The confession hung in the air, vast and holy. For a long moment, the twins were too stunned to speak, overwhelmed by the raw conviction in her words.

Then, as if moved by a single, shared impulse, they both rushed forward. They wrapped their arms around her, burying their faces in the soft fabric of her robe. Lucifera stiffened for a fraction of a second, a lifetime of protocol screaming in protest. Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to release years of tension, her arms came up and encircled them. She held them tightly, not as a councillor holding assets, but as a woman holding her family.

And a single, perfect tear traced a path down her alabaster cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion that defied all her calculations. "Thank you, my brave, impossible… rain baby… my wonderful, stubborn… storm baby… truly."

The twins pulled back, their faces flushing crimson. "Not you too, Aunty!" Shiro moaned, though his protest was undermined by the affection in his eye. "We are not infants!"

"We are young men! Warriors!" Kuro insisted, though he was fighting a smile of his own, deeply moved by her words.

Lucifera's smile widened into a full, genuine grin, a mirror of the playful teasing Nyxara and Statera employed so effectively. "Oh, but you are," she chuckled, the sound warm and natural. "You are our infants. Our brilliant, brave, utterly helpless infants. And the names stay. It is my privilege, as your newly official aunt."

"This is a betrayal of the highest order," Kuro grumbled, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

"An absolute tactical disaster," Shiro agreed, his single eye shining with affection.

A new, melodious voice flowed from the entrance, blending perfectly with the harp vines, yet startlingly immediate.

"I thought I sensed a familiar, long dormant resonance in the garden's song," Lyrathiel said, her form seeming to materialize from the soft light.

Lucifera, startled let a subtle but unmistakable jolt that spoke volumes about how deeply she had been immersed in the moment. She quickly composed herself, but not before Lyrathiel's keen eyes had taken in the entire scene: the tear on Luci's cheek, the twins' flushed faces, the intimate circle they formed.

Lyrathiel's expression shifted from curiosity to a deep, knowing tenderness. "It seems the morning has brought more than just light."

Lyrathiel's form seemed to coalesce from the very harmonics of the garden, a smile playing upon her lips that was both beatific and deeply, knowingly mischievous. Her arrival had been silent, but her presence now filled the space between the harp vines, her eyes, great, luminous pools of captured starlight, fixed upon the trio.

"Oh, Luci," she breathed, her voice a melody woven from amusement and wonder. "The resonance… I haven't felt this particular frequency since we were girls charting the secret tides of the Orrery. The great Lucifera, Sirius's sharpest edge, finally emerges from her shell of calculations and embraces the messy, beautiful chaos of family." Her gaze swept over the scene: the tear track not yet fully dried on Luci's cheek, the twins still held in the circle of her arms, their faces painted with the spectacular crimson of utter embarrassment. "It is a sight more wondrous than any celestial alignment. The universe itself feels… realigned."

The spell of raw intimacy shattered, replaced by a flustered, warm awkwardness. With simultaneous, strangled noises of protest, Shiro and Kuro attempted to pull away, their movements stiff and clumsy.

"We should… the mothers will be… it's nearly dawn," Shiro muttered, his voice thick, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his single amber gaze fixed on the pulsating moss at his feet as if it held the secrets to a swift escape.

"The strategic overview… requires… reassessment," Kuro grumbled, his voice a low, mortified rumble as he tried to extricate himself, his princely dignity lying in tatters around him.

But Lucifera's arms, which had moments ago been a shelter, now became a gentle, unyielding prison. Her strength, usually deployed with lethal efficiency, was now used to haul them back into a firm, affectionate side hug. The last vestiges of the analytical councillor vanished completely.

"Awwww, my sweet little nephews," she cooed, and the sound was so alien yet so natural coming from her that both boys froze in fresh shock. "Always so quick to flash that brilliant, telling red. When will the mighty Twin Stars learn that blushing is a language that needs no translation? It speaks only of a heart that feels too much, too deeply." She looked at Lyrathiel, a genuine, conspiratorial grin on her face. "It's utterly endearing, isn't it, Lyra? Like watching two miniature suns undergoing gravitational collapse. You can see the heat from here."

"It is the purest poetry," Lyrathiel agreed, gliding closer, her form seeming to drink the garden's light. "The Storm Baby, brewing with such magnificent, flustered intensity. The Rain Baby, ready to weep tears of pure, unadulterated embarrassment. Your mothers chose well. The names are prophecies written in the soul."

The teasing was a united front now, a gentle but relentless assault that filled the ethereal space. For a few minutes, the garden echoed with it, the harmonic strings seeming to play a lighter, more playful tune. Shiro, despite himself, let out a choked laugh at a particularly pointed jab from Lyra about Kuro's "strategic pouting that could cloud a solar system."

