The spire was a violation. It clawed at the bruised sky, a tower of black basalt that seemed to drink the unnatural light of Thule Ultima. Their path toward it was a treacherous negotiation with a landscape that refused to obey its own rules. The fragile consensus forged in the ruined pagoda held, but only just. Sineus could feel the tension in the air, a force as real as the island’s shifting gravity. Volkov, the Russian salvage diver, walked with a predator’s coiled energy, his eyes fixed not on the path ahead, but on Isabelle Moreau’s back. The alliance was a tool of necessity, and every member was ready for it to break.
They moved through a forest of petrified trees that looked like columns of salt, their branches reaching for a sun that had never shone here. The air grew colder, the scent of ozone and wet stone sharpening. Ahead, the path opened into a clearing. In its center stood a gateway, not of wood or iron, but of something that defied easy description. Two massive pillars of polished basalt, each ten meters high, faced each other across a five-meter gap. The space between them did not show the jungle beyond, but a shimmering, stable curtain of pale, colorless light. It hummed with a low, perfect frequency, a single clean note in the island’s discordant roar.
A figure stood by the base of the left pillar, leaning against the stone as if for support. He was old, his face a roadmap of centuries Sineus could only guess at. He wore the simple, dark robes of an archivist, but they were stained with a dark, wet patch near his ribs. He was wounded, his energy a flickering candle in the storm of the island’s Memorum. It was Archivist Cato.
— Hold, — Sineus said, his voice low. He raised a single hand. The coalition froze, weapons half-raised. Volkov’s eyes narrowed. Moreau’s gaze flicked from the old man to Sineus, her expression a mask of cold analysis.
Sineus walked forward alone, his boots making no sound on the damp, black soil. He stopped five meters from the gate. Cato’s eyes, ancient and weary, met his. There was no surprise in them, only a profound exhaustion.
— You are late, Professor, — Cato’s voice was a dry rustle of leaves, barely audible over the hum of the gate.
— The path was not clear, — Sineus replied.
— It never is, — Cato pushed himself away from the pillar, his movement slow and pained. He took a step closer. — Magnusson is a child playing with a weapon he believes is a toy. He thinks the Chronos Engine is a database to be edited. A machine.
He paused, his breath catching. — The Engine is a binary tyrant if you treat it like a machine. It will offer you a choice between two destructions. Approach it as a native, and it offers a third path.
The words landed in Sineus’s mind like perfectly machined gears clicking into place. A native. The same term Magnusson had used. The taunt was a clue. His ability was not just a tool; it was a key.
Cato reached into his robes and pulled out a small, cold object. He pressed it into Sineus’s hand. It was a smooth, black cylinder of stone, no longer than his finger, impossibly dense and cold enough to burn. It had no markings, no seams, no apparent function. It was a piece of pure, silent purpose.
— What is it? — Sineus asked, his fingers closing around the stone.
— A focus. For when the choice is presented. It will not make the choice for you. It will only allow you to—
The world shattered in a single, sharp crack. It was not the deadened, flat report of the weapons they had been fighting. This was a clean, high-velocity sound that cut through the island’s chaotic acoustics with surgical precision. A red flower bloomed on the front of Cato’s dark robes. The old man staggered, his eyes wide not with shock, but with a grim finality.
From the swirling mists and twisted vegetation at the edge of the clearing, they emerged. Commander Joric, flanked by six of his elite Axiom guard, their black polymer armor seeming to absorb the light. They moved with the fluid, disciplined economy of true professionals, their rifles already seeking targets.
— Fire! — Moreau’s command was a shard of ice. The clearing erupted in a storm of automatic weapons fire. The coalition, their fragile trust instantly hardened by a common, immediate threat, returned fire. Bullets sparked off basalt and chewed through the fleshy leaves of the alien jungle.
Sineus dropped to one knee, pulling the wounded archivist down with him behind the cover of the glowing pillar. Cato’s breathing was a wet, ragged sound. The wound was mortal.
— Go, — Cato gasped, his hand gripping Sineus’s arm with surprising strength. He looked at Sineus, his eyes clear and calm, all weariness burned away by a final, absolute purpose. — You are woven into the draft. You can bear it.
With his last reserve of strength, Cato shoved Sineus hard, sending him stumbling toward the shimmering gate of light. Then, the old man turned. He rose to his full height, a frail, defiant figure, and faced Joric’s advance. He spread his arms wide, a guardian making a final stand.
It was an act of pure, calculated sacrifice. It bought them five seconds.
— Through the gate! Now! — Moreau yelled, providing covering fire.
Sineus did not hesitate. He scrambled through the curtain of light, the cold stone clutched in his fist. The world dissolved into a silent, white rush. Moreau, Nadia, and Volkov were right behind him. The last thing Sineus saw before the gate closed was Archivist Cato falling, his body finally surrendering as Axiom’s fire converged on him.
The hum of the gate ceased. The roar of the firefight vanished.
They were through. The final clue was in his hand, but the spire's own defenses were about to trigger.
