The deep, dreaming dark of the mountain's heart was a velvet coffin lid, a silence with weight and texture. Within it, Lucifera was the first to stir. Her brilliant white eyes opened, and for a single, heart stopping fraction of a second, a terror as cold as the void between galaxies seized her. Her arms, which had been a possessive bar across her sons chests, flew to her sides, patting the empty furs.

The nightmare of the Refractorium, the scent of their blood, the sight of Shiro's torn face, it crashed over her. They were gone. They had run again.

But then her Sirius sharp perception focused, and her heart, a star that had nearly gone supernova in her chest, settled into a steady, warm rhythm. There. Just a few inches further down the divan. Kuro was curled against Nyxara's back, his face smooth and untroubled in sleep. Shiro was nestled in the valley between Statera and Lyra, his breathing deep and even. They had merely shifted in the night, seeking new configurations within the living constellation of their protection.

A sigh, soft as a nebula's birth, escaped her. She did not wake the others with words. Instead, she began to hum, a low, resonant note that was not the vibration of waking, but the sound of love itself, a frequency that gently pried at the edges of consciousness.

One by one, the constellation stirred. Nyxara's multi hued light brightened from a dim glow to a soft aurora. Statera's Polaris beacon pulsed like a drowsy heartbeat. Lyra's melody wove itself into Luci's hum. They all saw what Luci had seen, and a unified, silent relief passed between them.

Then, the work of the morning began. Luci turned her attention to her infants. "Rise and shine, my sleepy little storms," she crooned, her voice a silken trap of affection. She didn't shake them. She simply began to trace patterns on Kuro's back with a cool finger and stroked Shiro's hair.

The twins were stubborn, clinging to the void of sleep like lifelines. Kuro swatted weakly at her hand, a ghost of a suppressed instinct. "Too eepy, 5 mo…" he slurred into the furs.

Shiro just burrowed deeper, mumbling something incomprehensible about "too early."

"Aww, listen to them!" Nyxara cooed, now fully awake and delighted by their resistance. "Their wittle brains are still all fuzzy from their big, dreamy adventures! They think they can negotiate with the sunrise!"

"The song of the reluctant infant is a timeless melody," Lyra harmonized, gently untangling herself from Shiro.

It was a slow, gentle siege. With relentless, tender persistence, a kiss on a forehead, a tickle behind an ear, a soft, chiding whisper, they were pulled from the depths. Breakfast was a blur of spoon fed porridge endured with blushing, mumbled acquiescence, their eyes still heavy with sleep.

Once the bowls were taken away, Lucifera's expression shifted to one of profound, theatrical distress. She placed a dramatic hand over her heart, her brilliant white eyes glistening with manufactured tears. "My darlings, I must confess. I had a nightmare. A truly dreadful, soul scarring vision!" Her voice trembled. "I saw you both, so small and helpless, slipping from my grasp! You ran back to the Refractorium, and the shadows there were alive, and they… they… unravelled you! I saw your life pulled apart like thread, your little voices crying out for your mommies who weren't there!" She actually wiped a single, perfect tear from her cheek. "The horror! The sheer, catastrophic panic!"

The twins stared at her, utterly nonplussed.

"Therefore," she declared, her voice quivering with faux emotion before solidifying into a decree, "an alteration must be made. Hand holding is now deemed an unacceptable security risk. A determined infant could theoretically wriggle free. So, I have decided… we will carry you. Far less chance of you being unravelled by nightmare shadows in the safety of your mommy's arms."

A wave of fresh, hot humiliation washed over Shiro and Kuro. "Carry us?" Kuro repeated, aghast. "You base this… this alteration… on a dream? That's unfair!"

Lucifera's face crumpled into an expression of deepest, most wounded betrayal. "You broke our trust yesterday," she whispered, her voice cracking. "How can we ever be sure? How can my heart ever rest easy? The hand holding, or… the you know…" She let the threat hang, vast and terrible, in the air between them.

