The legend didn't start with Sirius Blake.
It started with whispers.
A student in the academy swore they'd seen a white-haired boy deflect a live spell with a wooden sword. A Crownsguard trainee claimed he sparred with him once — and still couldn't feel his own arms a week later.
By the end of the week, every hallway, classroom, and training ground in Insomnia had heard his name.
The White Wolf.
Some said it was because of his eyes — red as embers, cold as focus.
Others said it was because he moved like a ghost, appearing and vanishing before you could blink.
But most said it was because of how he fought: relentless, silent, and merciful only when he chose to be.
Whatever the truth, the name stuck.
---
At the academy, Sirius noticed the changes immediately.
The usual chatter quieted when he entered the halls. Students stepped aside unconsciously, some in awe, others in discomfort. Even instructors looked twice before speaking to him.
He didn't enjoy it.
He didn't hate it.
It simply was.
Rumors grew in all directions — stories of impossible feats that even he hadn't performed. One claimed he'd fought Cor Leonis to a draw; another insisted he could summon fire with his bare hands.
That last one, at least, wasn't entirely wrong.
---
In combat drills, the gap between Sirius and the others had become unbridgeable.
Where his classmates moved with trained precision, he moved with instinct and anticipation — every dodge, every parry, every strike a seamless echo of perfection.
When he fought Kael, they pushed each other to the edge. When he fought Rhea, he adapted to every illusion before she cast it. When he fought anyone else, it ended too quickly.
Even the instructors stopped treating him like a student.
During one match, the veteran trainer Captain Routh had called him out. "Let's see if the stories are worth repeating, Blake."
Sirius had nodded once. "As you wish."
The duel had lasted ninety seconds.
Routh had hit the ground gasping, weapon disarmed, disbelief painted across his face.
Sirius had helped him up immediately. "You held back."
Routh had stared at him. "So did you."
---
By that evening, the academy was buzzing.
"He beat Routh?"
"In less than two minutes!"
"No way. That's impossible."
"White Wolf strikes again."
The name echoed through the halls, crossing from admiration into legend.
And legends had power.
---
That night, Sirius stood alone on the rooftop terrace overlooking the city. The wind brushed through his white hair, the barrier's faint glow painting his skin blue.
He exhaled slowly, the hum of the city beneath him like a thousand heartbeats merging into one.
He could feel it — the weight of attention, the unseen gazes, the stories shaping him into something he wasn't sure he wanted to be.
He murmured, "You're building a myth out of a boy."
"Not a boy anymore," came Cor's voice from behind.
Sirius turned. The Immortal approached, cloak stirring faintly in the breeze. His eyes studied Sirius with that sharp, unreadable depth that could cut through anyone's mask — except his nephew's.
"You heard?" Sirius asked.
"I hear everything," Cor said. "The Citadel whispers louder than the streets."
Sirius folded his arms. "Then you know they're exaggerating."
"They always do," Cor replied. "But myths serve a purpose."
Sirius frowned. "To inspire?"
"To prepare."
Sirius looked at him questioningly.
Cor continued. "When war comes, soldiers don't need comfort — they need something larger than themselves to believe in. A symbol. A name that reminds them the impossible can be done."
"You're saying they need a lie."
"I'm saying they need hope," Cor said. "Even if it wears the face of a boy who hasn't yet learned what it means."
Sirius looked away, staring at the horizon. "And if the boy can't live up to the story?"
Cor's voice softened — only slightly. "Then the story will keep him alive until he can."
---
The next day, Sirius walked through the Citadel's training yard where soldiers sparred in uniform ranks. Conversations hushed when he passed.
One young Crownsguard whispered to another, "That's him."
"The White Wolf?"
"Yeah. Cor's nephew. They say he's faster than magitek sensors can track."
Sirius ignored them, his focus forward. But he felt their eyes — not cruel, not admiring, just searching.
He entered the sparring arena, where Kael and Rhea were already waiting.
"Look who decided to bless us with his legendary presence," Rhea teased.
Sirius sighed. "Please don't start."
Kael grinned. "You're famous now. Might as well enjoy it."
"I didn't ask for it."
"Doesn't matter," Kael said, stretching. "Sometimes fame finds you."
"Then it can lose me again."
Rhea laughed. "Too late. You're officially the academy's mythological creature."
Sirius deadpanned. "Wonderful."
Cor's voice echoed across the arena. "Enough talking. Let's see if the legend can still keep up with reality."
They turned as he approached, sword in hand.
"Three on one," Cor said. "If the White Wolf wants to prove he's more than a name, now's the time."
Sirius exhaled. "Understood."
---
The fight was chaos — ordered chaos.
Kael charged head-on, Rhea flanked from the right, and Cor moved like lightning, his blade a blur of disciplined violence.
Sirius moved among them like water — flowing, redirecting, predicting. Every motion was a counterpoint, every strike an answer.
Rhea's illusions burst around him, Kael's strength crashed against him, Cor's precision cut toward him — and he met them all.
The clash of steel and magic filled the hall, heat and sound merging into one perfect storm.
Then, with a single turn and step, Sirius disarmed Kael, slipped past Rhea's feint, and stopped his blade a hair's breadth from Cor's chest.
The room went silent.
Cor's eyes met his — sharp, assessing. Then, slowly, the Immortal smiled.
"Well done," he said.
Sirius lowered his weapon, panting softly. "You held back."
Cor nodded. "So did you."
---
By evening, the whispers had changed.
Not "The White Wolf beat another student."
Not "He's fast."
But —
"He fought Cor Leonis… and lived."
The name no longer belonged to rumor. It belonged to legend.
---
That night, Sirius returned home to find Lyla waiting on the balcony. The city glowed behind her, its reflection shimmering in her eyes.
"I heard," she said softly. "The White Wolf."
He winced. "You too?"
She smiled. "It suits you. Strong. Silent. Beautiful."
"It's not who I am."
She shook her head. "Maybe not. But maybe it's who you'll become."
He leaned against the railing beside her, looking out at the endless light. "They see strength. They don't see the exhaustion that comes with it."
She touched his arm gently. "Then remember — you don't have to be the myth all the time. Just my son."
He smiled faintly. "That I can be."
---
When she went to sleep, Sirius remained on the balcony, eyes lifted toward the barrier.
For the first time, he felt the weight of his own name pressing back — a mantle made of whispers and expectation.
He drew his katana, letting the blade catch the city's light.
"White Wolf," he murmured. "If that's what they need… then I'll become it."
The sword gleamed faintly in answer, and thunder rolled far beyond the walls.