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“It means shut up and let me help you.”
He almost smiles, which under the circumstances is rude and wonderful. “As you command.”
“I did not command. I lovingly bullied.”
“Noted.”
We run together down the maintenance spine toward the last light, carrying the shard, the burden, and the terrifying knowledge that survival is now measured in minutes at best.
Behind us, sealed truth sinks beneath collapsing stone.
Ahead, one shuttle waits somewhere inside a dying planet.
And against all evidence, I keep moving because Ghar’s hand is in mine, Brakk is cursing us toward escape, Sira is still singing the path open, and somewhere behind the ruin Rolaev has chosen, for at least one moment, not to make fear the final word.
CHAPTER 30
GHAR
The maintenance spine pitches sideways beneath my boots, and the dying planet howls around us like something enormous has finally discovered pain.
Amber guide-lines shiver along the narrow passage, cutting through smoke, frost, dust, and the pulsing white glare leaking from cracks in the walls. My ribs grind when I move. My back burns where the collapsing slab struck me. Every step sends pain through my spine and down my injured leg, but pain is simple compared to the corridor tearing itself apart in pieces of impossible geometry. Sections of wall fold inward, reveal open darkness, then become wall again. The floor turns slick with condensation, then dry with heat a heartbeat later. Somewhere ahead, Brakk’s escape anchor screams in protest while Sira’s stabilizing phrases tremble through the air like thin glass under pressure.
Anita is not beside me.
That fact becomes the center of the universe.
One moment, she is there, her hand locked around mine, the shard case strapped across her body as we run toward the launch cradle. The next, the passage between us twists, and a segment of corridor buckles upward in a black wave. Amber light flashes. Gravity stutters. Brakk yells. Sira cries out. My hand closes on empty air.
I stop so suddenly that my wounded body nearly tears itself apart.
“Anita!”
Her voice answers from behind the folded section, muffled by stone and distortion. “I’m here!”
Relief hits hard enough to make my knees weaken, and fear follows so quickly the relief does not survive. The corridor between us is narrowing, its edges grinding together like jaws made of ancient ruin-metal. Silver-white light spills through the crack, and behind it I glimpse Anita on the far side with one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching the shard case against her chest.
Brakk shouts from ahead, “Ghar, move! The launch cradle is this way!”
“No.”
Sira’s voice rises. “The fold is collapsing. If you stay there, you will be cut off.”
“I know.”
Anita’s face appears through the narrowing gap. Dust streaks her cheek. Blood darkens one sleeve. Her eyes blaze with panic and fury. “Ghar, do not you dare do the noble idiot thing.”
“I am not evacuating without you.”
“You are injured!”
“So are you.”
“I am on the correct side of the stupid wall for the shuttle route!”
“You are not on my side.”
Her mouth opens, and for half a breath the corridor noise seems to fall away. I see the answer hit her, not as romance, not as poetry, but as practical, terrifying fact. I will not leave this planet without confirming she is out of the collapsing archive structure. I cannot. Not because destiny drags me by the throat. Not because the bond commands obedience. Because I choose her, and choices mean little if they dissolve when the corridor becomes inconvenient.
