The skiff didn't just move; it was claimed. The invisible current was a magnetic tether, a silent and irresistible force that dragged the wooden vessel across the glass-black surface of the sea. Matteo fought the oars, his muscles straining until the wood groaned and splintered in his hands, but it was like trying to row against the rotation of the earth.
“Matteo, stop!” Giulia cried, clutching the gunwales.
She looked back at the receding shoreline of Porto Vento. The Archive—the woman who wore her face—was a silhouette of agony on the pier. The blue light erupting from the Archive’s eyes was no longer a glow; it was a pillar of fire, a data-stream so dense it was ionizing the very air. The scream that had shattered the town’s windows had transitioned into a low-frequency thrum that mad
