The silence in the Refractorium in the wake of the boys flight was not empty. It was a dense, heavy substance, saturated with the coppery scent of blood, the tang of unleashed magic, and the psychic residue of sheer, unadulterated terror. It was a silence that pressed down on the twins, a physical weight compounding their injuries and their shame.

For a long, suspended moment, the mothers did not move. They were statues of shock and fury, their forms radiating a power so immense it seemed to warp the very light around them. Then, the dam broke.

It was not a gentle transition. It was a tectonic shift from vengeful guardians to frantic parents.

Nyxara was the first to crumble. The terrifying Queen of Nyxarion vanished, replaced by a mother whose children were bleeding. Her multi hued light, which had moments ago burned with regal fury, now flickered with a wild, panicked rhythm. Her hands, which had just been instruments of disarming precision, trembled as they cupped Kuro's face, her thumbs smearing the blood from his split lip.

"Kuro. Look at you. Your face… your eye…" Her voice was a ragged whisper, stripped of all authority, filled only with a fear that seemed to age her centuries in an instant. "What were you thinking? What happened?"

Statera her Polaris glow a frantic, strobing beacon over Shiro's broken form. She didn't touch the ruined brand, her hands hovering just above the torn flesh as if her light alone could stitch it back together. "Shiro, oh, my boy, my love," she breathed, her voice cracking. "The brand… he tore it open. By the stars, the pain you must be in…" A single, perfect tear traced a path through the dust on her cheek, falling onto Shiro's tunic like a drop of liquid diamond.

Lyra was not humming. She was making a low, wounded sound in the back of her throat, her hands running over Kuro's arms and torso, checking for breaks, her luminous eyes wide with a horror that no poetry could capture. "So much blood. There's so much blood on both of them."

Lucifera stood apart for a moment longer, a sharp, furious silhouette against the grand archway, her Sirius gaze sweeping the chamber as if ensuring the threat was truly gone. Then she turned, and her fury, once directed outwards, now turned inward, towards her sons. The cold, murderous void in her eyes was replaced by a white hot, maternal inferno.

She crossed the space in three swift strides. Her hand did not gently cup Kuro's cheek. It shot out, her thumb and forefinger seizing the cartilage of his ear with a grip that was not meant to tease, but to punish. It was a pinch of pure, unadulterated force, a pain so sharp and unexpected it made Kuro gasp.

"Why." The word was not a question. It was an accusation, sharpened on a whetstone of fear and rage. "Why did you run away from us? Why did you come here alone, in the dark, without a word? What possible, conceivable, ludicrous reason could have festered in your minds that this was an acceptable course of action?" Her voice was low, each syllable a shard of ice driven into him. "Explain this to me. Now."

The humiliation was a fire in Kuro's veins, but beneath it, beneath the pain and the exhaustion, was a bedrock of newfound certainty. He did not struggle against her grip. He met her furious, brilliant white gaze, his good eye bloodshot but clear. The princely mask was gone. The strategic defences were ash. What remained was a raw, painful truth.

"To give something back," he said, his voice faint but unwavering. "To you. To all of you." He swallowed, the motion painful. "For everything. The food. The care. The… the baths. The protection. For carrying us. For loving us when we were nothing but broken things." He looked from Lucifera's enraged face to Nyxara's terrified one, to Statera's tear streaked visage, to Lyra's horrified expression. "We just wanted… the strength. The ability… to…" His voice broke, but he forced the final, devastating words out. "…to protect you all. As you protect us."

The confession landed in the silence, vast and humbling. It was the unspoken core of their shame, the driving force behind their desperate, pre dawn flight. They did not want to be burdens. They wanted to be shields.

The shock that passed over the four women's faces was absolute. The frantic panic, the simmering anger, it all vanished, replaced by a look of such profound, heart stopping understanding that it was almost painful to behold. They saw it then, not as a foolish child's rebellion, but as a vow. A clumsy, dangerous, but utterly sincere vow of reciprocity from their sons.

And just like that, the maternal masks, their primary armour against a cruel cosmos, slid back into place. The tension shattered, not into more anger, but into a torrent of gushing, overwhelming, cloying baby talk.

"Oh! Oh, my STORM BABY!" Nyxara wailed, pulling Kuro from Lucifera's grip and crushing him against her chest, ignoring his wince of pain. "You wanted to protect your Mommy! You wanted to be a big, strong prince for me! That is the most ADORABLE, most PRECIOUS thing I have ever heard!"

Lucifera's stern expression melted into a look of wicked, tearful delight. She pinched his cheek, hard. "You foolish, wonderful, idiotic infant! You think we need your protection? We are vast! We are terrible! We are your MOTHERS! Our sacred DUTY to protect you not yours!"

Statera, still kneeling, gathered a trembling Shiro into her arms, rocking him gently. "My sweet, brave, stupid Rain Baby! You wanted to give something back? Your existence is the gift! Your heartbeat is the only currency we require! Oh, you precious, self sacrificing little pudding!"

