45. The Shape of a Storm

The Wraith drifted silently through a nebula cloud—a bruised smear of purple and silver gas that gave the illusion of serenity. Inside, the crew was anything but calm.

Elara stood in the command deck, eyes locked on the small drive she held like a loaded weapon.

It was warm.

Still pulsing.

Still alive.

Damien leaned against the console beside her, arms crossed. "Voss gave his life for that thing."

"He said it held everything," Elara muttered. "Patterns. Code. Origins. If he was right, then this" she turned the drive over in her palm "is the blueprint to understanding the Architects."

"Or destroying them," Valen added from behind. His face was drawn, darker than usual. "We just don't know which yet."