Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, soft and golden. Sirius Blake stirred in his bed, blinking against the brightness. For once, there was no ache in his arms from training, no summons from his father or uncle. Just the gentle clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the hum of his mother's voice.
He slid out from beneath the blanket and padded across the wooden floor. The scent of herbs and simmering broth drifted toward him, comforting and familiar. When he stepped into the kitchen, Lyla was there, her long white hair tied loosely back, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she stirred a pot.
"Good morning, Sirius," she said without turning, her voice light. "I thought I'd let you sleep in."
Sirius rubbed at his eyes and smiled faintly. "I wanted to help."
She glanced over her shoulder, her pale eyes softening. "Then fetch the carrots from the basket, will you?"
He obeyed quickly, dragging the heavy basket across the floor until it bumped against the table. Climbing onto a stool, he reached for a knife. Lyla's hand stilled his.
"Not yet," she chided gently. "Your hands are too small for that blade. Tear the leaves instead."
Sirius flushed but nodded, pulling the greens free with quick fingers. Lyla watched him for a moment, then turned back to the pot, her expression unreadable.
---
After breakfast, Lyla suggested they take a walk through the streets. The city buzzed with its usual rhythm—merchants setting out their goods, children chasing one another, Crownsguard patrols making their rounds. Magitek lanterns glowed faintly in the daylight, reflections shimmering in rain puddles from the night before. A bakery's oven hummed with runes that kept the loaves inside warm and golden.
Sirius kept close to his mother, her hand cool but steady in his.
They stopped at the bakery stall, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread. Lyla bought a small loaf, pressing it into Sirius' hands. "For later," she said, smiling.
As they wandered, she pointed out the buildings that lined the avenue. "That apothecary was here when I was a child," she told him. "Cor used to sneak bitter tonics into my tea as a prank."
Sirius laughed, imagining the Immortal as a mischievous boy. "Uncle did that?"
"Oh yes," Lyla said, eyes bright with memory. "He was stricter with himself than anyone else, but with me… he allowed small mischiefs. He always tried to make me strong."
Her voice softened on the last word, and Sirius' chest tightened. She's still trying to be strong now.
---
At midday, they returned home. Lyla settled by the window, knitting in her lap, while Sirius sprawled on the rug with a book of stories. The fire crackled softly, wrapping the room in warmth.
"Read aloud," Lyla said, glancing up from her needles.
Sirius hesitated—his voice sometimes stumbled over the letters—but he began anyway. His small voice filled the room with the tale of a knight who carried no shield, only faith in the light.
When he faltered on a word, Lyla gently corrected him, her tone patient. When he finished, she clapped softly. "Well done. You read better each day."
Sirius ducked his head, embarrassed but proud.
---
In the late afternoon, Lyla insisted on combing his hair. Sirius sat on a stool while she brushed the white strands, her touch gentle but firm.
"You have your father's stubbornness," she murmured. "And my hair. A strange combination, isn't it?"
Sirius looked down at his hands. "Do you ever… wish I looked more normal?"
Her brush paused. She set it aside and knelt to meet his gaze. "Never. You are exactly who you're meant to be. White hair, red eyes, stubborn heart. All of it is mine, all of it is Dominic's. You are us."
Sirius swallowed hard. "Then I'll protect you. Both of you."
Her eyes shone. She kissed his forehead and whispered, "I believe you."
---
That evening, as dusk settled over Insomnia, Lyla lit a single lantern and sang while she prepared supper. The melody was one Sirius had heard before—soft, wistful, older than either of them. The words spoke again of light that never fades… and guardians unseen, who watch in silence.
Sirius sat at the table, chin resting on his hands, listening as the notes filled the room. Her voice was fragile, not strong like a bard's, but it carried warmth that seeped into every corner of the home.
At one point, her hand paused on the counter, pressing faintly against her chest. Sirius noticed, heart lurching—but then she smiled and kept singing, as if nothing had happened.
When she set the bowl before him, she teased softly, "Don't fall asleep in your food."
He grinned sheepishly, taking the first spoonful. The broth was simple, but it was hers, and that made it the best meal he could imagine.
---
After supper, Lyla sat by the fire while Sirius curled against her side, his small head resting on her shoulder. She stroked his hair, humming the lullaby again.
"You're my light," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Don't ever forget that."
Sirius closed his eyes, his chest tight. He wanted to tell her everything—that he knew her time was short, that he was fighting in secret to keep her safe, that he had vowed to change fate itself for her sake. But the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, he whispered, "I won't forget. I promise."
The fire burned low. Lyla's humming softened, fading into silence as she drifted to sleep. Sirius lay awake a little longer, memorizing the warmth of her presence, the steady beat of her heart.
He knew he couldn't keep this forever. But he could protect it for as long as possible.
---
Later, in his room, he opened his notebook for what might be the last entry of the day.
Notes – A Day with Mother
Cooked together. She laughed.
Stories about Uncle Cor. He was playful once.
Read aloud. She said I'm getting better.
She brushed my hair. Said I am both of them.
Promise: Protect them. Always.
He hesitated, then added in jagged letters:
If fate takes her, it will have to go through me first.
He closed the notebook, slid it under his pillow, and lay down. Sleep came quickly this time, carrying him into dreams where his mother's voice still hummed and her smile never faded.