The yard behind their modest home was not grand, nor was it meant to be. Packed earth stretched from fence to fence, the ground hardened by years of footsteps. The walls were plain wood reinforced with faintly glowing sigils etched along the beams—protective charms common in Lucian households. Beyond, the hum of the city barrier lingered faint but ever-present, as if the Crystal itself breathed over the streets.
It was simple, but to Sirius Blake, it felt like an arena.
His father stood at the center, arms folded across a chest built by years of duty, a wooden training sword resting in the crook of his arm. Dominic Blake was not a tall man, nor overly imposing compared to the legends Sirius had read of, but the discipline in his stance made him immovable. He had the presence of someone who had walked through fire and survived it, and the faint scar across his jawline seemed to whisper of battles long past.
Sirius shifted nervously at the yard's edge, the morning air cool against his skin. He was small, the training tunic slipping from his shoulders, the hem brushing his knees. His arms were thin, his stance clumsy, but his red eyes burned with determination that far exceeded his frame.
Dominic's gaze sharpened. He did not need to raise his voice for Sirius to feel the weight of his attention.
"Crownsguard tradition begins here," he said at last, lifting the practice sword. The wood was smooth, edges dulled from years of use, yet still heavy enough to bruise if mishandled. "A blade, even made of wood, is not a toy. It is a promise. Every swing you make must be honest."
Sirius swallowed hard and nodded, throat dry.
Dominic studied him for a long moment before extending the weapon. Sirius reached for it with both hands. The sword felt heavier than it looked. His arms strained, the wood dragging downward the moment he took hold. His knuckles whitened, but he refused to let it fall.
"It's heavy," Sirius whispered.
"It's supposed to be," Dominic replied, his voice steady, almost cold in its certainty. "The world will not make it easy for you. Strength is forged by struggle. Hold it."
The boy grit his teeth and pulled the weapon up until the tip wavered uncertainly before him. His shoulders trembled, his breath already shallow. Dominic circled slowly, not as a father, but as a soldier inspecting a recruit.
"First stance," Dominic commanded. "Feet apart. Knees bent. Weight centered. The stance is the root. Without roots, a tree falls."
Sirius obeyed, shifting until his feet pressed into the soil. He tried to recall what he had seen in another life—tutorials, sparring clips, game animations—but mimicry was not enough. This time the ground pushed back against his heels, the weapon dragged on his muscles, his father's gaze burned into his back.
"Good," Dominic said, at last. "Now… swing."
Sirius exhaled and brought the blade down. The strike was clumsy, the arc crooked, the follow-through short. The sword thudded into dirt with more weight than control.
"Again."
Sirius lifted it once more, his arms shaking, sweat already budding across his brow. He swung.
"Again."
The rhythm began. Swing, stumble, reset. Swing, wobble, reset. The hum of the barrier beyond the walls became a drumbeat to his father's command. Hours seemed to bleed away, though the sun had only climbed a hand's breadth above the rooftops.
"Again."
Sirius' breath grew ragged. His arms burned as if aflame, his shoulders screamed, his hands ached from gripping wood too tightly. He wanted to stop. His body begged for rest.
But Dominic's voice was steady. Not angry. Not impatient. Calm. Demanding, yet unyielding.
"Again."
So Sirius obeyed. Again. And again. And again.
At last his body broke before his spirit did. The sword slipped from his raw fingers and struck the ground with a dull thud. Sirius collapsed to his knees, gasping, his tunic clinging to his skin with sweat. His hair, white as snow, stuck to his forehead. He felt small, weak, defeated.
Dominic approached at last. He crouched before his son, hand resting firmly on the boy's shoulder. His touch was strong, but not cruel.
"You lasted longer than I expected," he said evenly. "That is good. But strength is not enough. Discipline, focus, respect for the blade—those matter more."
Sirius forced his head up, red eyes blazing through exhaustion. "I'll get stronger. I won't stop."
For a moment Dominic studied him, unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "That is what it means to be a Blake. And a Crownsguard's son."
He helped Sirius back to his feet, guiding him toward the house. Lyla stood waiting in the doorway, her long white hair catching the morning light, her expression wavering between pride and worry. She hurried forward, pressing a cool cloth to Sirius' sweat-drenched forehead, her touch gentle where Dominic's had been unyielding.
"You push him hard," she murmured to her husband, her voice tinged with reproach.
"He needs it," Dominic replied, low but firm. "The world will not be kind to him. Better he learns strength here, with us, than out there unprepared."
Sirius listened quietly, chest heaving, but said nothing. He wanted to tell them both that he knew. He knew better than anyone how unkind the world would be, how cruel the story already written was. But the words stayed locked in his chest. Instead, he clutched the cloth his mother gave him, as though it were a banner he dared not let fall.
---
That night, muscles aching, Sirius sat once more at his desk. The lamp glowed softly, casting white light across the notebook waiting for him. His fingers were stiff, but he forced them to hold the pencil steady. Each letter came slowly, carefully, carved into the page like vows etched in stone.
Notes – Father's Lesson
Sword = not toy. It's a promise.
Every swing must be honest.
Stance is root. Without roots, tree falls.
Discipline > strength.
He paused, staring at the messy words. Then, beneath them, he pressed harder, the strokes jagged and uneven:
I will not waste this chance. I will grow. I will fight.
Closing the notebook, Sirius slid it beneath his pillow. The lamp clicked off, plunging the room into dark silence. His arms still throbbed, his body weak, but for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt something solid beneath his feet.
He was not only Sirius Blake, anomaly of fate.
He was the son of Dominic Blake, a Crownsguard.
And that meant something.