Zak eased himself through the narrow opening, one arm pressed tight against his ribs.

  The fresh bandages Fix had wrapped around his shoulder and ribs were already spotted with blood—dark blooms spreading through the white gauze where the stitches had pulled during the climb. He landed inside his room, closed the window behind him, and forgot—again—to lock the inner door.

  He peeled off his wet jacket and shirt, wincing as the fabric tugged at the wounds.

  Fix had cleaned and stitched the cuts with the same clinical calm he used for everything else: shoulder slashed deep enough to scar, ribs bruised purple, a shallow gash across the forearm that would heal but leave a line. "You'll live," Fix had said before sending him home. "But stay off the streets for a day. No more heroics."

  Zak sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bandages in the dim light from the hallway. The house was quiet except for the faint tick of the clock downstairs—the same clock that had counted every minute of every night he couldn't sleep.

  The door opened without warning.

  Anne stood there.

  Barefoot in her oversized sleep shirt, hair tangled from hours of tossing. She saw him shirtless. Saw the white bandages stark against his skin. Saw the blood spots seeping through.

  She froze.

  A heartbeat later, she broke.

  "Zak!"

  She ran across the room and threw herself against him, arms locking around his neck. Her sobs came hot and fast against his bare shoulder—the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been waiting to break for a long time.

  "Please don't leave us like Dad did," she choked out, the words tumbling over each other. "Please don't disappear one night and never come back... I'm so scared... I'm so scared you're going to leave too..."

  Zak wrapped his good arm around her, held her close despite the fire in his wounds. Despite the pain that shot through his shoulder. Despite everything.

  "I'm here, Anne." His voice was low, steady—the voice he used when she had nightmares as a child. "Right here. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

  He rocked her gently, a slow rhythm, until her crying quieted to shaky breaths. She clung to him like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go—like holding on was the only thing keeping him real.

  Footsteps in the hall.

  His mother appeared in the doorway, robe tied loosely, hair grayer than he remembered. When she saw the bandages and Anne crying against him, her face tightened. Not shock. Not panic. Just... confirmation. Like she'd been waiting for this moment and hated being right.

  "Zak..."

  She crossed the room, knelt beside them, and gently pried Anne away. The girl let herself be pulled into her mother's arms, but her eyes stayed on her brother—watching, always watching, like she was counting the seconds until he left again.

  Zak's mother looked at the white gauze. The blood spots. His pale face.

  "How bad?" she asked quietly.

  "Fix took care of it." Zak's voice was tired—the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix. "Stitches. It'll heal."

  She touched the edge of the bandage with careful fingers, like she was afraid of causing more pain.

  "Fix again," she said softly.

  Not a question. Just observation. Just her putting pieces together that he wished she didn't have to see.

  She didn't ask more. Instead, she sat on the bed beside him.

  "You don't have to tell me everything tonight," she said. Her voice was calm, but he could hear the effort it took to keep it that way. "But you don't have to hide everything either. We're still your family."

  Zak looked down at his hands. At the bruises on his knuckles. At the blood still trapped under his nails.

  "I know."

  She squeezed his good hand once—a quick press, firm and warm.

  "Rest. We'll talk when you're ready."

  She stood, guided Anne out, and closed the door softly.

  Zak sat alone in the dark for a long time.

  The memory came unbidden—sharp, vivid, from six months ago.

  A few days after the funeral. The knock on the blue door had been polite but heavy. Sir Abram Calderwood standing there, cap in hand, offering funds from the Knights. His mother's voice, firm and final: "No." And upstairs, Zak listening through the floorboards, knowing the real money would come from Fix. A secret he'd sworn to keep. A secret that sat in his chest like a stone.

  Back in the present, Zak's phone buzzed.

  Ron.

  He answered.

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  "Hey, idiot." Ron's voice was warm, but edged with worry—the kind of worry that came from knowing someone too well to be fooled by silence. "You sound like hell. What happened?"

  Zak leaned back against the headboard. The movement pulled at his stitches. He ignored it.

  "Got cut last night. Fix stitched me up."

  Ron exhaled—a long, slow breath that carried the weight of things unsaid.

  "I'm sorry I left so soon after the funeral." His voice dropped. "I was there with you that day... but I flew out the next morning. I should have stayed longer."

  "You stood next to me at the grave." Zak's voice was flat. "That was enough."

  "It wasn't." Ron's words were sharp, certain. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."

  Silence.

  Then Zak told him everything.

  Ron listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't offer solutions. Just listened—the way real friends do when words aren't enough.

  When Zak finished, Ron spoke.

  "I found something." His voice was different now—quieter, more serious. "One of the Seven Legendary Swords."

  Zak's breath caught.

  "The ones from the statues?"

  "Yeah." Ron's voice crackled slightly through the phone. "The seven cloaked figures in every capital—swords raised, no names. The first seven who awakened sigils. They forged the blades, poured their power into them. Each sword binds a fragment of their color. Amplifies it. But only if it accepts you."

  "You found one?"

  "I did." A pause. "It resonates with black. I'm bringing it myself. I land in two days—3 PM at your airport. I'll hand it to you."

  Zak's mind raced. Black. His black. A sword made for it.

  "Why me?"

  "Because you're the only one I trust." Ron's voice was simple, honest. "And because you might be the only one who can handle it."

  Zak rubbed his bandaged shoulder. The wound throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  "What do the legends say about the seven?"

