The golden grass whispered against the Archivist’s boots as he approached the two fallen figures. He moved with a heavy deliberate weight that made the space around him feel solid again. He did not look like a fragment of data or a projection of starlight. He looked like a man who had walked across too many centuries and forgotten the way home.
Malphas struggled to his feet first. He stood in front of Lyra, his body acting as a shield even when his hands were empty of steel. His muscles were stiff, his skin covered in the grey dust of the dreadnought, but his gaze remained fierce.
Lyra stood up beside him, leaning against his shoulder. She looked at the Archivist, her breath finally slowing down. She noticed his eyes were no longer a swirling vortex of white stardust. They were clear, t
