The sky above Nico had no color. Not gray, not black: a milky void that seemed to swallow the light itself. Nico walked among the ruins of the city, his soles scratching the dust of collapsed buildings, and each step echoed in his ears like a blow too loud. He didn't remember when he had arrived there, nor why he knew he had to move, that he had to go somewhere. Only that staying still was impossible.

  The air smelled of iron and rain.

  The streets were narrow, deformed, as if the city had folded in on itself. The windows were empty eyes; broken signs hung in the wind like lifeless bodies hanging from a noose.

  Someone was watching him.

  He was as sure of it as he was sure of the cold or pain.

  He felt a gaze brush the back of his neck, moving as soon as he changed direction. His breathing became short. He tried to quicken his pace, but his legs seemed to weigh twice as much. Every shadow seemed too long, too vivid. Sometimes he thought he saw movement around a corner, a shadow that moved as soon as he stared at it.

  Yet when he turned his gaze, there was nothing there. Only the dead city breathing slowly.

  He kept walking.

  Something was waiting for him, he was sure of it, but the certainty was formless.

  His heart pounded against his chest; every noise made him jump.

  Behind him, a rustle, like someone's breath imitating him from a distance.

  He stopped. He checked. Nothing.

  He started walking again.

  The rustling resumed.

  The fear became thick, viscous, tightening his throat.

  For a moment, he thought he saw, reflected in a broken window, an elongated, faceless figure moving like a dense shadow, following him a few meters behind.

  He heard breathing behind him.

  Calm.

  Close.

  “Who are you?” he shouted, turning around, but there was no one behind him.

  Then something grabbed his shoulder. He jumped, horrified.

  He opened his eyes and sat up; his skin was wet with sweat.

  In front of him was Remus's face, eyes wide open. “Sorry, I was trying to call you. It's... it's time.”

  Nico looked around, still half immersed in darkness. The dormitory was silent and empty. Light filtered through the slits, cutting the air into pale strips that made the suspended dust sparkle. It was just him and Remus: everyone else had already left.

  He sat up. A sharp pain shot through his right temple, like a blow.

  “Where were you last night?” asked Remus, his eyes bright and his smile betraying his curiosity. "I tried to cover for you. Master Gareth came here last night, you know... for the punishment," said Remus, pointing to the bed upstairs where Leo slept.

  Nico shook his head slowly, trying to put his thoughts in order. He was more tired than when he had gone to bed: they had returned shortly before dawn and, as soon as he had touched the bed, he had gone out like a candle.

  “Leo, where is he?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Leo?” said Remus, frowning.

  “Sorry, I meant John Silver,” said Nico, with a half-smile. They had to stop introducing themselves with those names; he always ended up getting confused.

  “He's up. He just doesn't want to wake up,” said Remus, dryly.

  Nico nodded and got up with a sigh. “How long until breakfast?”

  “Actually... the third horn has already sounded,” Remus said dryly.

  Nico's eyes widened. He jumped out of bed, grabbed his tunic from the floor, and pulled it on backwards. “Damn it!” He slapped Leo's thigh with one hand, still submerged under the covers.

  “Hurry up: the third horn has already sounded, and Gareth knows we went out yesterday.”

  Leo made an indistinct sound and a hand emerged from under the sheets. “You go, I'll pass.”

  Nico grabbed his wrist and pulled hard. Leo groaned, his face frowning and his eyes half-closed.

  “Get a move on. I don't want to face Gareth alone.”

  Nico and Leo, followed by Remus, who was heavier around the waist and struggling to keep up, ran along the corridors and down the stone stairs. The sun filtered through large slits, warming the environment that smelled of dust and dampness.

  They arrived in the large hall of the Tower of the Falcon, illuminated by the light filtering through the door. Two figures blocked their passage. From the courtyard came the indistinct buzz of fellow apprentices and the rustle of arrows hitting their targets.

