The printed word

Every soul has a sound – a vibration that carries who we are, and what we’ve forgotten.

Somewhere between sleep and memory, that sound is calling you home.

This is not just a story. It’s a remembrance.

Welcome to The Song of the Blackbird.…

The Vault hummed. Pip lifted the disc from its cradle. The Vault vibrated once – low, resonant, almost like a heartbeat – and somewhere in the thick stone above, something clicked.
A silent alarm. Not a siren. Not a blare.
A frequency, one designed for the ones who listened differently.

A robed figure at the Chronovisor moved. Not rushed. Not panicked. Deliberate.
The figure raised its hand, not in warning, but in summons.
Lights along the corridor shifted, a soft pulse once… then red.

Pip grabbed Anna’s wrist. “Run.”

They sprinted back toward the way they came, the passageways unfamiliar now, the walls seeming to twist as if the Vault itself didn’t want them to leave.
Above, the Vatican was awakening. Heavy boots thundered. Doors groaned open. Swiss Guards who weren’t in the colourful frills the world knew – these were combat uniforms. Black tactical gear, body armour, visors down, rifles raised. The Vatican’s real army. The one not shown in the tourist brochures.

No warnings. No calls to halt. Just immediate, brutal pursuit.

Anna gasped as they rounded a corner, only to find a team descending, rifles slung low, eyes masked beneath polished helmets.
“Back!” Pip barked, wrenching her sideways into a side corridor barely wide enough for two people. The disc in his hand pulsed wildly, vibrating with urgency.
A bullet sparked against the wall behind them. Not warning shots – real ones.

They crashed through a rusted maintenance hatch, tumbling into a lower service tunnel half-flooded with old rainwater. The stink of old stone and damp rot filled the air. Pip hauled Anna up, but she stumbled, crying out.
Her ankle twisted sharply under her.

“Anna…”

She bit down hard, face pale. “I can run.”

---

Pip barely had time to register the vibration in his palm before the world snapped shut. A metallic click echoed from somewhere behind the walls. A pressure change. Not mystical – mechanical.

Then… the thud of boots. Anna turned. “They’re coming.”

He snatched the disc from his jacket with a sharp motion, eyes locking onto Anna’s.
“Take it and go,” he growled, voice low and urgent.
“No matter what happens, you run. Do not look back.”

Anna froze. “Pip!”

He took a step toward her, face tight, eyes softening just enough to let the truth slip through. “Please, Anna,” he said, voice edged with urgency but layered with love. “You have to trust me. Go now. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”

Then the steel returned.
“Now. Please, go. While you still can.”

“Anna, go!”

Before she could argue, the sound of groaning metal tore through the chamber as a steel panel in the far wall lurched open, revealing a darkness thicker than shadow. Black-armoured figures surged from it – Swiss Guard combat operators in black ops uniform. Silent. Precise. Expressionless beneath matte visors.

The muzzle of the lead rifle swept the room with mechanical intent, locking first on Pip, then Anna. Her breath hitched. Then the world cracked open.
A sharp bark in Italian shattered the thick silence like a gunshot, followed by the scrape of boots launching forward.

One of the black-armoured men surged ahead, rifle raised, eyes locked.
The air turned electric, panic thudding in Anna’s chest.
Dust trembled loose from the stones above as if the building itself recoiled from what was about to happen.

Anna turned and bolted, her footsteps echoing against cold stone, the air thick with the stench of oil, sweat, and centuries-old dust.
The flicker of torchlight caught on her hair as she disappeared into the corridor’s throat, chased by the sound of boots and the storm she couldn’t outrun.

Pip turned, arms raised – not in surrender, in instinct.
A rifle butt drove into his ribs. He folded.
A second strike cracked the side of his head.
He dropped to one knee, vision white-edged but still conscious.
Rough hands wrenched his arms behind his back.
Plastic ties cut into his wrists.
A black bag snapped over his head, pulling tight against his mouth.

He didn’t call for Anna.
He wouldn’t give them that.
He just let her run.

Praying she would break free.
That she’d vanish into the ancient arteries of Rome and escape the noose tightening around them both.
That the horrors he was about to face would not touch her.

The moment stretched, splintered, then shattered.
And still, he held the hope like a final breath.

Then he was dragged.
No words. No explanation.
Just the sound of boots, breath, and old stone.