Lyra clapped her hands, her melody returning as a triumphant, weepy symphony. "The Song of the Reversed Guardian! The Ode to the Infant Knight! It's more beautiful than any epic! You tried to draw your wooden sword for your mommies! We will compose ballads of this failure for all eternity!"

The twins endured it. The blushes were instantaneous and spectacular, a familiar heat that was now almost comforting in its ritualistic humiliation. But they did not protest. They did not mutter weak defences. They laid there, within the storm of affection, and accepted it. The cycle of rejection and acceptance was broken. There was only acceptance.

As the baby talk began to subside, the reality of their physical state set in. Statera and Lyra produced soft, clean cloths and vials of faintly glowing water. With excruciating gentleness, they began to wipe the blood from Shiro's face. The touch, though light, sent fresh, sharp jolts of pain through the torn stitches. It was a weak, ghostly echo of the agony he had felt under Antares's dagger, but it was a potent reminder of his vulnerability, and of their care.

Kuro, watching this, felt the last of his strength leave him. His legs trembled, not from magic backlash, but from pure, bone deep exhaustion and the emotional whiplash of the last hour. He did not try to stand tall. He did not try to pretend.

He looked up at Nyxara, his blush deepening, but his voice was calm, clear, and utterly without shame. "Mother," he said. "I cannot walk. Will you carry me?"

The request, delivered with such quiet confidence, was the final surrender. It was not a plea from a helpless infant, but a statement of fact from a son who trusted his mother completely.

Nyxara's face lit up with a joy so fierce it could have ignited a dead star. "Oh, my darling boy! Of course! Of course, Mommy will carry her brave, tired Storm Baby!" She swept him up into her arms, cradling him against her chest as if he weighed no more than a thought, her multi hued light pulsing with a warm, possessive radiance.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The procession through the Corona Regis was a stark tableau of defiance, not of the twins against their mothers, but of the entire family unit against the silent, judging cosmos of the court. They moved from the Refractory's echoing silence into the grand, serpentine corridors, and instantly became the focal point for a hundred pairs of eyes. These were not the eyes of concerned subjects, but the cold, multi faceted orbs of courtiers woven from shadow and starlight, their forms shifting in voyeuristic silence.

The guardians did not lower their voices. They amplified them, turning the walk into a public liturgy of reclamation, and the twins were its central, blushing sacraments.

"Oh, yes, let them all see!" Nyxara's voice, rich with theatrical maternal pride, cut through the oppressive silence. She adjusted Kuro in her arms, a living, breathing banner of her victory. "See my wittle Storm Baby! He tried to have a secret, early morning adventure, thinking he could be a big, strong man without his Mommy!"

She bounced him, a gentle, mocking motion. "And look what happened! The naughty, nasty other babies were mean to him! They hurt his wittle face! But it's okay! Mommy has him now!"

Lucifera's voice was a sharper instrument, a scalpel of condescension aimed at the watching court. "And the Rain Baby! Look at him, clinging to Auntie Lyra! He thought he could be a brave, silent little puddle all by himself! But he's just a damp, injured infant who needs his ouchies cleaned and his onesie changed!"

The court did not react with laughter or smiles. A wave of silent, psychic disgust washed over them. Whispers, not of sound, but of pure intent, slithered through the air like parasitic phantoms, disgraceful… indulgent… the Falak line, reduced to this… coddling weaklings? Is she a Queen or a nursemaid utterly pathetic… The very air grew thick with their silent, collective contempt for this display of raw, unfiltered affection and the utter infantilization of the heirs.

The twins felt it. The weight of a thousand years of cold, stellar judgment pressed down on them. But it was a pressure outside a fortress wall. It did not penetrate. Kuro, nestled against Nyxara, felt the heat of the stares, but his blush was now a familiar, almost comfortable armour. He did not bury his face. He simply endured, his good eye fixed ahead, accepting the court' disgust as meaningless static. Shiro, leaning on Lyra, ignored the psychic whispers that plucked at the edges of his consciousness, focusing instead on the solid, real support beneath him.

They were a public exhibit of everything the court despised: vulnerability, need, and a love that was louder than dignity. And they did not care.

The procession through the Corona Regis was a brutal, blushing pilgrimage of pure surrender. The twins, both utterly broken of defiance, were carried like the most precious of spoils. Nyxara cradled Kuro against her chest, his long limbs dangling, while Lyra held Shiro with the same effortless, poetic grace, his face buried in the silken folds of her robe. They were the centrepiece of a moving symphony of affectionate humiliation, and for the first time, they were not fighting the music.

"Oh, look at his wittle face," Nyxara crooned, adjusting Kuro in her arms so his flushed cheek was a beacon for the horrified court. She bounced him, a jostling motion that sent a fresh, nauseating throb through his eye socket. He winced, a sharp, silent spasm, but made no sound of protest. He didn't stiffen or try to feign a dignity he no longer possessed. He simply let his head grow heavier against her shoulder, his body a pliant, trusting weight. "He's not fighting it! My Storm Baby is finally accepting his place! He knows he's Mommy's perfect, helpless infant, and he's just going to be carried and loved forever and ever!"

