The deep, dreamless peace Statera's lullaby had granted him was a fragile thing. It shattered in an instant, consumed by a familiar, visceral horror.

Heat. Blistering, oppressive heat that stole the breath from his lungs. The air shimmered, thick with the stink of smoke and the sweet, sickening scent of searing meat and burning hair. He was small again, trapped in a forest of uncaring legs. Aki's hand was a vice over his mouth. And then he saw her. His mother. Adrasteia. Bound to the central stake, her face a mask of pure agony, her skin blistering, her beautiful hair vanishing in a flash of fire. The silent scream that vibrated in his own bones. The smell coating his throat, it was her. It was his mother, burning alive.

"Please! Please don't leave me, Mother! Don't go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The face on the pyre melted, reformed.

It was Aki.

Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto his. "Shiro! SHIRO! HELP ME!"

Shiro jolted awake, a ragged, choked gasp tearing from his throat. His body was drenched in a cold sweat that soaked through his tunic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, panicked drumbeat echoing the screams in his mind. The phantom smell of burning flesh seemed to cling to the air. Instinct, honed over a lifetime of solitary suffering, screamed at him to run. To flee the chamber, to find some dark, isolated corner where he could break down alone.

He pushed himself up on trembling arms, the movement making his head spin. He had to get out. He had to…

He froze, mid motion.

The words surfaced from the depths of his panic, a lifeline thrown to him hours before: "You do not have to drink that poison alone. Let me taste it with you. Let me help you bear it."

Statera's vow echoed in his mind, cutting through the nightmare's echo. He wasn't alone.

He turned his head. Statera was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching him. Her Polaris light was dimmed to a soft glow, but her eyes were wide with alert concern, reflecting his own terror back at him, not with pity, but with a shared, willing weight.

The fight went out of him. A broken, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and he fell toward her, his body folding into her embrace. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his fists twisting in the fabric of her tunic as silent, body wracking sobs shook him.

She held him tightly, her hand cradling the back of his head, her other arm a solid band across his back. She didn't shush him. She didn't tell him it was just a dream. She simply held him, letting the storm of his terror break against her, sharing the poison as she had promised.

His tears felt different this time. They were not the scalding tears of solitary despair that had choked him in the Plaza of Screams. They were a release. A draining of the poison. Each one felt like a confession he didn't have to speak aloud, a burden transferred and halved.

Slowly, the terrible tension leached from his muscles. His breathing hitched, then evened out, syncing with the steady, reassuring rhythm of her own. The phantom smells and sounds of the nightmare receded, replaced by the simple, clean scent of her and the solid reality of her presence.

He was still afraid. For Aki, for the future, for himself. But he was not alone with that fear. Held fast in his mother's arms, Shiro finally drifted back into a true, peaceful sleep, feeling lighter than he had in years. The first feeble light of dawn was a pale, grey thief, stealing into the fissure chamber and leaching the deep shadows from the corners. Statera was the first to awaken, her internal clock as precise as her measurements for a healing salve. The deep, rhythmic breathing of the others was a soothing symphony after the night's turmoil.

She lay still for a moment, savouring the warmth and weight of the boy nestled against her. Shiro's sleep had finally found a measure of peace after the nightmare's passing, but even in repose, his body told a story of a lifetime on edge. His posture was tense, one hand still fisted loosely in her tunic, his brow faintly furrowed as if even his dreams required vigilance.

A soft, fond smile touched her lips. With infinite care, she shifted and gently nudged his shoulder. "Shiro," she whispered into the quiet. "Time to wake, my love. The dawn is here."

A low, incoherent mumble was her only answer. He burrowed deeper against her side, his face scrunching up. "F'more minutes," he slurred, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. "Jus' five... 's too early..."

Statera's smile widened. The fearless resistance fighter, the master of chaos, reduced to a grumbling, sleepy boy. It was a sight more precious to her than any victory. She gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead but let him be for the moment. There were others to rouse.

Her gaze drifted across the chamber to where Nyxara and Kuro lay. The sight that met her eyes made her breath catch in her chest. Nyxara was already awake, her multi hued eyes soft and open, gazing down at the young man sleeping beside her. Kuro was turned away from the room, his back pressed against her side. In his sleep, one arm had flung back, his hand latched onto the fabric of Nyxara's robe with a possessiveness he would never allow himself if he was conscious. His face, usually a mask of stern control or fiery anger, was smoothed in sleep, making him look heartbreakingly young.

