The archive corridors shuddered beneath violent tremors while emergency lights flashed red across black stone walls older than the tower above them. Dust drifted through the air in pale clouds illuminated by failing preservation lamps. Somewhere behind them, the ritual chamber continued tearing itself apart. Alarms screamed through hidden speakers. Metal groaned. Stone cracked.
Artemis was hurting.
Galathea Brooks ran.
Not gracefully.
Not strategically.
She ran with one hand locked around Qavael's wrist while archivists and preservation staff scattered through the corridors around them carrying equipment, archive drives, and emergency containment kits.
The underground levels had finally lost their composure.
Good.
The Doom deserved a bad day.
Another shockwave rolled through the floor beneath their feet.
Qavael glanced over one shoulder.
Then shrugged.
The transformation happened instantly.
The silver eyes faded.
The black markings withdrew beneath skin.
