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The archive wards begin collapsing.

They go in sequence, shelf by shelf, preservation marks flaring red before burning out in little bursts of gray smoke. Papers lift in the sudden windless turbulence, whispering against one another like panicked birds. A cabinet near the west wall splits down the center, vomiting scrolls onto the floor. The air thickens with dust, scorched wax, and infernal pressure strong enough to push against my eardrums.

Time is gone.

I sling the folio strap across my body and move toward the door.

The sensible path leads away from the estate, through the lower service corridor, out the laundry gate, and into one of the routes I spent years memorizing for a night exactly like this. I can get the documents to Syrenya. I can reach the safe house. I can preserve proof, which is what an analyst should do when the room begins consuming itself.

The bond pulls hard toward the district wardline.

Corin is there.

He is standing near the ritual’s pulse with his hunger gathered around him like flame behind glass, preparing to face the thing Vaerith is dragging upward from beneath the estate. I feel his decision forming through the bond, not in words, but in shape: if the line breaks, he will put himself between the devourer and everyone else.

Of course he will.

Infuriating man.

I stop in the corridor outside the archive, dust on my sleeves, stolen proof under my arm, and the estate shaking around me.

A servant bolts past carrying a box of silver seals. “Lady Isolde, this way! The lower exit is open!”

For one heartbeat, I look after him.

Freedom lies that direction.

Then the floor shudders so violently that a crack runs along the wall beside me, red light glowing through the split. Somewhere below, the summoning answers Vaerith’s call with a sound too deep to be heard properly, a pressure that turns my bones cold.

I turn toward Corin.

The servant stares back at me from the end of the corridor. “My lady?”

“Get out,” I call. “Take the east laundry route and do not look at mirrors.”

“But—”

“That was not a discussion.”

He runs.

I tuck the folio tighter against my ribs and head toward the wardline.

The corridors twist under the ritual strain. Lamps flicker. Mirrors crack. Decorative ward panels collapse from the walls in showers of silver dust. Twice I have to brace myself against stone while red sigils flare under my boots. Once, a guard tries to stop me by grabbing my sleeve, and I show him Vaerith’s own emergency audit seal with such furious authority that he apologizes before remembering the house may be falling down.

By the time I reach the outer hall, rain is blowing through broken windows and the estate district beyond glows red beneath the storm.

Corin stands near the first civic anchor with Rhazek and Sable beside him, gold light threading beneath his skin while he studies the ground like he can read hell through stone. He turns before I call his name.

The bond hits warm and fierce between us.

His eyes move over me, the folio, the dust, the expression I cannot quite hide.

“You were supposed to leave,” he says.

I step toward him. “You were supposed to stop making terrible decisions without documentation.”

Sable throws both hands up. “Beautiful. We’re all alive, and somehow everyone is already arguing.”