Nyxara's arm was wrapped around him, holding him securely. She was not just allowing the contact; she was cherishing it, her thumb making slow, absent minded circles on his shoulder.

Statera rose silently and padded over to them. She knelt beside their pallet. "Good morning Your Majesty," she murmured.

Nyxara looked up, a slow, deeply contented smile spreading across her face. She made no move to extricate herself from Kuro's grip. "Is it?" she whispered back. "It feels rather perfect right here."

"He's clinging to you," Statera observed, her voice warm with amusement.

"Like a particularly stubborn barnacle," Nyxara agreed, her tone overflowing with affection. "The mighty Baby Black Prince, utterly defeated by sleep and, it would seem, in need of his mother." She sighed, a happy, contented sound. "I should wake him. The day won't wait."

"Let him sleep a few minutes more," Statera said softly. "They both deserve it."

The two women sat in a comfortable silence, watching over their sleeping sons. The chamber was quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing and the distant drip of water.

"I cannot imagine it now," Nyxara said after a long moment, her voice barely a breath. "A world without him in it. Without this... weight." She gestured slightly with her chin to Kuro's hand fisted in her clothes. "It is a weight I would carry for a thousand lifetimes."

Statera nodded, her own gaze drifting back to Shiro's sleeping form. "I know. It feels as if my heart has grown a new, external chamber that walks and talks and gets into trouble. It is terrifying. And it is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me." She looked at Nyxara, a deep understanding passing between them. "This alliance was meant to be about thrones and strategy and vengeance. I thought I was offering healing and counsel. I never knew I was coming to find my son."

Nyxara's eyes glistened. "Nor I. I thought I was gaining a valuable, if damaged, asset. A piece on the board. I did not know that piece would crawl into my lap and call me 'Mother' and remake the entire board around himself." She gently, so gently, pried Kuro's fingers loose, though he grunted in protest in his sleep. "We are not the women we were a season ago."

"No," Statera agreed. "We are more."

With a final, shared look of profound solidarity, the two queens began the business of waking their children. Nyxara shook Kuro's shoulder with a gentle firmness. He awoke with less of a battle than the previous morning, though a scowl was already forming on his features as consciousness returned and with it, the memory of his decree.

Statera returned to Shiro. This time, she was less gentle. She gave him a firmer shake. "Up you get, my little rain baby. The sun is up, and your term of service begins now."

The effect was instantaneous. Shiro's eyes snapped open, the last vestiges of sleep burned away by a flare of pure, horrified dread. He sat bolt upright, staring at her as the full weight of her victory, and his defeat crashed down upon him.

"The... the two days," he stammered, his amber eyes wide. "You... you were serious."

"Deadly serious," Statera said, her expression a perfect blend of maternal love and mischievous tyranny. "A decree is a decree. For the next two days, you are my shadow. You are at my beck and call. You will fetch what I need, you will follow where I go, and you will do so with a willing heart." Her eyes sparkled. "Think of it as an apprenticeship in humility for my brilliant, chaotic boy."

Shiro's face flushed a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked over at Kuro, who was now also awake and looking similarly mortified as Nyxara reminded him of his own duties. Their eyes met, a brief, fleeting moment of absolute, shared solidarity in their humiliation. They were princes, warriors, the famed Twin Stars... and they were now permanent fixtures at their mothers' sides.

"The torment," Shiro whispered, despairing. "Kuro will never let me hear the end of it. He'll tell the entire resistance once they're back from training. I'll be a laughingstock!"

Statera leaned in, her voice a playful, wicked whisper. "Oh, I certainly hope so. Now, come along, my little servant. Your mother is parched. Your first duty is to fetch us some water. And do try to be quick about it. Chaos may be your forte, but efficiency is now your new calling."

With a groan that came from the very depths of his soul, Shiro dragged himself to his feet, his shoulders already slumped in anticipation of the relentless, affectionate teasing that was to be his world for the next forty eight hours. He was a conquered king, and his mother was a merciful, but utterly ruthless, victor.

