The train ride home was quiet.
Amir sat by the window, chin resting against his knuckles, watching the blur of fields and distant towns rush by. His mind wasn't on the scenery. It was on the weight in his chest—the kind that only ever showed up when he was heading home. The kind that reminded him of what used to be, what still lingered, and what was missing.
When he stepped off at the dusty station, the breeze smelled like old concrete and cheap food stalls. A place that hadn't changed much, even when everything else did.
The front door creaked like always. Same chipped paint. Same loose handle. Same warmth.
"Amir!" squealed a young voice, and then a blur of limbs tackled him.
He stumbled back half a step, arms wrapping instinctively around his little sister. "Easy, I'm fragile," he grinned, even as she hugged tighter.
"You're not fragile, you're just dramatic," his mom's voice called from the kitchen. She stepped into view, wiping her hands on a towel. There were more lines on her face than he remembered. Tired, but still smiling.
He hugged her tighter than he meant to.
Dinner was noisy—sibling banter, clattering plates, and exaggerated tales from his younger brother about a "legendary dodgeball match" at school. Amir sat there, letting it all wash over him.
Later that night, when the younger ones were finally in bed, his mom sat with him on the porch.
"He still asks," she said after a long silence.
Amir didn't have to ask who. "What do you say?"
"That his father died a hero," she whispered. "Because it's true."
Amir nodded. But his fists clenched.
The Forsaken Realm had taken his father. A war Amir still barely understood. All he knew was that his father had gone in strong… and hadn't come back. All he remembered was the day his domain first lashed out in a panic—and the look of fear on his father's face when it happened.
He hadn't used it since.
"You've grown," his mom said softly. "And you're still trying to carry everything by yourself."
"I just want to be useful."
"You already are."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he told her about Ron. About Zach. About the mission. About how it felt to stand in a room full of Level 3s and know he wasn't enough.
"I can't keep being the weakest link."
"You were never weak. Just scared of your strength."
That one hit.
The next morning, Amir walked his sister to school. The building was sharp, polished. Funded by some charity owned by the Fortunes—one of the few things Amir never acknowledged out loud, but never forgot either.
"I'm gonna be strong like you someday," his sister said, skipping ahead on the pavement.
He smiled faintly. "Be smarter than me, too. That'll help."
Then he turned, backpack slung over one shoulder, and made his way back to the train.
No more hesitation. No more fear.
If his domain was a sword he couldn't yet hold—then he'd become a weapon himself. One they could always count on.