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“I mean the archive will be destroyed.”

Anita’s face hardens. “You would assault the chamber while it’s destabilizing?”

“I would end the danger before it leaves this world.”

Brakk makes a strangled sound. “I swear on every greasy bolt in the galaxy, zealots are the worst project managers.”

Sira steps closer to the display. “They are preparing a final assault. Ten minutes, perhaps less. The upper fold is collapsing behind them, so they cannot withdraw easily.”

“Martyr formation,” I say.

Anita’s eyes meet mine through the flickering barrier. She understands the word without needing translation. Her lips part slightly.

“They’re not planning to survive,” she says.

“No,” I answer.

Brakk kicks the stabilizer casing. “Well, that is just rude. I have at least three escape routes I was feeling smug about, and now the whole murder choir is clogging the hallways.”

“Secure the best one,” I say.

He jabs a clawed finger toward me. “Do not use that heroic commander voice on me unless you plan to come with us.”

“I plan to hold the chamber.”

“No, you plan to be huge and tragic at the architecture while everyone else has to carry emotional baggage upstairs.”

“Brakk.”

“What? Somebody has to say it before the romantic martyr nonsense gets rolling.”

Anita’s gaze sharpens on me. “He is right.”

“I have not yet said what I intend.”

“You do not need to. Your shoulders are doing the whole speech.”

Despite the terror pressing around us, some small part of me nearly smiles. “My shoulders are expressive?”

“They are practically writing farewell poetry.”

Rolaev watches us with something like sorrow. “This is what revelation destroys first. Clarity.”

Anita turns on her. “No. This is what your version of clarity cannot survive.”

The preservation field between us flickers.

I see the opening at once, a brief thinning in the light where Anita’s access pattern surges against Rolaev ’s destruction key. I move before thought finishes forming. Pain rips over my scales as I drive one shoulder through the weakening barrier, and for an instant the archive tries to reject me. The world narrows to cold fire, silver pressure, and the taste of blood where I bite my tongue hard enough to keep from roaring.

Then I am through.

Anita gasps my name as I stagger onto the central terrace beside her. The barrier seals behind me with a sound like thunder swallowed underwater. Rolaev takes one step back, destruction key still burning above her palm.

I put myself between them.

Anita grabs my arm. “You idiot.”

“Yes.”