The air, still cool from the night, carried the earthy scent of herbs as Statera began organizing her supplies with quiet efficiency. Nyxara was a silent, watchful presence nearby, her multi hued eyes fixed on Kuro with a mixture of amusement and deep affection as he sat on the edge of his pallet, looking like a man awaiting his own execution, his shoulders slumped in sullen resignation.

Shiro, seeing a momentary lapse in Statera's attention, saw his chance. He moved with the exaggerated slowness of a prisoner attempting a jailbreak, sliding one foot off his pallet and then the other. If he could just make it to the chamber entrance, he could claim he was checking the perimeter, a duty no one could fault him for.

He didn't make it two steps.

A gentle but immovably firm hand settled on his shoulder. "And just where do you think you are going, my little rain baby?" Statera asked, her voice a model of calm precision. "We have a great deal to do today, but first, we must attend to fundamentals. You need to bathe. Properly."

Shiro's entire body went rigid. He turned, his amber eyes wide with genuine panic. "I can bathe myself," he insisted, his voice strained. "I'm not an infant. I've been doing it on my own since I was five. I know how to use soap."

Statera raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "And how many of those times did you actually scrub properly versus just splashing water on your face and calling it a day? Your hair still has traces of plaza mist and yesterday's sweat. We will ensure cleanliness. No arguments. It is part of your... tutelage."

"This isn't tutelage, it's tyranny!" Shiro protested, his voice rising in pitch. "This is a violation of my basic rights as a... a person!"

"Your rights," Statera said smoothly, beginning to gently but firmly guide him toward the back of the fissure where buckets of steam rose invitingly, "are currently forfeit. Per the terms of your defeat. Now, come along."

Noticing the commotion and not one to be left out, Nyxara decided it was the perfect time to escalate Kuro's morning. She approached his pallet with a predator's grace. "Rise and shine, my prince," she chirped, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "The sun is up, and so are your responsibilities. It's bath time."

Kuro, who had been trying to mentally calculate the exact number of hours left in his servitude, groaned and buried his face in his hands. "By the gods, not you too. Five more minutes," he mumbled, the plea muffled by his palms. "Just five minutes of dignity, please, Mother."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Nyxara laughed, a light, musical sound. "Oh, no. Statera is already leading your brother to the cleansing waters. We can't have the Baby Black Prince falling behind in his hygiene, can we? It would be a poor reflection on my motherhood." She leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "In fact, Statera's 'rain baby' has inspired me. I've come up with a new nickname for you. How does 'Little Storm Baby' sound? It has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"

Kuro's head snapped up, his storm grey eyes wide with horror. "What? No. Absolutely not. I will not answer to that. I forbid it."

Nyxara's grin was utterly victorious. "Oh, but it's perfect! 'Little Storm Baby', it's catchy! And it goes so well with 'Rain Baby.' We'll be the most adorable pair of mothers, raising our little weather disasters. Now, up you get, my little tempest."

Despite his vehement protests and a look of utter betrayal, Kuro was hauled to his feet and steered toward the same secluded area where Shiro was already standing, looking like a deer caught in a trap. The two young men faced each other, a mirror of crimson faced, utterly mortified humiliation. For a fleeting second, their rivalry was forgotten, replaced by a profound, shared solidarity in their plight.

The bath time ritual began. Statera and Nyxara worked with a devastating combination of clinical efficiency and unwavering maternal determination. They ignored the sputtered protests and the half hearted, dignity preserving struggles, focusing on the task with the focus of seasoned generals.

Statera soaped up a rough cloth. "Now, hold still. This will only take a moment if you stop squirming."

"This is barbaric," Shiro muttered, flinching as the cold soap touched his back. "I'm a resistance fighter, not a toddler. I've faced down Akuma head on. I think I can handle my own bath."

"Your recent performance in the game suggests otherwise," Statera replied cheerfully, scrubbing with brisk efficiency. "Your strategy was all flash and no finish. Much like your typical bathing routine, I suspect. Now, lift your arm. Gently."

Across from them, Nyxara was having a similar battle of wills. Kuro stood rigidly, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

"You're scrubbing too hard," he gritted out as Nyxara attacked a patch of dirt on his neck. "You're going to take the skin off."

"Nonsense," Nyxara retorted, not slowing her pace. "I'm merely exfoliating. Removing the layers of stubbornness and pride. They are, unfortunately, very thick. You'd think the son of a king would have better hygiene. Hold still, my little storm baby."

