The airport was cold with the kind of artificial chill that clung to your skin long after you left. Malik Pendragon pulled the hood of his navy hoodie tighter over his dreads as he stepped off the escalator, his boots landing with a thud against the glossy tile floor of JFK International. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and voices buzzed in every direction—families reuniting, lovers embracing, tourists fumbling with luggage. Malik didn't pay attention to any of it.
His eyes scanned the crowd, already knowing what—or rather, who—he wouldn't see.
Not him.
His mother stood near the baggage claim, wrapped in a caramel trench coat, her arms wide open and a smile that made everything sting a little less.
"Malik!" she called, pushing through the crowd.
He walked toward her, the roller on his suitcase squeaking with every step.
"Hey, Ma." He tried to smile. Failed.
She wrapped her arms around him in a hug that smelled like cocoa butter and lavender. "I missed you so much, baby. How was London? Did you get the sketches I sent you for your journal?"
He nodded, pulling back slightly. "Yeah. It was cool. Saw Big Ben, a few castles. Even touched a fake Excalibur in a museum."
She chuckled. "Fake?"
"Felt fake."
There was a beat of silence. A question danced in her eyes, one she didn't want to ask but couldn't quite bury.
He saved her the effort. "Dad couldn't make it?"
Her face tightened. "He's working."
Of course he is.
Malik didn't respond. His mother took the handle of his suitcase as they walked through the parking garage. The night air was thick and heavy, a summer storm looming somewhere just beyond the skyline. Lightning flickered in the distance, too quiet to notice unless you were looking.
He always noticed.
They lived in a worn apartment complex near Harlem—one of those buildings with rusted fire escapes and graffiti that told stories in colors the city tried to paint over but never could. Malik sat by the window of their third-floor unit, headphones around his neck, sketchbook open on his lap.
He was drawing the sword again. Not the fake one from the museum. This one burned with light in his head, radiant and jagged, like it had been cracked by the sky itself. He didn't remember it clearly, but ever since the trip, something inside him buzzed—like static under the skin, a hum just beneath reality.
His name didn't help.
Pendragon.
It was a name that carried weight, history, and no small amount of mockery.
"Yo, Arthur, you gonna pull the sword from the trash can today?
"Watch out, guys. King Malik's gonna summon a dragon from his lunch tray!"
He'd gotten into more fights than he could count. Not because he was soft—but because he didn't want to be them. He didn't want to be obsessed with the past. He wanted to make something of now. Through art. Through movement. Through defiance.
That night, while his mom fell asleep on the couch with the TV murmuring in the background, Malik slipped out the window
Rooftops were his escape.
He scaled a fire escape like it was second nature, the metal creaking softly beneath his feet. At the top, he ran—across cracked concrete and faded tar, leaping from roof to roof. His muscles moved without thought, practiced from years of avoiding trouble and chasing adrenaline.
He stopped at the edge of an apartment building downtown, the wind brushing through his dreadlocks. Below, the city pulsed—sirens in the distance, headlights bleeding into puddles, music thumping from open windows. He took out a can of spray paint from his sling bag, shook it until the rattle was steady, and began tagging the side of a rooftop vent.
His tag was simple: ⚡PENDRAGON. Letters bold and sharp like they were carved by lightning.
Just as he finished, thunder rolled across the sky.
Then something… shifted.
The hairs on his arms stood up. The metal around him vibrated slightly, like the building itself was holding its breath. Malik turned, his body tensing.
At the edge of the roof stood a man—or at least, something shaped like one. Cloaked in black, faceless, with eyes that shimmered like oil catching fire.
"Who the hell are you?" Malik said, backing up.
The figure said nothing. It raised its hand.
And the sky cracked.
A bolt of lightning arced downward—not from the clouds, but from Malik's chest.
It erupted from him.
He screamed, but no sound came. His body glowed, veins burning electric blue. For a moment, the city flickered—all lights dimming, all sounds fading—as if time itself skipped a heartbeat.
Then it was gone.The figure was gone.
Malik collapsed to his knees, his hand smoldering, the spray can rolling to a stop beside himHe stared at the burned outline of his tag, now warped and glowing faintly with energy.
And for the first time in his life, Malik Pendragon felt… real
Not because of his name Not because of a sword in a story
Because something inside him had awakenedAnd the world was about to change.