The laugh was a mistake. The movement tugged sharply at the stitches on his face, a lightning bolt of pure, white hot agony that lanced through the numbing effect of the garden's song. A wince, swift and brutal, contorted his features before he could master it. He gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound.

A fraction of a second later, as if connected by a sympathetic thread of pain, Kuro tried to straighten his posture in a show of defiance against the teasing. The shift in weight sent a fresh wave of throbbing misery from his eye socket and deep internal bruises, a nauseating ripple that made his knees buckle slightly. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his good eye squeezing shut.

They both tried to hide it, to bury the flinches, to mask the sounds of pain with forced coughs. But Lucifera felt it, the sudden, rigid tension in Shiro's frame, the minute tremor that ran through Kuro's body. The playful light in her brilliant white eyes vanished, replaced by a protective, sharp focus. In an instant, her posture changed. She shifted subtly, turning her own body to shield them from Lyrathiel's view, her arms tightening not in a hug, but in a supportive brace, taking their weight without them even realizing it.

"The harmony of the garden is a balm," she said, her tone soft but firm, all teasing gone, "but it cannot mend flesh and bone that scream for proper rest. The dawn is here, and with it, the reality of your bodies' needs." She gently, but with undeniable firmness, began to steer them toward the archway, her body a buffer between them and the world. "Come, my boys. Your mothers will be stirring soon, and their panic if they find an empty sanctum would be a storm unto itself. A storm I do not wish to weather."

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She nodded to Lyrathiel, a look of deep understanding passing between the two women. "It was… good. To be here with you again, Lyra. To feel this… feeling. Truly god how I have missed this song."

"And I have missed the singer," Lyrathiel replied, her smile warm and sincere, though her eyes held a trace of concern as she noted how Lucifera shielded the boys. "Do not be a stranger to its melody, Luci. The garden, and I, are always here. This family has been apart for too long."

The walk back through the silent, sleeping palace was a different journey. The initial, awestruck silence was replaced by a comfortable, pained camaraderie. Lucifera kept a supportive hand on each of their backs, her touch a steadying presence as they navigated the glacial corridors. The teasing returned, but it was softer now, laced with a new, profound care.

"You know," Luci mused, her voice a quiet contrast to the echoing vastness, "when we return, I might prepare the morning porridge. Lucifera's Famous Congealed Starlight Oats. And, given the current state of my two favourite patients, perhaps I should feed you. It would be the loving thing to do. Can't have my Rain Baby spilling on his bandages, or my Storm Baby fumbling a spoon in a huff."

The reaction was immediate, but weaker than before, diluted by pain and a dawning acceptance of their reality. "Aunty Luci, no…" Kuro sighed, the protest lacking its earlier fire. "That is a line we cannot cross. It's… it's unfair to use our injuries as leverage for… for utter humiliation." "We can manage a spoon," Shiro insisted, though his voice was thin. "It's just… a spoon."

"Is it humiliation," Luci countered, her voice gentle, "or is it simple, pragmatic care from your doting aunt? Let's call it a test. A trial by cutlery. If you can hold a spoon without your hands trembling, without jostling your wounds and turning my nice, clean sanctum into a scene of culinary catastrophe, then I will happily concede. But if you cannot…" She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then you will do as your Aunty Luci says. Yes? For the sake of your own recovery, and the preservation of my floors."

"This is a tyrannical interpretation of medical aid!" Kuro argued, but it was half hearted, a token resistance. He could feel the weakness in his own fingers. "It's a betrayal of the trust we just established in the garden!" Shiro added, trying to muster his street level stubbornness, but it came out as a weary plea.

The debate continued, a soft, bouncing rhythm of protest and affectionate rebuttal that accompanied their slow progress. It was a new kind of battle, one of words and wills, and for the first time, it felt like a game. A family game.

It was during a lull in this back and forth, as they turned a corner into a particularly dark and silent corridor, that Kuro spoke again, his voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Aunty Luci…" he began, staring straight ahead at the gloom. "What you said… in the garden. Thank you. For… for all of it. Not just that. For… before. In the tunnels. Carrying me. I… I know I was… difficult." The admission cost him dearly. "And the garden… showing us the stars… telling us about… Cetus." He swallowed. "You saw things. In the fever. Things I wish no soul to ever know. And you didn't… you didn't look at me like I was broken for it."

Shiro nodded beside him, his own voice soft. "Yeah. Thank you. For being… you. For being here. This… us… it feels… real. Like a real family. And I… I don't want it to ever break." The confession was whispered, a fragile thing in the dark.