Kuro's face flushed an even deeper shade of red. "Do not call me that," he hissed, glancing around as if fearing an audience.

"Why not? It's perfect for you. All brooding and thunderous glares. My beautiful, grumpy little storm cloud." Her teasing was relentless, each endearment a tiny, precise pinprick to his ego.

Shiro, seeing his brother's suffering, found a sliver of courage. "You know, Aunty Nyx, he did bathe yesterday. Quite thoroughly, if I recall."

Nyxara didn't even look up. "And yet, here we are. It seems the standards of the Black Keep are not the standards of this alliance. We believe in a more... thorough approach. Isn't that right, my storm baby?"

Kuro let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a growl. "I will get you back for this," he muttered, though the threat lacked any real heat. It was a token defiance, a necessary ritual to preserve the last shred of his dignity.

The mothers worked in tandem, a well rehearsed team of two. They rinsed the soap away with ladles of warm water, the steam rising around them in the cool air of the fissure. The playful teasing continued, but beneath the barbs and the embarrassment, a different current was flowing, one of care, of nurturing, of a love so fierce it expressed itself through the simple, humble act of ensuring their sons were clean and cared for.

The bath, for all its humiliation, was a bonding experience. It was a silent declaration that they were theirs to look after, no matter how fiercely they protested, no matter who they faced. They were their mother's sons, and for this brief, chaotic moment in the heart of the mountain, that was the most important title they would ever hold.

The bath time ritual concluded with two remarkably clean, incredibly flustered young men being dried off with towels that were as rough as sandpaper against their tender skin. The steam from the water had faded, but the heat radiating from Kuro's and Shiro's faces could have warmed the entire chamber.

As Statera handed Shiro a fresh, soft tunic, Nyxara saw her opening and pounced with the grace of a cat that had been patiently waiting by a mousehole.

She drifted over to Kuro, who was trying to wrestle his damp arms into his own tunic with more aggression than necessary. Her multi hued eyes sparkled with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"Oh, look at you," she cooed, her voice taking on a lilting, sing song quality that made Kuro freeze mid arm struggle. "All fresh and clean and still so wonderfully flustered. It's utterly adorable. You're like a storm cloud that's just finished raining and is all pink and puffy for the sun. It's given me a brilliant idea."

Kuro's storm grey eyes narrowed into slits of pure suspicion. "Whatever it is, the answer is no."

Nyxara ignored him, turning to Statera with a theatrical flourish. "Statera, my dear, your 'rain baby' is a moniker of such perfection, it inspired me. I think I've finally found the perfect complement. The yin to his yang. The thunder to his lightning." She paused for maximum effect, her grin widening. "From this moment forth, I hereby officially christen my son... 'Little Storm Baby'."

The chamber, for a beat, was silent. Then, Statera burst out laughing, a rich, warm sound of genuine delight. "Oh, Nyxara, it's brilliant! It matches perfectly! They are quite the pair, aren't they? Our little weather disasters."

Shiro, who had been desperately trying to become one with the wall, couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him. He was deeply embarrassed by his own nickname, but seeing Kuro, the ever serious, perpetually scowling strategist, bestowed with something so... adorable... was too much. "At least 'rain baby' just suggests I'm weepy," he said, a grin spreading across his face. " 'Storm Baby' makes you sound like a petulant toddler having a tantrum. I'll take my humiliation over yours any day."

Kuro looked like he'd been slapped. The colour that had begun to recede from his cheeks returned in a spectacular, crimson flood. "This is embarrassing," he hissed, finally wrenching his arm through his sleeve. " 'Baby Black Prince' was a mockery I could just endure. It had a ring of... of ominous authority to it. But Storm Baby?? It's infantilizing! It's... it's cute! I cannot and will never accept this!"

Nyxara pretended to gasp, her hand flying to her chest in a perfect pantomime of wounded shock. "Embarrassing? Cute? My dear boy, it's not cute, it's endearing! There's a vast difference. One is trivial, the other speaks to the very core of your being! All that brooding intensity, all that bottled up fury that finally breaks in a spectacular, passionate display... you are my perfect, tempestuous Little Storm Baby." She reached out and pinched his still red cheek. "And I've decided that from now on, every single time you blush, which, I note, is often, I shall sing it out so the entire mountain can hear. It's the perfect fit."

