The Obsidian Archive was a myth cloaked in radiation and circuitry—off-limits, off-grid, and off-record. Only the highest among the Council, or the dead, ever entered it. Aeneas planned to qualify as both, if needed.
Riven adjusted the phase cloak strung across her shoulders like a shawl, her goggles scanning flux patterns across the vault's perimeter. "They rerouted three surveillance angels just this cycle," she muttered. "Whatever's inside… they really don't want sung about."
Aeneas knelt by the Archive gate, brushing his palm over its Elythium-etched runes. The symbols pulsed—familiar. Too familiar.
"These are mine," he said softly. "From my old schematics."
"You designed their memory fortress?" Riven asked, an eyebrow arched.
He nodded. "Didn't think I'd ever have to break in."
Inside, the vault bloomed like a cathedral of data—columns of pure light humming with chronal resonance. Memories. Billions. Extracted, archived, sanitized. Lives rewritten or erased.
He reached for a panel labeled Cycle 1121: Varn Uprising.
His name flickered across the interface.
Then it screamed.
A pulse of anti-memory hit him like fire through the skull. He staggered back—gasping, collapsing to one knee.
"Aeneas!" Riven grabbed him, her voice cut by static.
But the damage was done.
He had triggered a failsafe. Someone knew they were here. Someone watching from far above, perhaps even from the Obsidian Throne itself.
Footsteps echoed in the vault—measured, mechanical.
Riven's hand found his.
"Time to run?"
"No," Aeneas whispered. He rose, eyes blazing.
"It's time to take something back."