COVENANT BASE — MEDICAL WARD — EVENING
The medical ward was quiet.
Most of the wounded had been moved. The beds were empty. The machines were silent. Lyric had gone to rest—she had been healing for two days straight, and even her Faith had limits.
Benjamin sat across from David.
The Shutter hung from his neck, dormant. His hands glowed with a soft red light— just Faith. Raw. Focused. He pressed his palms against David's shoulder, where the arm had been severed.
"This will take a moment," Benjamin said.
"Take your time."
The red light seeped into David's flesh. Bone began to grow first—white, gleaming, pushing out from the stump. Then muscle, weaving itself around the bone in strands of red and pink. Then skin, smooth and unmarked, sealing over the new arm.
David flexed his fingers.
"Thank you."
"Ok."
Benjamin stood. The red light faded. He looked tired—not from the healing, from something deeper.
"I should have been here earlier."
"You're here now."
"Ezra isn't."
David didn't answer.
He stood, rolled his shoulder, tested his new arm. It was stiff. It would take time. But it was his.
"I'm going home."
Benjamin nodded.
David walked out of the medical ward, through the silent corridors, past the rooms where people had died and the halls where people had fought. The base was still standing. Wounded. Empty. But still standing.
He stepped into the night.
---
DAVID'S HOUSE — LIVING ROOM — SAME NIGHT
The news was on.
David's father sat on the couch, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the screen. He was older than David remembered—greyer, thinner, the lines on his face deeper. He wore a simple shirt and trousers, nothing like the sharp suits he used to wear when he lived in Nigeria.
David stood in the doorway, his bag slung over his shoulder, his new arm hanging at his side.
"Daddy."
His father turned. His eyes widened.
"David."
His mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face lit up—then fell when she saw the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Dave," she said, pulling him into a hug. "You're too thin. You're not eating. I'm sure you don't sleep anymore sef."
"I'm eating, Mummy."
"You're not eating enough."
She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands, and studied him. He let her. He didn't have the energy to resist.
His father stood.
"You don't answer calls," he said. "You don't reply to texts. You're never online."
"It's the work I'm doing. It's too stressful."
David walked to the couch and sat down. His mother hovered. His father remained standing.
"How is working with NASA?" David asked. "As a structural engineer. Do you have money now? Or there isn't?"
His father's jaw tightened.
"You've changed."
"How come you came back to this house?" David continued. "What about your other house? What about your side chick?"
"Dave—" his mother started.
"I said I was sorry," his father said. "I will try to rectify my mistakes."
David didn't answer.
A FLASHBACK. He was younger—twelve, maybe thirteen. He was walking home from school, and he saw his father ahead of him, walking toward a car. A woman was waiting in the driver's seat. And behind his father, a Phobia—a small, grey thing, shaped like a pair of handcuffs, hovering at his back.
Fear of being caught.
He didn't know the name then. He knew it now.
David had seen it. He had said nothing.
The flashback ended.
"Why are you actually here?" David asked. "Is it because I've been talking to you? When you left Nigeria?"
His father didn't answer.
"The only reason I kept talking to you was because I needed money. And I wasn't even getting that. Just complaints. Complaints about me studying this shitty course you got me into."
"Dave, stop—" his mother said.
"Mummy, why did you let him come back here? After what he did?"
David stood. He walked past his father, past his mother, down the hallway to his room.
The door closed behind him.
His father looked at his mother. His mother looked at the floor. Then she turned and walked to the kitchen.
The news continued.
---
"Crimes by abnormal people with objects that cause havoc continue to rise across the South-South region. Authorities are urging citizens to remain indoors after dark."
The screen showed footage—a sorcerer in white robes, standing on a rooftop, speaking into a camera before security forces tackled him.
"If Eloghosa hadn't been sealed," the sorcerer said, "we would be home sleeping. But we are finally free."
The reporter's voice returned.
"The University of Benin and other universities have released a statement postponing resumption until the crime wave reduces. All students are advised to stay safe and monitor official channels for updates."
David's father watched.
He looked at the hallway. At the closed door.
He stood and walked toward it.
---
IN DAVID'S ROOM
David sat on his bed, the green sketchbook open on his lap, the green pen in his hand.
He was drawing the Abyssal Flail.
Page 315.
Not from memory. From grief. The black chain. The spiked head. The void that swallowed light. He drew it the way Ezra had wielded it—silent, absolute, final.
The door opened.
His father stood in the doorway.
"Hey."
David didn't look up.
"Are you still angry at me?" his father asked. "Or did something happen?"
"I don't really feel like talking now. Don't you have a sidechick to get to? Or something?"
His father's voice rose.
"David, I am your father—"
David didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Just kept drawing.
The silence stretched.
Then his father's voice softened.
"I'm really sorry about what I did. I truly mean it."
David's pen stopped.
"Wow," he said. "You actually said sorry twice today. What made you remember us?"
His father sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked.
"Working abroad opened my eyes. I needed people to fall back on. And the people I thought I had... they left me."
"You never change," David said. "You're stingy. You're selfish."
He looked at his father.
"I hope you do change, sir."
He went back to drawing.
His father sat for a moment longer. Then he stood and walked to the door.
"Goodnight, David."
"Goodnight."
The door closed.
David kept drawing.
---
SOMEWHERE ELSE
Rachel lay on a bed in an unfamiliar room.
The walls were bare. The window was dark. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting long shadows across the floor.
She was asleep.
But her dreams were not her own.
In the darkness behind her closed eyes, Err sat on a throne of mirrors, her red eyes glowing, her white robe pristine. She was waiting.
"Soon," Err whispered. "They're coming for us. Let them come."
Rachel's body twitched.
Her hand curled into a fist.
Somewhere, in the waking world, a clock ticked.