Page 139 of The Alien in the Archive

“You owe her,” Thalara points out, raising an eyebrow.

Thorne cuts in. “Maybe I should get the next few rounds of coffee. I think my favor deficit is probably lowest.”

“With what money?” I ask, scoffing at him.

He shrugs. “Yours.”

I can’t stop the laugh that slips out, and even Lyn cracks a reluctant smile. The tension in the room eases—not completely, but enough that I can breathe again.

Thorne steps closer to me, his presence grounding me as I lean my shoulder against his. Through the bond, I feel his thoughts—quiet, steady warmth.We’ll figure it out.

“You promised me coffee,” Riley says, grinning at Thorne. “I’m holding you to that.”

Lyn groans dramatically, but this time it’s easier. Softer. Thalara rolls her eyes with a fond smile, and I look at all of them—Lyn, Riley, Thalara, and Thorne—and feel something shift in my chest.

For the first time in a long time, the world feels a little less broken.

And the pieces that still are…? We’ll figure it out.

54

THORNE

For centuries, the Obscuary was a tomb. A labyrinth of forgotten knowledge buried beneath dust, shadow, and silence. I was part of that silence, a ghost haunting its halls. I never imagined I’d return to it as anything else.

But now, the Obscuarybreathes.

The reading room is bright—light spilling in from glow lamps and carefully placed projectors. The air hums with quiet conversation and the murmur of scribes working, their fingers flying across digital slates as they record each new revelation. Tables are littered with open scrolls, brittle books, and shattered seals I once thought no one would ever break again.

The weight of history is here, tangible and alive.

I sit at the largest table, surrounded by curious scholars who are trying (and failing) to look like they’re not gawking. Every word I speak is recorded, every gesture followed, as though I might vanish at any moment and take their precious knowledge with me. Some stare at me with outright reverence—others with suspicion.

I don’t blame them.

The document in front of me is brittle, the edges flaking under the protective light of the archive lamp. It’s written in old High Borean, a formal language most of the Empire abandoned well before even the Skoll Rebellion. We used this language to exchange encoded letters at one point in time, when things were already becoming tenuous. To me, the curling script is as familiar as breathing, though the sight of it still feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s a ledger—a record of construction materials delivered to theoriginalObscuary. I trace the lines with my fingertip, the words flooding back to me.

Alabastri stone from Borealis. Bronze mined in the Nyeri’i Trinity…

The Trinity. Rhyss’s voice comes back to me unbidden, a reminder of the Nyeri’i Cataclysm. I exhale through my nose and push forward. There’s a purpose to this now. There’smeaning.

Davina stands at the head of the table, watching as I translate aloud. Her presence, as always, is steady. She takes notes, occasionally asking clarifying questions, though I sense she already knows more than she lets on. A few younger scholars whisper furiously between themselves, eyes wide with awe. I catch snippets of their thoughts—disbelief, excitement, reverence—though they’re drowned out by the work in front of me.

“This section,” I murmur, gesturing at the bottom of the page, “mentions a collaboration agreement. The Merati stoneworkers, the Skoll metallurgists, and the Borean Magisterium were all involved. It’s…a joint commission.”

Davina’s eyebrows lift. “You’re certain?”

I glance up at her. “I wrote it,” I reply dryly.

The youngest scribe audibly gasps. I almost smirk.

Almost.

Davina’s lips twitch, and I feel Page’s approval ripple through the bond even before I sense her presence.

She’s here.

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