The silence within the Core was no longer a reprieve; it had become a predatory presence. Malphas could feel the Masters pressing against the outer membrane of their sanctuary, their cold, calculated intelligence probing for the thinnest point in his firewall. Every attempt they made to penetrate the anchor sent a ripple of agony through the sector’s history, every time they struck, a song faded from the archive, a folk tale dissolved into static, a childhood memory of a long-dead king turned to grey, inert dust.
"They aren't just attacking the anchor anymore, Malphas," Lyra’s voice vibrated through the conduit, her form shimmering with a frantic, pulsing rhythm. "They’re using our own memories as a catalyst. The more we fight back with history, the more history they have to process, and