  Standing in front of the entrance door were the two masters, their hands behind their backs. The three froze at the sight; the stones beneath Nico's feet felt unstable.

  Gareth, his face stern, his eyes like nails fixed on them, roared, “Stonewater, out.”

  Remus seemed to stagger under the command, then stumbled out the door and into the courtyard.

  Master Ardan followed Remus with his gaze, which had a spark of amusement; when he turned back to them, he appeared more penetrating but also more human than the sword master.

  Gareth spoke first. “Do you two think you're special?” His voice, to Nico's ears, sounded as cold as a blade sinking into flesh. “Do you think the rules only apply to others? That you can leave the castle at night, like thieves, without consequences?” Gareth asked, expecting no answer.

  Nico lowered his gaze; his heart was beating too fast. Next to him, Leo kept his jaw tight but did not respond.

  Gareth continued, taking a few steps toward them: “You have jeopardized the security of the palace and our reputation. An appropriate punishment would be suspension from training and expulsion from the palace. We don't need people like you against the Nothing.”

  He paused; the silence was heavy. Then he added, more softly: “But apparently Master Ardan has proposed an alternative.”

  Ardan took a step forward; his voice was softer but firm. “You're not bad kids, just foolish and impulsive.”

  He looked at them both, then nodded to Gareth.

  “Your punishment,” Gareth continued, “will be to serve for ten weeks where you can do no harm. There you will learn what responsibility means: you will clean and polish every weapon in the armory, swords, spears, daggers, bows, and arrowheads, until you can see your reflection in the iron. Every day, after training, you will be there.”

  Leo swallowed. “All the weapons?”

  Gareth's eyes darted to Leo. “Is there a problem?”

  Leo shook his head silently.

  Ardan intervened, trying to soften the tone. “It will help you understand that every weapon is a responsibility. Even a speck of rust can break a blade; just as a mistake can break a man.”

  Nico looked up for a moment: Ardan seemed sincere, but shame forced him to return his gaze to the floor.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A scuffling sound came from the courtyard; a figure, indistinguishable in the light, muttered in a guttural voice, “Master Tomas sent me here.”

  Gareth roared, “Fall in with the others, soldier.”

  The figure jumped and entered the tower's atrium: it was Mark, Corvin's henchman.

  “Furthermore,” Gareth continued, shifting his gaze to Mark, “your rations will be cut in half until further notice.”

  He paused briefly, then added in an even colder tone, “And forget about sleep. In the morning, before the horn sounds for breakfast, you will have to work your shift in the kitchen. Perhaps it will help you understand the cost of disobedience.”

  Ardan let out a wry smile. “And you'll be too tired to get up to any more nonsense,” he added, without taking his eyes off them.

  Leo took a step forward, as if to speak, but Nico touched his arm to stop him.

  Ardan sighed. “Go.”

  At lunchtime, after archery practice, his arms ached terribly and his spirits were low. He knew he had made a mistake going out at night, but he couldn't quite regret it: after all, it wasn't just for fun, but for a good cause.

  Leo, next to Nico, grabbed the bowl with the wooden spoon and began scraping the bottom to get every last bit of pea soup.

  “I'm still hungry,” his friend muttered, watching Remus continue to dip his spoon into the soup.

  “And tonight, after training, we have to go and clean the weapons... how do you do that?” Nico muttered, almost to himself. “I'm already dead tired.”

  Leo nodded sadly.

  Corvin and his two henchmen approached. “Any problems, guys? You look a bit worn out. Maybe it's because you were up late last night.” Then, raising his eyebrows reproachfully, he added, “It's not done, you know. The walls here have eyes and ears, and if anyone disobeys, they immediately inform their superiors.”

  Nico, his eyes narrowed, growled, “Was it you, Corvin?”

  Mark and Sylan, on either side of Corvin, laughed mockingly.

  Corvin continued, his face twisted into a mocking grimace: “Oh, what's the matter, Grampasso? You want to beat me up?” Then his face turned disgusted: “Ah, I would never dirty my hands with filthy scum like you.”