  "The statues are everywhere—seven figures, swords skyward. No names. Symbols only." Ron's voice took on the tone of someone reciting something he'd studied for years. "Orange for endurance, yellow for precision, white for purity... red and black for the forbidden. They created sigil power. Forged the blades to bind it. Poured their souls into the steel so future users wouldn't be consumed. But they disappeared after. Left only the swords and statues."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Ron added: "I got Fix's number. From a contact. If I can't reach you, I'll call him."

  Zak's grip tightened on the phone.

  "You didn't tell him about the black sigil, did you?"

  "No." Ron's voice was firm. "That's your secret. But..." He hesitated. "Why haven't you told Fix yet? He's training you. He's covering your family's expenses. He's in this with you."

  Zak closed his eyes.

  "Because if I tell him... he might push me to use it. And I'm not ready to break my father's promise."

  Ron was quiet for a long moment.

  "I get it." His voice was softer now. "But you can't keep it locked forever. The sword might change that. Or break you." A pause. "Either way... I'll be there in two days. We'll figure it out together."

  Zak felt something loosen in his chest—just a little.

  "Thanks."

  "Don't die before I land. Okay?"

  Zak laughed tiredly—a real laugh, small but real.

  "I'll try."

  The call ended.

  Zak lay back against the pillows.

  The wound throbbed. The black waited. But now a sword was coming.

  Forged by the first. Carried by the only friend who knew the truth.

  Two days later, the arrivals hall was crowded.

  Rain streaked the glass walls, turning the world outside into watercolors and smeared light. Zak waited near the barrier at Gate 3, hood up, hands in pockets. Seven months had passed since the funeral. The scar on his shoulder pulled when he moved, but it no longer bled. The bruises had faded. The grief hadn't.

  The board clicked.

  Flight from Calyx - arrived.

  Passengers streamed out—businessmen with briefcases, families with tired children, couples reunited.

  Then Ron.

  Black hair longer now, tied back. Green eyes sharp behind thin glasses, white skin, lean frame. Duffel over one shoulder. And in his other hand—held close, careful—a black carbon-fiber case.

  Ron spotted him. His face split into a grin—the same grin from university, from late nights studying, from the funeral where he'd stood silent and solid.

  He walked faster.

  Zak stepped forward.

  They collided in a hard hug—the kind that said more than words ever could.

  Ron laughed against Zak's shoulder.

  "Looks like you finally healed, you idiot," he said, voice muffled. "You don't look half-dead anymore."

  Zak pulled back, gripping Ron's coat. Felt the solidness of him. The realness.

  "Because of your face, ostrich."

  Ron barked a laugh—loud, genuine, turning heads.

  "Ostrich? Still? After seven months?"

  "You still look like one when you run."

  Ron shoved him lightly—careful of the shoulder—and stepped back. His eyes scanned Zak's face, cataloging changes.

  "You're thinner." His voice dropped. "New scar on your jaw. You didn't tell me it was that bad."

  Zak met his gaze.

  "I told you enough."

  Ron's grin faded.

  "Yeah. You did."

  They moved toward the exit, Ron's duffel swinging, the case held close like it contained something fragile. Something dangerous.

  Outside, the air was cold—the kind of cold that bit through fabric and settled in bones. Streetlights reflected in puddles, orange and wavering.

  In the car, Ron placed the case on his lap.

  Neither spoke for a moment.

  Then Ron said:

  "I brought it."

  Zak started the engine. His hands were steady, but something inside him wasn't.

  "I know."

  Ron unlocked the case.

  The sword lay in foam—slim, double-edged, a matte gray blade that seemed to drink light instead of reflecting it. Zak reached out, almost unconsciously, and felt a faint hum travel up his fingers. Not warmth. Not cold. Just... recognition. Like the blade had been waiting.

  Black cord hilt, wrapped tight. No markings. No name. Just steel and silence.

  "It resonates with black," Ron said. His voice was quiet, respectful—the voice of someone handling something sacred. "The legends say the seven first sigil users forged it. Poured their power into the blades to bind sigils, to control them." He looked at Zak. "This one... it might help you leash yours. Or wake things you're not ready for."

  Zak stared at the blade.

  It looked ordinary. Just metal. Just a weapon.

  But something in it called to something in him.

  "Does it have a name?"

  Ron shook his head.

  "No one remembers. Or they didn't tell. The seven disappeared after the forging. Left only the swords and statues."

  Zak exhaled.

  "I'll take it."

  Ron closed the case.

  They drove.

  The city passed outside the windows—wet streets, blurred lights, people living lives that didn't involve revenge or sigils or blood. Normal lives. The kind Zak had stopped believing in.

  Ron's voice broke the silence.

  "I got Fix's number. From a contact. If I can't reach you, I'll call him."

  Zak's grip tightened on the wheel.

  "You didn't tell him about the black sigil."

  "No." Ron looked out at the rain. "That's your secret. But..." He turned back. "Why haven't you told Fix yet? He's training you. He's covering your family's expenses. He's in this with you."

  Zak's jaw tightened.

  "Because if I tell him... he might push me to use it. And I'm not ready to break my father's promise."

  Ron looked out at the rain for a long moment.

  "I get it." His voice was soft. "But you can't keep it locked forever. The sword might change that. Or break you." He glanced at Zak. "Either way... we'll figure it out together."

  Zak nodded.

  They drove in silence.

  The blue door waited. The hallway light flickered—still not fixed, still a reminder of a father who meant to do it and never got the chance.

  And inside Zak, the black thing stayed quiet. Watching. Waiting. But now it had company coming. A sword forged by the first. A friend who wouldn't let him hide anymore.

  For the first time in months, Zak wasn't sure if that thought comforted him—or terrified him.