The fight drained from them. The memory of that punishment was a more potent weapon than any blade. Shoulders slumping in a final, shuddering sigh of resignation, they gave a silent, reluctant nod. The surrender was complete.

And so the procession to the Refractorium began, a spectacle of utter defeat that drew eyes like flies to carrion. Kuro was cradled in Lucifera's arms, his body held tight against her chest. Shiro was perched on Nyxara's shoulders. As they moved through the grand, serpentine corridors, the silence was no longer just judgmental; it was toxic.

Parasitic whispers, not of sound but of pure psychic intent, slithered from the shadowed arches and towering balconies, a miasma of condensed hatred and disgust.

To see the Nyxarion Queen reduced to a beast of burden for that… the line is truly dead.

A Polaris Lumina, a beacon of absolute truth, coddling a gutter rat from Astralon… she pollutes her own light.

The Sirius Councillor… her analytical mind has been utterly compromised by this… this sentimental filth. She is a broken tool.

And the Lyra Councillor hums lullabies while the court rots. They are a sickness. All six of them. A contagion of weakness.

The hatred was a physical pressure, a psychic stench that made the air feel thick and difficult to breathe.

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As they walked, Kuro, his face burning, muttered into Lucifera's shoulder, "Why can't we just train somewhere else? Somewhere private? You're the Queen. Can't you just… command it?"

Nyxara answered, her voice losing some of its baby talk for a moment, taking on the weight of centuries. "The Refractorium is not just a room, my storm. It is a nexus. Its celestial mosaic is a focus, an amplifier woven into the mountain's bones long before I was born. It is a public trust. We were lucky to have it alone for your first, disastrous attempt. Today… today you will have an audience. Do not worry," she added, her voice slipping back into a sugary coo, "if any of the nasty courtiers say a single, icky word to my wittle babies, your mommies will pluck the stars from their eyes and feed them to the void. Now, chin up! Look adorable for your public!"

They reached the grand archway. The Refractorium hummed, but the watching silence was now a hungry, malevolent thing. Dozens of pairs of eyes, cold and multi faceted, observed their entrance.

The training began. The mothers set them on the mosaic, their touches lingering possessively, creating a small, intimate universe within the vast, hostile chamber.

"Now, Rain Baby," Statera whispered, her voice a soft counterpoint to the psychic static buzzing at the edges of perception. She placed a fresh leaf before Shiro. "Find the stillness. Be my perfect, cold little puddle."

Shiro focused, his eye locked on the droplet, trying to block out the weight of the hostile gazes. He reached for the "Polaris Edict." Failure. Again. The droplet remained obstinately liquid. He tried again, straining until a headache bloomed behind his eye. Nothing.

…a stain on the Polaris line… her light is defiled by that thing…

The whisper was like a needle of ice in his mind. He flinched, his concentration shattering.

"Aww, did the wittle baby lose his focus?" Nyxara called over from where she coached Kuro, her tone not mocking, but conspiratorial. "Was there a nasty, icky thought? Don't you listen to them, my love. Their words are just noise. Your Mommy's words are the only truth. Now, try again for Statera. Make her proud."

Shiro took a shuddering breath. The baby talk, which should have been salt in the wound, instead acted as a balm. It was so absurd, so utterly divorced from the court's cold hatred, that it created a buffer. He looked at Statera's face, her expression one of serene, unwavering belief. The parasitic whisper faded, becoming meaningless static against the solid wall of her love.

He tried again. And on the fifth attempt, as another wave of disdain, gutter rat playing with forces it can't comprehend, washed over him, something snapped into place within him. Not a haze, not a suggestion, but a definitive, silent command. The droplet didn't shimmer; it crystallized. A perfect, multifaceted micro icicle glittered on the leaf for a full two seconds before vanishing.

"OH! MY BRILLIANT BOY!" Statera cheered, her light flaring so brightly it cast deep shadows across the sneering faces in the balconies. She clapped her hands, the sound a joyous chime. "You did it! A perfect, wittle ice kissy! I knew you could! Your Polaris blood is singing! Ignore the tone deaf haters, my love, your song is beautiful!"

