The Javelin buckled as another blast scorched the wing, spiraling in low through the Throne's gravitational lattice. Smoke curled through the cockpit. Riven cursed. Aeneas gritted his teeth.
"Brace for impact—" Vesk snarled.
They hit the docking brace hard.
Metal screamed.
The three barely stumbled free before the ship collapsed behind them, flames licking its fractured hull. Above, drone swarms circled like vultures, scanning for life signatures.
No time for silence.
Aeneas sprinted toward the core hatch, Riven and Vesk at his heels. They ducked beneath flickering security barriers, dodging sentry beams. The Throne wasn't just a fortress—it was a living thing, its Elythium veins pulsing with stolen memories.
But Aeneas had the key.
The crystalline shard burned in his grip as he pressed it against the terminal. The system shrieked. Lights flickered. And then—
The Archive opened.
Rows upon rows of memory streams flooded the chamber—lifetimes sealed in fractal vaults, entire generations rewritten with Council-approved histories. Aeneas scanned the interface, his pulse hammering.
And there—Ila Varn.
Her data string pulsed in violet light, her memory sealed beneath a hundred encryption layers.
Vesk held his breath. Riven watched him carefully.
"If we decrypt this," she murmured, "we don't just expose them. We erase their control."
Aeneas placed his hand against the console.
"Then let's unwrite the lies."
He entered the final code.
And the Throne screamed.