Lucifera stopped walking, turning them to face her. The corridor was dark, but her brilliant white eyes seemed to provide their own light, filled with an emotion so deep it was almost painful to behold. There was no analysis, no calculation. Just Luci.

"Oh, my sweet little infants," she whispered, her voice thick. She pulled them into another embrace, this one quick but fierce. "You will never have to worry about that. This family is forged in something stronger than blood. It's forged in choice. In shared nightmares. In carrying each other through the dark. It is unbreakable."

When they slipped back into the royal sanctum, the silence was absolute and heavy, a palpable entity that seemed to absorb all sound. It was the deep, profound quiet of the sleeping dead, broken only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of Nyxara and Statera, who lay entwined with the empty spaces where their sons should have been. The air was thick with spent power and exhaustion.

In the hushed gloom, standing by the door, the twins turned to Lucifera. The journey had drained them, but their eyes were clear.

"Aunty Luci," Kuro began, his voice low but firm. "Thank you. For everything. Truly." Shiro nodded, his expression serious. "We… we are proud to call you aunt."

Kuro then added, a pleading note entering his voice, though it was tempered with affection. "But… the teasing. The monikers. Rain Baby. Storm Baby. Is it… is it possible for it to be lessened? Just a little? We yield that it… it does make us feel more like a family. A real one. But we are fifteen ( a lie) . Not two. We are young men. Warriors. The Twin Stars. It is… unbecoming."

Lucifera looked down at them, her expression softening into something infinitely fond. She reached out and cupped each of their cheeks, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Lessen?" she repeated, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. "Oh, my dear, brave boys. I think you misunderstand. Now that it's official? Now that I'm your Aunty Luci? I plan to increase it. Forever. It is my sacred duty, my privilege, my greatest joy." Her eyes sparkled. "The Storm Baby and the Rain Baby. Until the stars themselves grow cold."

Their protests were weak, token gestures lost in the face of her loving declaration. "But…" Shiro tried. "You are cruel," Kuro muttered, but he was fighting a smile. "It's not cruel," Luci whispered, pulling them close one last time as the first faint light of true dawn began to filter through the crystalline windows. "It's love. The loudest, most embarrassing, most wonderful kind, one I thought was lost, so thank you for reminding me of it, I love you so much."

The chamber hung suspended for a heartbeat, the weight of her words settling like dust after an earthquake. Kuro shifted, his storm grey eye darting to the wall as if seeking an escape route. Shiro, meanwhile, fidgeted, his amber gaze fixed resolutely on the floor. Both of them were blazing red, a twin constellation of embarrassment.

Lucifera, ever the astute observer, leaned back just enough to study their faces with mock seriousness. "Aww, look at you both," she drawled, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with mischief. "So red. Like twin sunsets after a particularly dramatic storm. Quite… endearing."

Shiro made a half hearted attempt to shrug it off, his voice rough. "We're not blushing," he insisted, the words emerging in a rush that belied their intent. Kuro echoed the sentiment, though his protest was muffled somewhat by the back of his hand, which he'd raised in a futile attempt to cool his burning cheeks. "Not blushing."

Lucifera's lips twitched into a smile that was equal parts affection and devilry. "Oh, but you are," she countered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And it's utterly delightful. My sweet little infants, so proud, so stubborn… and so breathtakingly, adorably red."

Shiro groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is mortifying," he muttered through his fingers. Kuro, ever the dignity preservationist, attempted a dignified scoff but failed spectacularly when it came out more as a strangled huff. "We are not infants," he insisted, though the petulant edge to his voice did nothing to bolster his claim.

Lucifera's laughter was soft, a melody that danced around the chamber, warming even the coldest corners. "Of course you're not," she conceded, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm. "You're far too grown up to be embarrassed by a little love. Why, I'm sure you two have never once in your lives reacted to anything with anything as juvenile as a blush."

Then, from beneath his hands, Shiro mumbled, "We… love you too, Aunt Luci," his words muffled but sincere. Kuro echoed him, his voice gruff but heartfelt. " We love you too."

Lucifera's smile softened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I love you both so much," she whispered, pulling them close once more. "My sweet, stubborn, wonderful little infants."

As if on cue, a soft rustle came from the divan. Nyxara stirred, her multi hued light flickering as consciousness returned. A moment later, Statera's Polaris glow pulsed gently as she, too began to surface from the depths of exhausted sleep, their eyes fluttering open to find their sons safe in the arms of their dearest friend. The new day had begun, not with a war cry, but with the soft, unbreakable bonds of a family finally, completely, whole.

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