Kuro groaned, a sound of utter, profound despair, and hid his face in the fresh tunic. "I'm going to regret this for the rest of my life, aren't I?" His voice was muffled by the fabric.

"Probably!" Nyxara agreed, her laughter warm and utterly unrepentant. "But it's a good kind of regret. One filled with love and the joyful laughter of your dearest mother, who only wants to celebrate your every adorable flaw."

The playful torment continued as they moved back to the main chamber. Nyxara and Statera, now operating as a unified front of maternal mischief, found a dozen new ways to wield their newfound power.

"Come along, my little weather events," Nyxara declared, herding them toward the centre of the room. "Try not to trip over your own feet. We wouldn't want our infants to get a boo boo."

Statera nodded in solemn agreement. "Yes, coordination is key. Small steps, boys. Remember, your legs are still learning."

Kuro's scowl deepened. "We are not infants. We are fully grown men, capable of…"

"Of needing their mothers to ensure they wash behind their ears?" Nyxara interrupted, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "Yes, very capable. My mighty Little Storm Baby, conqueror of grime."

"Please stop saying that name," Kuro ground out, his ears burning.

"But it suits you so well!" Nyxara crooned. "Would you prefer I stick to the full title? My Precious Little Storm Baby Prince of the Astralon, Who Needs Help Washing His Back?"

Shiro, trying to edge away, was caught by Statera. "And where do you think you're off to, my rain baby? Your hair is a nest. Come here, let me fix it." She began to attempt to smooth down his damp, unruly hair with her fingers.

"I can do it myself!" Shiro protested, trying to duck away.

"I'm sure you think you can," Statera replied calmly, continuing her work. "But just like your strategy in the game, your technique is all enthusiasm and no follow through. You'd just make it stick straight up. We can't have you looking like a startled hedgehog for your first day of service, can we?"

Kuro, seeing a momentary advantage, smirked. "Yes, Shiro, listen to Mother. You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself."

Nyxara immediately turned her sights back on him. "Oh, don't you worry, my little storm baby, your turn is coming. I believe a certain princely scalp could use a thorough brushing to work out all that frustration. We must make you presentable for your royal duties... which currently involve sitting still and looking adorable."

The twins exchanged a look of utter defeat. They were surrounded, outmanoeuvred, and out teased. Every attempt to assert their dignity was instantly swatted down and twisted into further evidence of their infantile status. They were princes without a kingdom, warriors without a battlefield, reduced to being their mothers' beloved, exasperating babies.

The playful torment continued as they moved back to the main chamber, where the morning's dynamics shifted to a new form of teasing, hair fixing.

Nyxara seized the opportunity to mock Kuro's perpetually messy hair, a chaotic nest of dark strands that defied every attempt at neatness. "Sit still, Little Storm Baby," she said, her fingers already diving into his hair. "We can't have you looking like a walking thundercloud." She held up a comb triumphantly. "This will be our weapon of choice. Efficiency is key."

Kuro squirmed under her touch, his cheeks flushing. "It's not that bad," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Oh, but it is," Nyxara countered, her voice light as she gently tugged at a particularly stubborn lock. "This hair of yours is as wild as your strategies. But don't worry, I'll tame it." Her teasing was affectionate, but her comb was merciless.

Meanwhile, Statera turned her attention to Shiro's tousled locks, which were a testament to his restless night. "My little rain baby," she chided, her fingers brushing through his hair with feigned exasperation. "How do you manage to look so windswept first thing in the morning?"

Shiro groaned, but there was a hint of a smile as he tried to bat her hands away. "I can fix my own hair," he insisted, though he made no real effort to pull free.

Statera simply laughed, her Polaris light glowing with warmth. "Of course you can," she said, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. "But today, we're doing it properly. No more messy charm." She produced a small vial of hair oil. "This will tame those wild waves of yours."

As Statera worked her magic, she continued to tease Shiro. "Oh, look at you," she said, her voice filled with mock astonishment. "You're practically presentable now. What will the resistance think?"

Shiro rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Statera's response was a gentle pat on his shoulder. "Of course I am. It's not every day I get to see my little rain baby looking so… put together."

