. My family."
His gaze dropped slightly, voice softer now. "I summoned you. You're my family already."
The room quieted.
Achilles lowered his arms.
Arjuna blinked—subtle, but telling.
Karna's gaze shifted, almost softened.
Romani gave him a tired, crooked smile. "That might be the nicest thing I've ever heard."
Florence didn't say anything, but she nodded, and that, somehow, meant the most.
.
The table had finally quieted. Bowls were empty, cups drained, the air warm with the afterglow of a shared meal.
Shirou stood, collecting dishes with instinctive efficiency, but Florence stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
"I've got the dishes," she said simply. "You focus on the next part."
Shirou looked like he might argue—but only for a second. Then he nodded, murmuring, "Thanks," before heading back toward the box of Evil Pieces.
The others followed, moving to the living room where the floor had already been cleared. The summoning from yesterday was done, but the air still carried a faint shimmer of magic—something new and not yet settled.
Romani, still a little sleepy-eyed, moved last, arms crossed loosely.
"I'll go last," he said.
Shirou blinked. "Why?"
Romani shrugged. "I'm the only one who's already technically altered my essence. If I regain more of my old power, it might drain you a bit more than the others. Better to save that until the end."
Shirou hesitated, but then nodded. "Alright. That makes sense."
He opened the box. Fourteen white Evil Pieces glowed faintly in their velvet slots.
The first he drew was a Rook.
"Yan Qing."
The Assassin stepped forward, ever-light on his feet. "Let's get it over with before I think too hard about becoming part of a chessboard."
Shirou smiled faintly and held the piece up. It pulsed in response. He stepped closer, placing it gently against Yan Qing's chest. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The piece sank in without resistance, vanishing in a ripple of light that washed over Yan Qing like a passing breeze.
Yan Qing blinked. Then flexed his fingers. "That felt clean. Like a thread just tied itself in place. I feel more powerful… and alive."
"Still you?" Shirou asked.
"Still me," he said with a grin. "Just with a name tag now."
The next Knight went to Achilles, who practically bounced over.
"This'll be awesome," he said. "I've never been a chess piece before!"
Shirou pressed the Knight piece to his chest. Achilles glowed briefly, then flexed with dramatic flair. "Oho! I feel faster already!"
Florence, from the kitchen, didn't even look up. "You're not."
"Rude!"
Next, Arjuna stepped forward for the Bishop piece. His transformation was subtler—his aura refined itself, magic aligning around him like a disciplined current. He gave Shirou a quiet nod, nothing more.
Karna was next. The Rook in Shirou's hand responded the moment it neared him. His transformation was like the quiet bloom of sunlight—not brighter, just truer. His presence deepened. Grounded itself.
"I still stand," he said.
Shirou offered a quiet, relieved smile.
The final Knight went to Sigurd, who accepted it with solemn dignity. As the piece disappeared into his chest, the air shimmered around him faintly, runes flickering just under his skin like ink stirred by magic.
"I remain a knight," he said simply. Then his lips quirked up. "Even in Chess."
And then—only Romani was left. The final Bishop in hand, Shirou stepped toward him—but Romani raised a finger.
"Wait," he said.
He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. The air around him rippled, just faintly, as if the space was remembering something. Wisdom. Pain. A thousand lives' worth of experience stirred beneath the surface of his skin.
Shirou blinked as Romani's hair ruffled slightly, not from wind, but from energy. His eyes opened again—same warm green, but older now. Deeper.
He still looked like himself, soft orange hair and sleepy smile, but… something was sharper.
"Okay," Romani said gently. "Now."
Shirou stepped closer and pressed the Bishop piece into his chest.
It sank in without struggle—but this time, Shirou felt it. A slow, gradual pull, like the tide drawing from his skin. It didn't hurt, but it ached—deep in his bones, like magic restructuring itself across a very old pattern.
Romani placed a hand lightly over Shirou's, guiding it away as the light settled.
"Thanks," he said softly. "I'm still me. But maybe a little more of who I used to be, too."
Shirou looked up at him, drained but steady. "You okay?"
Romani smiled. "I'm alive."
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