The victory in her voice was a tangible, radiant thing. On the other side, Lucifera kept pace with Lyra, her brilliant white eyes alight with a fierce, fond triumph. "And you, my soggy little Rain Baby! Look at you, just melting into your Aunty Lyra's arms. No more foolish talk of walking or fighting. You've finally accepted that you're our wobbly, damp little leaf, and we are the gentle, unyielding breeze that decides where you go."

Lyra shifted her grip, her movement inadvertently pressing against the tender, swollen flesh around Shiro's torn brand. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth, his single eye squeezing shut against the lance of fire. But he did not pull away. He just trembled for a moment, then went still again, his surrender absolute.

"He accepts it! He truly does!" Statera cried, her Polaris glow flaring with a joy so profound it seemed to cleanse the very air of the court's silent judgment. "They finally understand! They finally see!"

"See what, my dear Polaris?" Lucifera asked, her voice a theatrical, leading purr.

"That they are not burdens!" Statera declared, her voice ringing through the grand corridor, ensuring every silent, disapproving courtier heard the truth reframed as a universal law. "They are the reason! They are the why! For fifteen years, we drifted, powerful and purposeless. Our strength was a star without a system, our love a song with no one to hear it. We were waiting. We were so, so lonely in our vast, cold power."

Nyxara nuzzled Kuro's hair, her voice dropping to a thick, emotional whisper meant for him, but carrying in the hush. "And then we found you. Our two impossible, beautiful, broken boys. And suddenly, every ounce of our terrible, cosmic power had a target. Every bit of our fierce, forgotten love had a home. You are not a weight on our hearts, my storms. You are our hearts. You are the reason we draw breath. You are the living, breathing cause for all that we are and all that we do."

Lyra hummed in agreement, the sound a soft, resonant seal on the confession. "You are the music that gives our souls its melody, my darlings. The reason the sun rises and the stars burn. Our entire universe now, and forever, spins around you."

The twins, cradled and claimed, accepted this not as a pressure, but as a final, absolute absolution. Their quiet, the absence of retort or struggle, was their final gift to the women who carried them. They were the reason. And in that terrifying, wonderful truth, they found a peace so deep that the winces of pain and the heat of their blushes were just minor notes in the grand, loving symphony of their surrender.

As they reached the great archway leading to the private royal chambers, Nyxara paused. She did not turn fully, but her head tilted just enough, her multi hued light dimming to a stern, steady glow that demanded the silence it received.

"If any of you have something to say," she stated, her voice dropping all baby talk, becoming the flat, cold tone of the Queen who commanded constellations, "speak your mind now to me directly. her gaze swept over the frozen, silent courtiers, "If you dare"

The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum of terror and submission. Not a single psychic whisper dared to form. With a final, contemptuous glance, Nyxara turned her back fully on them, her attention returning entirely to the son in her arms.

And Kuro, safe in that dismissal of an entire court, nestled his head against her shoulder. A small, weary, but genuine smile touched his lips as he clung to his mother. The fortress gates had slammed shut, and he was on the side of them.

When they finally crossed the threshold into the royal sanctum, the heavy nebula door sealing behind them, the atmosphere shifted again. The public performance was over. They were home. The grand, dim chamber, with its dying Tapestry and nest of furs, embraced them like a sigh.

Nyxara carried Kuro to the great divan and sat, not releasing him, but settling him more comfortably in her lap, his head still cradled in the crook of her arm. He was too tall for this, his legs dangling awkwardly, but he made no move to extricate himself. The fight was gone, replaced by a weary, solid contentment.

Statera and Lyra gently lowered Shiro onto the furs next to them. Lyra immediately began fussing with his hair, humming a soft, cleansing melody, while Statera checked the bandages she had hastily applied to his face, her Polaris light a steady, healing glow.

"My poor, brave, silly babies," Nyxara murmured, this time her baby talk a private, warm thing, meant only for them. "You gave your mommies such a scare. We thought we'd lost you to your own stubbornness."

"We just wanted…" Kuro began, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

"We know, Storm Baby, we know," she interrupted, rocking him gently. "And it was the most wonderful, foolish, beautiful thought in the cosmos. But you are our infants to protect. It is the order of things. The stars would fall from the sky before we let that change."

Lucifera stood over them all, her hands on her hips, her expression having softened from its earlier fury into one of fond, exasperated ownership. She looked at the two battered boys, one curled in his mother's lap, the other being fussed over by an aunt and a mother. She saw the blood, the exhaustion, and the profound, unshakeable peace in their postures.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

"Alright," Lucifera declared, her voice cutting through the tender moment with the gentle finality of a falling guillotine. "Enough of this coddling for now. Look at the state of you both. Absolutely filthy. Covered in blood, sweat, tears, and the distinct aroma of catastrophic poor decision making."

She gestured dismissively at them. "It is, frankly, offensive to the nostrils. This has gone on long enough."

She paused, letting the weight of her judgment settle.

"Bath time."

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