It wasn’t superstition. It wasn’t a childhood fear he’d failed to outgrow. It was a condition—etched into his bones like a second skeleton, whispered into his blood before he could speak. His grandmother had called it the gift of the veiled , but Zaviel knew a curse when he lived one.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. I’m coming.”

Another sound. Not glass this time. A sob. Low and guttural, like a wounded animal trying to be quiet.

He reached out—not to fight, not to banish, but to take her cold, threadbare hand in his. And when their fingers touched, the Weeper’s silver cord flickered. Glowed. Tightened.

“You looked,” the Weeper breathed. Not triumph. Confusion. Almost… fear.

A cold hand pressed against his chest. Not through his shirt—through his skin, his ribs, wrapping around something warm and vital inside him. Zaviel gasped. The hand began to pull.