But the success was a fluke, a spark in the dark. The moment he tried to replicate it, he failed. And failed. And failed again. Each failure felt heavier, more absolute than the last. The one success made the subsequent collapses feel like a personal insult from the cosmos. A hot, sharp anger began to boil in his gut, his hands clenching at his sides. The whispers sensed his frustration and swarmed.

…see it unravel… no control… a sputtering candle…

"Now, now, my love," Lyra hummed, gliding to his side. She placed a calming hand on his shoulder, and her melody wove itself around him, a harmonic shield that made the whispers sound thin and reedy, like insects buzzing against glass. "The song is shy. You cannot chase it. You must invite it. Be the quiet pond, not the raging river. Let the nasty noises just… wash over you. They can't get in here." She tapped his temple gently. "This space is for you and us."

On the other side, Kuro held a new river stone. Nyxara knelt before him, a fierce, proud smile on her face, utterly ignoring the contempt radiating from the Algol envoy observing them with void like eyes.

"The Talon's Grip, my storm! Not with your muscles! With your will! Make the universe acknowledge your ownership!" she urged, her voice a low, powerful thrum.

Kuro's good eye was narrowed, his entire being poured into the stone. He could feel the power more readily now, a responsive thrum in his blood, a predator's focus waiting to be unleashed. The dense, serious air gathered around his palm, a palpable thickening of reality. He held it for three seconds… four…

…the Falak heir… see how he strains… like a dog trying to comprehend calculus…

The thought was a splinter in his mind. The density wavered.

"I've got it!" he grunted, a flicker of triumph in his voice as he fought to stabilize the resonance, pushing the alien thought away.

"You do!" Nyxara cooed, her multi hued light flaring in triumph, a miniature aurora that defiantly brightened their corner of the chamber. "My son is so strong! Now, don't get cocky, wittle eagle! Hold it steady! Show them what a real predator looks like!"

But as soon as she said it, his focus fractured. The mental effort of blocking out the noise and sustaining the resonance was too much. The density shattered, the stone becoming just a stone again. His lack of control was the true enemy; the power was a wild, bucking stallion he could barely mount, let alone ride. A wave of crushing disappointment washed over him.

"A momentary systems failure," Lucifera observed drily from her post, her voice cutting through his despair. She hadn't moved, a sharp, observant statue of maternal authority. "The infant's concentration has the structural integrity of wet paper. The external dissonance is a variable you must learn to integrate, not fight. Let their hatred become the background hum to your own glorious frequency. Now, try again. And perhaps try not to let your pride leak out of your ears this time; it's a terrible lubricant for cosmic resonance."

Her words, though sharp, were grounding. They framed the problem not as a personal failing, but as a tactical variable. The hatred wasn't a reason to fail; it was a condition to overcome. He glanced at her, and she gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was all the encouragement he needed.

For what felt like an eternity, the cycle continued. Shiro would manage a fleeting moment of perfect cold, only to lose it for the next ten attempts, his anger simmering dangerously each time, soothed only by Lyra's constant hum and Statera's gentle, praising touches. Kuro would build the anchored density, hold it for a few precious heartbeats, and then lose his grip, the power slipping away like smoke. Each failure was met not with scorn from their mothers, but with a fresh wave of smothering, corrective affection.

"So close, my tempest! Your wittle eagle talons are getting sharper!"

"That's it, Rain Baby, almost! Don't listen to the mean, jealous ghosts! They're just sad because no one cuddles them!"

The relentless baby talk was their armour. It reframed the entire monumental struggle into a series of "wittle steps" and "baby triumphs," shrinking the cosmic scale of their failure into something manageable, something that could be fixed with a cuddle and an encouraging word. The court's disgust could not penetrate it. The twins blushes became a familiar, almost comfortable heat, a biological response to love, not humiliation. They were learning to resonate not just with their stars, but with the overwhelming, defensive frequency of their mothers' affection.

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