The next morning broke under a quiet sky. The barrier over Insomnia shimmered with a soft golden hue, the faint hum of magitek lines pulsing beneath the city's surface like veins of light.
Inside the Blake household—quiet and modest compared to the royal quarters—sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.
Sirius sat at the kitchen table, papers and reports scattered before him—mission logs, supply requisitions, and training rosters. The tasks of a commander never stopped, not even in peace.
He hadn't slept much. His mind kept replaying the words his mother had spoken the day before: Don't let silence consume you.
He didn't know if she understood how literal those words were.
---
Lyla's soft footsteps broke his thoughts.
She entered the kitchen slowly, her shawl wrapped tight, her smile faint but steady. "You're working already?"
He glanced up, eyes softening. "It's not work. Just… preparation."
"That's what your father always said before a mission," she said, moving to pour herself tea. "He'd stay up all night 'preparing,' and then sleep through breakfast."
Sirius smiled faintly. "He always said food was secondary to focus."
"And I always said that's why he came home with more scars than sense," Lyla replied, sitting across from him. "You're better at pretending that isn't you."
Sirius set his papers aside. "I learned from both of you."
"Mm," she hummed, sipping her tea. "Then maybe you've learned enough to hear something new."
---
He raised an eyebrow. "Something new?"
She met his gaze—gentle, but firm, the way only a mother could be. "Strength isn't what you think it is, Sirius."
He tilted his head slightly. "Then what is it?"
"Not control. Not power. Not perfection." Her voice was quiet but clear. "It's kindness."
He blinked, unsure if she was teasing him. "Kindness?"
"Yes," she said simply, setting down her cup. "Your father once thought strength meant never faltering. Never hesitating. Never showing weakness. But he learned, the hard way, that without kindness, strength only builds walls around the heart."
Sirius looked down at his hands—the same hands that had drawn blades against monsters, men, and darkness alike.
"Walls protect," he said softly.
"They also keep people out," she countered.
He fell silent.
---
She leaned forward, her silver eyes catching the morning light. "You lead now, don't you? You command others. Kael, Rhea, Darius… they follow your orders."
He nodded. "Yes."
"And they trust you?"
"I think so."
"Then ask yourself—what do they see when they look at you?"
Sirius frowned slightly. "A commander. Someone to rely on."
"Or someone they're afraid to disappoint?" she asked gently.
The question struck deeper than she knew.
Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again, realizing he didn't know the answer.
Lyla smiled faintly, seeing the hesitation in his eyes. "Strength without kindness breeds fear, Sirius. Fear may make people obey you, but it won't make them believe in you."
---
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't lead through fear. I give them direction."
She tilted her head slightly. "And when they fall short of it?"
"…I correct them."
"How?"
"With… firm guidance," he said after a pause, and she smiled knowingly.
"Firm guidance," she repeated, chuckling softly. "That's a soldier's phrase if I've ever heard one."
"Sometimes I forget they're not soldiers," he admitted quietly.
Her expression softened. "And sometimes you forget that you're still human."
That stopped him.
Lyla leaned back in her chair, eyes wandering toward the window. "You carry so much discipline in your voice, Sirius. It's admirable. But when I hear you speak sometimes… I hear Cor."
He blinked. "Uncle Cor?"
"Yes. The Immortal. Unbending. Unyielding. Alone."
She turned her gaze back to him. "But you're not him. And I don't ever want you to be."
---
Silence settled between them again. The sunlight had shifted, painting the floor in soft amber.
Sirius broke it first. "Cor taught me that control is the only way to survive. That emotions cloud judgment. That a leader's first duty is to command, not to feel."
"And what has that given you?" she asked softly.
He hesitated. "…Focus. Clarity."
"And loneliness?" she added.
He froze.
Lyla smiled sadly. "Your father once told me something, years ago. He said, 'The stronger I get, the further I feel from everyone else.' You're starting to sound like him."
Sirius stared at the steam curling from his untouched tea. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm telling you now—before it becomes all you know."
---
She reached across the table, resting her fragile hand over his. "You can lead with discipline. You can fight with skill. But when you start leading with compassion—when you start listening to the people behind you—you'll become someone even Cor couldn't imagine."
He looked up at her, words caught in his throat.
"I'm not telling you to be soft," Lyla continued. "I'm telling you to be kind. There's a difference."
"I know," he said quietly.
"Do you?"
He smiled faintly. "I'm starting to."
---
Lyla stood, steadying herself on the edge of the table. Sirius immediately rose to help her, but she waved him off with a small laugh. "I'm fine. Don't make me feel ancient."
"You're not," he said gently.
"Hmm. Then maybe I've earned the right to sound wise."
He chuckled under his breath. "You've always been wise."
"Then let me give you one last lesson," she said, meeting his gaze directly. "Power will draw eyes. Strength will earn respect. But kindness—true kindness—builds loyalty that even death can't take away."
She stepped closer, resting her hand against his cheek the way she had when he was small. "When you lead with that, Sirius, even the shadows will follow you willingly."
---
Her words lingered long after she left the room.
Sirius stood in silence, the faint hum of the city beyond the walls filling the air.
He looked at the papers still spread across the table—reports of missions, tactical formations, weapons inventories. None of them spoke of kindness. None of them measured the weight of a human heart.
And yet, somehow, that was what mattered most.
He reached for his pen and wrote three words in the corner of the page before setting it down:
"Strength through kindness."
It was simple. But it felt right.
---
That night, Sirius stood again on the Citadel terrace. The barrier pulsed faintly overhead, the stars muted behind the light.
He thought of his mother's voice, her steady faith. The way her words cut through his armor in ways no blade ever could.
He rested his hand on the hilt of his katana. "Kindness," he murmured. "That's a harder weapon to wield than any sword."
And yet, somehow, he felt stronger for it.