  Nico trembled with rage: he couldn't afford to increase the burden of punishment, he risked expulsion from training and from the palace.

  But, in an instinctive outburst, he shouted after Corvin and his friends as they walked away smugly: "I heard your father had some trouble yesterday at the Stuffed Bear, a memorable dive. Did he enjoy his bath... in the mud?“ Nico uttered the sentence in one breath, emphasizing the word ”mud" with a grimace and a gesture of his hands.

  A few heads turned in the large refectory.

  Corvin turned slowly, his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched; for a moment, however, Nico caught a hint of questioning on his face:

  Corvin didn't seem to understand what he was referring to.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Leo whispered to Nico. “My arms are as limp as marshmallows. If these guys try anything, I won't know how to defend myself.”

  The horn blared.

  “Always lucky, Grampasso. But the Tower of the Falcon is large and full of nooks and crannies, and when I want to, I can be very patient.”

  They crossed the threshold of the armory; the door creaked on its poorly oiled hinges.

  The smell of iron, old leather, and oil enveloped them. The air was thick, almost oily; with every breath, Nico tasted metal on his tongue.

  Leo yawned. “I can't do it, I'm dead tired.”

  The windows were few and high, more slits than openings; through them filtered the pale light of late afternoon, cut into strips.

  Nico stood motionless in the doorway. Before them lay a sea of metal. The swords hanging on the racks seemed too large, too heavy to be wielded by human hands. The spears formed a forest of dry reeds, and the bows, curved and taut, looked like beasts ready to spring when urged. And then: helmets, armor, all covered with a patina of fine dust and brownish rust stains.

  A gust of wind entered through a slit and the hanging iron weapons clinked softly. Then the gust grew stronger, slamming the door shut with a dull thud, like that of a cell door closing.

  Nico bent down, touched the first sword and saw his own reflection on the dirty blade: pale and trembling.

  Leo remained standing, hands on hips. “Weeks, you say?”

  Nico nodded slowly. “Weeks.”

  He approached the first bench. On it lay a long sword on a stiff cloth covered in grease and dirt; the blade reflected the light in a distorted way.

  “Let's get moving,” Nico said first to himself and then to Leo.

  He took a cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and began to scrub. The sound was dull and rhythmic: the metal would shine for a moment and then become dull again.

  After a few minutes, his hands began to burn.

  The door creaked open. “Ah, there you are. I was standing outside like an idiot waiting for you,” said a voice behind them.

  Nico turned around. Standing in front of the door was a man with a large belly and a round face, sporting an impressive brown moustache stained with a strange white powder.

  “Sorry I'm late: Iselda made scones and I'm crazy about them, so...”

  Nico looked at him, raising his eyebrows in a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  The man waved his hands in the air, as if to dispel a thought. “Um, back to business.”

  “So, young men: what have you been up to that has left you here, skinning your hands by washing, scraping, and sharpening?”

  Nico, with the cloth still dripping in his hands, opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the chubby man who widened his small eyes, covered by thick brown eyebrows. "Eh, no, no, no. Absolutely not. Yes, I know, some people do that, but I prefer this,“ said the man, holding a brush in his hand. ”See this,“ he said, turning to Nico, then turning to look for Leo. ”Come on, boy, come here; otherwise, what the heck can you understand from over there?"

  Leo approached uncertainly, casting a questioning glance at Nico.

  The man nodded. “Good, good. Here: this is a horsehair brush,” he said, shifting his gaze from Leo to Nico with a smile hidden under his thick mustache. “It's used to remove dust, dirt, or dried blood.” As he spoke, he began to brush slowly with measured, almost hypnotic movements. It looked like he was combing someone's hair. “Then, if there is mud or organic encrustations, use warm water and fine sand,” he said, wielding the brush like a conductor's baton. “But,” he added, making Nico and Leo jump, “it must be dried thoroughly immediately to prevent rust.”

