The Fallen's presence thickened the air like wet ash. Shelves groaned under the pressure, books trembled in their bindings, and faint strands of dust curled upward as if gravity itself were reconsidering its job. Cain didn't waste time trying to locate the creature by sound—the Archive swallowed echoes, bending them, spitting them out from different angles. Instead, he watched the shifting lights, the subtle distortions in the air, the way Sirin's wings tensed despite being hidden.
The scraping ceased.
Silence. Total.
Sirin whispered, "Left—"
A blur exploded from the right.
Cain pivoted a split-second before impact, but the creature still clipped his shoulder hard enough to send him sliding across the stone floor. Paper and shattered glass scattered around him as he rolled to his feet.
