The hearthfire crackled softly, filling the room with amber and gold. Shadows danced across the walls, chased away by the steady warmth that spread outward in gentle waves. Sirius Blake sat cross-legged on the rug, his wooden practice sword propped against the leg of a chair. His arms still ached from drills that morning, every muscle sore from repetition, but here, in the glow of firelight, he hardly noticed.
The air carried the faint scent of simmering herbs from the kitchen, mingling with smoke and wood. The house seemed to breathe around him—safe, warm, alive.
Dominic Blake leaned back in his chair, a whetstone and cloth in hand, polishing a steel sword across his knees. His gauntlets were set aside, his tunic loosened after duty, but he still carried himself with the unyielding bearing of a Crownsguard. The blade gleamed in the fire's glow, its edge catching sparks of light with each careful stroke.
Nearby, Lyla Leonis sat in her own chair, knitting slowly. Her pale hair caught the glow, shimmering silver as though the flames themselves had chosen her as their reflection. Her hands moved with quiet rhythm, though every so often she paused, catching her breath, a faint cough muffled behind a folded handkerchief. Sirius noticed, but said nothing—she always smiled as if nothing were wrong.
Sirius looked from one to the other, his red eyes reflecting the firelight. To anyone else, the scene might have seemed ordinary. To him, it was treasure. In another life, his nights had been filled with silence after loss—an empty apartment, no fire, no family. Here, even fragility carried warmth. Here, the house pulsed with life.
"Father," Sirius said at last, his voice cutting through the hush. "Tell me a story."
Dominic glanced up, raising a brow. "A story? About what?"
"About the Crownsguard," Sirius said firmly. His tone was sharper than most children's, and it drew a flicker of surprise from his mother. "What it means… to protect."
For a long moment Dominic studied him, then set the whetstone aside. He lifted the sword and rested it across his lap, his eyes drifting toward the fire.
"When I was your age," he began, "my father placed a wooden sword in my hands. He told me something simple—that a Crownsguard's duty is not to fight, but to endure. The king may command, soldiers may march, but the Crownsguard stands between the kingdom and its enemies, no matter the cost."
Sirius leaned forward, caught by every word.
"We don't chase glory," Dominic went on. "No one sings our names. We bleed in silence. But every man, woman, and child in this city sleeps safely because we endure. That is the vow we carry. That is the weight."
His voice was calm, steady, yet his eyes burned like embers. Sirius' chest tightened. He remembered the notes in his hidden notebook: Insomnia's fall, the Crystal stolen, the city burning. Soldiers dying nameless deaths in the streets. He clenched his small fists. Not this time. I won't let it happen.
"Does it scare you?" Sirius asked softly. "To fight? To bleed in silence?"
Dominic smiled faintly, though it was a hard smile. "Of course. Fear keeps us alive. Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's standing anyway. And duty makes you endure."
The words carved themselves into Sirius' mind, sharper than steel. Duty. Endurance. Protecting others even when the world never knows your name. He wanted to carry that too—but more than endure, he wanted to change.
"Enough of swords and shadows," Lyla interrupted gently. She set her knitting aside and extended her arms. "Come here, Sirius."
He went to her at once, climbing into her lap. Her embrace was slight yet fierce, her heartbeat steady against his ear. She stroked his white hair slowly, her touch a balm against the ache in his muscles.
"You've had enough of blades for one day," she murmured. "Let me give you something softer."
"A song?" Sirius asked, tilting his head.
Her lips curved. "Yes. A lullaby my mother sang to me."
Her voice rose in quiet melody, weaving through the room like smoke curling toward the rafters. The song was old, older than Sirius could place, carrying both sorrow and warmth. The words spoke of light that never faded, of unseen guardians watching in silence, of hope carried through the longest night.
Sirius' eyes stung. He knew, deep down, that she sang not only to soothe him, but to give herself courage. He pressed his face against her shoulder, whispering fiercely, "I'll protect you, Mother. I promise."
Her hand paused in his hair. Then she kissed his head, her voice soft but sure. "You already do."
"No," he said again, muffled but resolute. "Not enough. I'll get stronger. Strong enough that you'll never have to be afraid again."
Dominic watched quietly from across the room. His eyes softened, though he said nothing. He only sheathed the polished blade with deliberate care, as though sealing his son's vow with steel.
---
Later, after his parents had gone to bed, Sirius sat again at his desk. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to glowing embers, the warmth fading into the night. He switched on his lamp, the pale white glow spilling across the pages of his notebook.
He turned to a new page and began to write.
Notes – Hearth Night
Father's words: Crownsguard = endure. Protect in silence.
Fear is not weakness. Courage = standing anyway.
Mother's lullaby: light that never fades, guardians unseen. Hope in darkness.
Family = reason to fight. Reason to change fate.
He pressed the pencil harder, jagged strokes gouging the paper:
I will not let them fall. Not this family. Not this city.
His hand trembled, smudging the graphite, but the words remained bold. He stared at them until the lamp burned low, then slid the notebook beneath his pillow.
When he lay down, the echo of his mother's lullaby still lingered in his ears, carrying him into uneasy sleep. And as the last ember died in the hearth, Sirius' vow burned hotter still—an ember waiting for the day it would become a flame.