Meanwhile, Nyxara's efforts with Kuro's hair were met with equal parts resistance and humour. "I can't believe I'm saying this," she said, her voice laced with teasing, "but you need to hold still. You're fidgeting like a rabbit."

Kuro's response was a dramatic sigh. "This is humiliating," he muttered, though there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Nyxara paused, her expression turning soft for a moment. "You look good, my little tempest," she said quietly. "So endearingly cute" The compliment was heartfelt, and it made Kuro flash crimson.

The chamber was filled with the sounds of laughter and affectionate jabs. The weight of the coming war was held at bay by the simple, cherished dynamic of a family finding joy in the smallest moments, the teasing, the mock complaints, and the quiet comfort of knowing they were not alone.

As Statera finished fixing Shiro's hair, she stepped back to admire her work. "There," she said with a satisfied smile. "Now you look like the young man I know, not a storm that's just passed through."

Shiro turned to face her, his expression a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "Thanks, Mother," he said softly, the endearment feeling more natural with each passing day.

Nyxara, having finally tamed Kuro's hair, mirrored Statera's satisfied expression. "There, my little storm baby," she teased gently, letting the silver streak fall loosely from his forehead. "Now you look almost presentable."

Kuro's response was a mock scowl, but his eyes betrayed his gratitude. "Thanks, Mother," he said, the words feeling both automatic but right.

For a few more moments, the chamber remained filled with the warmth of their bond, a fleeting respite from the darkness that awaited them.

It was Shiro's stomach that broke the cycle, growling loudly enough to echo slightly off the stone walls. The sound brought a sudden, practical silence.

"Right," Statera said, clapping her hands together. "Breakfast. We need to…"

She stopped mid sentence. Nyxara froze beside her. Their eyes met across the chamber, a dawning, identical look of horror on their faces. They had been so engrossed in the bathing and the teasing of their sons that they had completely, utterly forgotten one crucial thing.

They had not woken Lucifera.

As if on cue, a new scent began to weave its way through the chamber, cutting through the aromas of soap and damp stone. It was the rich, wholesome, utterly irresistible aroma of honeyed porridge, perfectly cooked. It was followed by the earthy, Savory scent of a stew simmering with herbs so fresh they smelled like a sun drenched garden.

Four heads turned in unison toward the small, makeshift kitchen area at the side of the fissure.

There, silhouetted by the soft glow of the banked hearth, stood Lucifera. Her silver hair was tied back with a practical strip of leather, and she was stirring a large pot with a long wooden spoon. Her brilliant white eyes lifted from her task and swept over the group, her expression as inscrutable as ever.

"You are all remarkably loud," she stated, her voice a dry rasp that carried perfectly in the sudden quiet. "The dead could have slept through it, but fortunately, I am not so easily disturbed." She gave the pot another slow stir. "The porridge is ready. The stew will be another ten minutes. I took the liberty of adding the last of the dried venison and the root vegetables. They were beginning to wilt."

She paused, her gaze lingering on Nyxara and Statera. "I assumed, given the extensive... nurturing... I observed from my pallet, that the culinary duties had fallen to me."

The silence that followed was absolute. Nyxara and Statera looked like two children caught with their hands in the honey jar. Kuro and Shiro just stared, their mouths slightly agape at the sight of the lethal Sirius councillor acting as camp cook, and a miraculously talented one at that.

Lucifera's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Do not let me interrupt your... bonding. But if you could manage to set the bowls out without further incident, it would be appreciated. Even a 'Storm Baby' and a 'Rain Baby' should be capable of that simple task."

She turned back to her stew, leaving the four of them standing in a circle of shared, chagrined amazement. The mighty queens of the alliance, who had just been ruling with an iron fist dipped in affection, had been thoroughly, silently outmanoeuvred.

Kuro was the first to break the silence, a slow grin spreading across his face as he looked at his mortified mother. "Well, Mother," he said, the title laced with new found amusement. "It seems the Black Prince isn't the only one who can be caught off guard. Shall I fetch the bowls? Or would you like to continue my lesson in humility first?"

The spell was broken. Nyxara flushed, and Statera let out a helpless chuckle. Their perfect, teasing morning had just been stolen by a woman with a spoon and a talent for impeccable timing. And as the incredible smell of Lucifera's cooking filled the chamber, not a single one of them minded one bit.

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