The press’s jaws groaned shut.
Dominic’s boots slipped on the metal lip, but Lena was there, shoulder against his, their joined wrists blazing. The ampersand’s crooked fire held the gap like a crowbar against the weight of inevitability. Sparks spat from teeth gnashing against resistance.
“Hold,” Dominic gritted. His voice wasn’t a command. It was a prayer.
“I am,” Lena whispered, and the bond surged with her pulse.
Above, villagers scrambled on tilting stone. Kael swung from a broken chain, shadow spinning like a rope that refused to knot. Mireya jammed her staff into the machinery, smoke rising from its charred wood. Sal bellowed as he hauled at pulleys, his muscles shaking, the ERRATA thumping against his chest like a second heart.
But the override kept grinding.
The Printer’s voi
