Evening came softly to Insomnia.
Rain pattered gently against the glass walls of the Blake home, each droplet catching the faint blue shimmer of the city's barrier before sliding down like silver tears. The lights outside flickered and reflected off the wet streets, painting the living room in dancing shades of gold and azure.
Inside, the air was warm, filled with the quiet hum of magitek heating and the faint aroma of tea.
Lyla sat by the sofa, her shawl draped loosely around her shoulders. Beside her was a small wooden box — inside it, a simple comb carved from Lucian cedar.
When Sirius stepped through the door, dripping slightly from the rain, she looked up and smiled. "You're soaked."
He brushed his hair back with one hand, closing the door behind him. "The barrier's humidity, mostly. It traps the heat."
She chuckled softly. "And yet you still walk home instead of taking the tram."
"I like the quiet."
"You always do," she said, patting the space beside her. "Come here."
He hesitated a moment, then walked over and sat down, setting his sword against the wall. The warmth of the room wrapped around him, easing the tension from hours of drills and stealth practice.
"Turn around," Lyla said. "You're going to catch a chill."
He smiled faintly. "You still say that, even with all the city's heating."
"Some habits don't need to change," she replied.
---
She lifted the comb and began running it gently through his white hair. The strands slipped through her fingers like silk, smooth and pale as moonlight. Each motion was slow, rhythmic — the kind of care that carried years of memory in its touch.
Sirius closed his eyes.
He hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd done this.
When he was small, this was their nightly ritual — her voice humming softly, his head against her lap, the world outside fading away. It was the sound of safety, of love untouched by duty or training.
Now he was taller, stronger, sharper — but somehow smaller in that moment, fragile beneath her hands.
"You're quiet tonight," Lyla said softly.
He opened his eyes slightly. "I'm always quiet."
She smiled faintly. "No, this is different. The silence feels heavy."
Sirius looked toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, reflecting his faint silhouette — a boy with eyes that no longer looked like a child's.
"I had a hard week," he said after a pause. "Father's worried."
She hummed softly. "He worries because he loves you."
"I know. But I think… he's starting to look at me differently."
Her comb paused mid-stroke. "How so?"
"Like he's not sure what I'm becoming."
Lyla's hand lowered to his shoulder, her touch gentle. "Do you know what you're becoming?"
Sirius hesitated. "Someone who can protect you both."
"That's not what I asked."
He glanced back at her. "Then I don't know."
Her eyes softened. "That's alright. You don't have to know yet."
---
They sat in silence for a while. Only the sound of rain filled the space.
Then Lyla spoke again, her voice softer now — the tone she used when she wanted her words to last. "You remind me of your father when he was young. Always chasing strength. Always afraid it wouldn't be enough."
"He told me the same thing," Sirius murmured.
She smiled faintly. "Then you're both hopeless."
He chuckled softly. "Probably."
She leaned forward, brushing her fingers through his hair again. "You know, when you were born, I worried you'd inherit too much of him. The duty, the pride, the stubbornness."
Sirius smirked. "So… all of him."
"Exactly."
Her tone softened. "But then you smiled for the first time, and I knew you'd inherited something else too — the light that keeps him human."
He didn't answer, but something in his chest loosened.
"You've seen too much for someone your age," she continued quietly. "The training, the fights, the things Cor puts you through… it's more than any boy should bear. But no matter what you learn out there, no matter how sharp your blade becomes — promise me one thing."
Sirius turned toward her. "What?"
"Don't let the world make you cold."
He hesitated. "Sometimes… I feel like it's already happening. The more I fight, the more I silence myself. It's easier that way."
She shook her head gently. "Easier isn't always better. Silence protects, yes, but it also isolates. Don't forget the sound of your own heart, Sirius."
Her hand rested over his chest, warm against the faint beat beneath. "This is what makes you my son — not your strength, not your skill, but this."
---
For a long time, neither spoke. The rain slowed outside, turning into a faint mist that whispered against the glass.
Then, softly, Sirius said, "Do you ever regret it?"
She tilted her head. "Regret what?"
"Having me."
Her hand froze. "What kind of question is that?"
He looked down. "Because everything you and Father go through — my training, the secrecy, the danger… if I wasn't here, you'd both live easier lives."
Lyla stared at him for a long moment — then set the comb aside and took his face in both hands.
"Sirius Blake," she said firmly, voice trembling just enough to make his name feel like a vow, "you are the reason I fight to live easier days."
His throat tightened. "Mom…"
She smiled, tears glinting faintly. "You gave meaning to every pain. Don't ever think you're a burden. You're our hope, Sirius — our heartbeat in this city of metal and light."
He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't," she whispered. "Just let me hold you a little longer."
---
He leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder. Her hand stroked his hair in slow, comforting circles, the rhythm steady, patient.
For once, he didn't feel like a soldier.
He didn't feel like a prodigy or a myth.
He just felt like a son.
The warmth of her touch, the soft sound of rain, the faint hum of the barrier outside — it was all he needed to remember what he was fighting for.
After a while, Lyla murmured, "You'll have to cut this hair someday."
He smiled faintly. "I like it long."
"I know. But I keep losing sight of your face under all that white."
"Then maybe that's how I hide from Cor's inspections."
She laughed quietly, the sound warm and alive. "Smart boy."
---
Later, when she finally drifted to sleep against his shoulder, Sirius stayed still, not wanting to move or break the peace.
He looked out the window — the barrier shimmered faintly, the city reflected in its glow.
His mother's breathing was soft, steady, grounding.
He whispered, "You don't need to worry. I won't lose what you gave me."
The words vanished into the quiet, but the promise stayed.
He reached up, brushing a strand of white hair behind her ear, and smiled.
"I'll protect this warmth," he murmured. "Even in the dark."
Outside, the rain stopped. The city gleamed fresh under the faint light of dawn.