  Nico and Leo nodded.

  The man sighed. “Ah, you are lucky, my boys: here there is only rust and dust. But I have seen bloody weapons. Dried blood leaves a dark patina that sticks to the iron; scraping it off is a slow process and it stains your hands red and brown,” concluded the man, waving his fingers, which looked like sausages to Nico.

  The man remained silent for a few moments, staring at an indistinct point, as if lost in an ancient thought. Leo followed his gaze; then the man exclaimed out of nowhere, “You just have to remove the rust. Rust is nasty,” he said, nodding his big face toward Nico and Leo.

  “Abrasive stones, pumice or sandstone, were used to rub away the oxide. Like this,” he said, grabbing a stone and running his hand over the blade with a delicacy that resembled a caress.

  Nico watched those expert hands work the blade with almost loving attention; he couldn't take his eyes off the gesture. Next to him, Leo also seemed entranced.

  When the blade was thoroughly cleaned, the man exclaimed, “And now, polishing.”

  With that, he stood up and took a clay pot from a shelf. “Spread a layer of animal fat,” explained the man, stroking the blade. “Then polish it with linen or suede cloths until the blade reflects the light.”

  Then the man finally lifted the sword, which glistened in the light from the slits, and exclaimed with satisfaction, “You know what they say? A blade that shines does not rust,” he said, holding the sword aloft.

  “Weapons are like women: they must be loved, pampered, caressed, every night,” said the man, raising his thick eyebrows. “They do their duty, but you have to take care of them every day. Otherwise, they rust; they become fat, ugly, and sour, and then you have to find yourself a lover. Is that clear, boys?”

  Leo and Nico nodded, speechless.

  The man placed the sword back on the bench and said, "Start working on this one. Then, we'll take care of the maintenance of the non-metallic parts, handles, quivers, wood of the shafts and bows, later. Okay?“ As he walked out the door, he added, ”Oh, by the way, I'm

  Master Don," he smiled, hidden by his thick mustache, and closed the door behind him.

  “What a weird guy,” Leo said, staring at the door.

  “We couldn't say a word, it's absurd,” said Nico, shaking his head. “Oh well, let's get going.”

  They set to work. Nico continued until the blade in his hands reflected a clear image.

  And in that reflection, for a moment, he saw the destroyed city again.

  The broken streets.

  And that shadow following him.

  “You're as white as a sheet,” said Leo, staring at him. “Are you feeling sick?”

  Nico shook his head. “No. It's just... the light.”

  Leo laughed softly. “The light? In this hole?” Then he went back to work, tinkering with a helmet. “And tomorrow we're going to be

  kitchen scullions,” Leo said with a hint of resentment. “I'm tired of this game; I don't think I'll be logging in anymore.”

  Nico looked at him but said nothing.

  For him, it was different: he was used to working; his grandmother had never skimped on punishment. Besides, even among dirty blades and smelly pots, he always felt better there than at home.

  After a while, Leo sat down on a crate. “But the problem is you... and Kiah.”

  Nico continued scrubbing: the rhythmic sound of the cloth was almost hypnotic.

  Leo stared at him with a smile. “I have too much fun messing around with you guys.”

  Nico laughed, relieved.

  “And you know what? If they put us in the latrines?” said Leo, euphoric. “We'll polish those too!” he burst out laughing, which made Nico laugh too.

  Outside, the reddish light of sunset had given way to evening. The door creaked open and Mastro Don's big, mustachioed face appeared in the doorway. “Hey, still here? Come on, come on, off to bed: tomorrow is another day.”

  When the day finally ended, Nico's hands smelled of grease and metal; his fingers were black and shiny, marked with small blisters and cuts. He lay down in bed happy: there, he thought, life was worth living.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Thank you for reading the sequence.

  Log updated: Subject N_01 showed emotional progression and signs of persistent dream interference.

  Log closed: The system continues to observe.