Page 191 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

Echo waits.

I say, “Can faith be reforged after this?”

The question is not only mine. I feel Sira still. I hear Rolaev ’s breath catch. Even Brakk does not complain.

Echo studies us all. “Faith in false certainty will break. Faith as chosen trust may remain. Faith as attention to value may grow. Faith as permission for violence should be dismantled.”

Ghar Vek’Talan, former believer in sacred design, former soldier under holy banners, stands in a collapsing ruin and accepts that answer because it is not clean.

Clean answers made killers of better men than me.

I bow my head once. Not in worship. Not surrender.

Acknowledgment.

“Go,” Echo says.

The seam narrows.

Anita lifts the shard. “What happens to the full archive?”

“Sealed beneath failure,” Echo answers. “Not gone. Not open. Waiting for better questions.”

“Great,” Brakk mutters. “Even the universe assigns homework.”

Echo’s almost-face turns toward him. “You are still compact.”

“Say that again and I will find a way to kick pre-reality in the shin.”

A sound passes through the rupture, and after a confused moment, I realize Echo is laughing. Not with a mouth. Not with lungs. But the corridor fills with warm, shimmering amusement that makes floating dust dance gold.

Then the Echo vanishes.

The rupture collapses into a white point and disappears.

The ruins scream.

Gravity returns all at once, badly.

A floating slab crashes down behind us hard enough to throw all of us off balance. I catch Anita against my chest before she falls. Sira stumbles into Brakk, who grabs her robes with one hand and the escape anchor with the other.

“Move!” Brakk roars. “Now! Everybody move now, philosophize later!”

This time, no one argues.

We run.

The corridor ahead buckles and stretches. Amber guide-lines snap across black stone, showing a path that exists only because Brakk is apparently willing to bully reality through engineering. Sira feeds stabilizing commands into the anchor while half-dragged by Brakk, her voice hoarse but steady. Rolaev follows behind us, and I do not trust her at my back, but I trust the collapsing ruins less.

Anita runs beside me, but I can feel the shard fighting her. It pulses against her chest, each throb sending silver light through her fingers. Her breathing grows ragged. I slow enough to match her stride.

She glares up at me. “Do not even think about carrying me unless my legs actually detach.”

“You are limping.”

“You have broken ribs and a smoking chest. We are all bringing flaws to the group project.”

“I can carry you.”