October 7th, 1884.

Rain streaked down the glass of the Phantomhive conservatory, its soft rhythm blending with the quiet click of chess pieces.

Vincent Phantomhive sat with composed grace, playing a match with your twin brother, Ciel. A rare smile touched his lips as Ciel captured his rook.

You—Sirius—observed from afar, legs idly swinging above the tiled floor. You said nothing. You knew better. To speak unbidden was to risk disapproval, and Vincent’s rebuke, however polite, always cut deeper than a raised voice ever could.

Two sons born of the same blood, and yet, it always felt as though only one had been chosen. It burned… the knowledge that Ciel was the one who shared in Vincent’s rare smiles, in his quiet pride.