Interlude: The Woman Beneath the Armor

Thirteen years before the Fall of Solara.

Her name was Veyna Malrix, and she was once a guardian of the Light.

Not a general.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

She stood in the Hall of Judgment—Solara's most sacred court—wearing silver armor that still shone with honor. Her hair was long then, braided in a warrior's knot. Her eyes were not yet cold.

Before her stood a trembling council of philosophers and scientists, their robes fluttering under the pressure of her presence.

"You asked for my report," she said, voice calm but sharp. "Here it is: the Core is unstable. The relics are awakening faster than we can contain them. If we don't start controlling these anomalies, they will control us."

A high counselor cleared his throat. "We believe the Light has its own wisdom. Forcing control—"

"Is how you lose it," Malrix snapped. "You've buried your heads in tradition. I've seen the outer districts. Dozens are already gone. Vanished. Burned from the inside out."

The youngest councilor, a man named Telm, said quietly, "We're not gods, Malrix."

She turned her head slowly. "That's the problem. You're still pretending someone else is."

---

That night, she stood on a balcony high above the city. Solara gleamed below, golden and glorious. But it was built on secrets. On buried vaults and locked doors. On relics no one truly understood.

Her mentor, an old soldier named Varren, joined her.

"You pushed too hard today," he said.

"I didn't push hard enough."

Varren sighed. "You're not wrong. But fear can't guide you."

"No," she said, "but neither can faith in myths."

He looked at her, eyes tired. "And if you're wrong?"

She clenched her jaw. "Then I'll be the one to pay for it."

---

Three years later, she found the first key.

Not Kael's. An older one. A failed one.

It was buried beneath an abandoned facility outside the Woundlands—still humming, still alive.

The Core there whispered to her.

Showed her images.

Not of peace.

But of power.

Cities reforged. Skies reborn. Order, at last.

It told her, "You could be more than a guardian. You could be the flame."

And she believed it.

---

She brought the key back to the city.

And they tried to stop her.

The council stripped her of rank.

Her mentor turned his back.

She left Solara that day with nothing but her armor, the key, and a promise:

> "When the world falls, I will be the one who builds what comes next."

---

Then came the Fall.

Malrix stood on the outer ring, watching Solara burn.

She felt no joy.

But she felt right.

The Core had been correct. The city had lied. The relics had chosen chaos over order.

But not her.

Never her.

---

She spent the next decade rebuilding—herself, her tools, her purpose.

She replaced her heart with a relic regulator.

She fused armor to her nerves.

She hunted survivors not because they threatened her—but because they reminded her of what she'd lost. Weakness. Doubt.

And then one day… her scouts brought her news.

A boy.

A survivor.

With a spark in his blood.

A name: Kael.

Her hands trembled.

And she smiled.

---

Present day.

Malrix sat alone in her quarters aboard the gunship Ashwind.

Her helmet lay on the desk, revealing the woman beneath: hair cropped short now, a pale scar across her left cheek, eyes still as sharp as glass.

She activated a small holo.

It was a projection of Kael, standing in the Solara Vault.

He looked confused.

Angry.

Alive.

"Soon," she whispered, not cruelly—but like a vow.

Then she activated a voice recording she hadn't played in years.

It was from her old mentor, Varren.

> "If you ever come back, Veyna… I'll be waiting. The Light still remembers you."

She stared at it for a long time.

Then deleted it.