The days that followed Cutter's broadcast felt brittle. The enclave still operated with is usual fervor - drills sounded, rifles cracked on the range, field reports filtered in from the outskirts, but the tone had shifted, unusual, off-key.
Helena held her place at the center. She made her rounds, chaired briefings, kept her tone measured as always. But people no longer leaned forward when she spoke. They scribbled notes without looking up, or glanced toward one another instead of back to her. Her voice carried authority, but its gravity was thinning.
By contrast, Layla carried hers without effort. She never asked for it, and didn't need to. She walked the hangars with her ribs still bound, visor tucked under her arm, and every eye followed. Her squad spoke of the events like it was scripture. How they'd gone out into the Red Sector, how the creatures had closed around them, how she had called the mech down like fire from the sky, and how every one of them had returned alive.
From there, word of the last mission continued to spread, and with it came new additions to the story. Soldiers spoke of the creatures with widened eyes, but always with the refrain: She brought us all back. Rumors exaggerated details until Layla's presence became almost mythic. Someone claimed her visor had fractured mid-fight and she kept going blind. Another swore she'd caught a beast's claws barehanded. The stories weren't true - but truth mattered less than belief.
Around the canteen tables, soldiers muttered their disdain for how things had been, and their growing confidence in how things could be better. No dead teams scrawled into the ledgers, their symbols carved into the steel wall as a permanent reminder of loss. There was a phrase that repeated itself across the enclave in the days that followed: No glyphs under the Iron Prophet.
The logistics clerks began stamping crates with IRON before sending them to her unit, a shorthand that spread like wildfire. A few recruits at the range copied the tilt of her stance, convinced it made their shots straighter. Nobody corrected them, but Helena saw it. She caught the way conversations dimmed when she entered a room, how soldiers' gazes tracked Layla even when Helena was the one giving orders. Once, she passed a memorial wall and found a pair of Corporals whispering before the glyphs, one muttering, "Maybe if she takes over, we'll stop adding names." They stiffened when they saw her and saluted too sharply.
Helena traced the etchings on the wall with her fingertip, the metal cool under her skin. For the first time, she felt the weight of something she couldn't calculate away: belief shifting against her, shifting toward something she might not be able to control. Aloud, she said nothing. She told herself it was temporary. Confidence wavered; faith could be rebuilt. Timing mattered. Her strategy would prove itself in time. But when she dismissed her staff at night, the scrape of their chairs sometimes seemed louder than her words.
By the third morning, the Iron Prophet's shadow stretched wider than Helena's authority. The morning itinerary was slated for drills. Helena oversaw them from the gantry above the training floor, arms folded tight, her voice cutting crisp commands through the speaker array. Rows of recruits jogged through formation, rifles raised, telemetry feeds blinking across their HUDs. For a while, it moved like clockwork.
Then the hub for their training module began to fail.
False telemetry surged across the trainees' visors—phantom targets, alarms screaming, positions scrambled. The recruits faltered, breaking their lines in confusion. Helena leaned over the console and snapped into the mic:
"Maintain your grid! Reset positions and hold fire until recalibration is complete!"
Her words hung in the air. Dozens of helmets swiveled upward, but no one moved. The commands were clean, correct—and useless in the panic.
Then Layla's voice cut across the floor, sharp and grounded, from the middle of the formation:
"Forget the chatter! Spacing, eyes front, rifles high!"
The chaos snapped shut. Lines reformed. Breathing steadied. Every soldier moved as if pulled by an invisible tether, their HUD noise ignored, their confidence anchored by the Iron Prophet in their midst.
From above, Helena watched as her own orders dissolved into silence while Layla's reshaped the room in seconds. The difference was undeniable. Authority wasn't flowing upward anymore—it was flowing sideways, to the woman who's boots were on the ground with them.
The day eventually wound down like a slow bleed. Layla returned to the hallway of her quarters long past curfew, armor unlatched, visor tucked under one arm. The barracks hall was dead quiet when she keyed her door open. She stepped inside without hesitation, the entryway sealing shut behind her with a metallic sigh. Darkness pressed in, thick and unyielding.
But something was off. She could feel it, the way soldiers feel an ambush before they see it. Without breaking stride, she tossed her visor from her grip. It clattered hard against the floor, the hololight trigger catching and flaring a brief light as it activated against the floor. The beam lanced across the room, and in that flicker, the shape was revealed.
Unity-9.
She stood motionless in the center, cobalt skin and concentric eyes half-lit by the visor's dying glow. A statue in waiting. But Layla didn't need confirmation. She was already in motion, boots pounding the deck as she lunged low for Unity-9's legs.
But her opponent was already moving. Unity-9 ghosted backward, her frame bending as fluid as water, the sweep of Layla's strike cutting nothing but air. Layla adjusted instantly, driving upward from the crouch, a fist arcing in a brutal hook toward Unity-9's face. She felt the impact connect - bone-deep, solid. For half a breath, Layla thought she'd landed it.
Then she realized the hit had been invited.
Unity-9's arms had already shifted, palms turning in, fists chambered. Her counterstrike slammed into Layla's ribs the same instant Layla's punch landed. The timing was perfect, like a trap closing.
Pain detonated through Layla's chest. Three ribs snapped with clinical precision. The force of the blow sent her crashing backward, spine meeting the edge of a table hard enough to shatter it into splinters. She lay sprawled in the wreckage, vision white around the edges, gasping for breath.
Unity-9 hadn't moved forward to finish her. She stood exactly where she'd begun, posture relaxed, as though the exchange had been nothing more than a demonstration.
Layla coughed a few more times, struggling upright, fury burning hotter than the pain in her ribs. She had never even considered that a fighter might want to be struck - to bait the opening, to weaponize her own momentum. Unity-9 had let her connect, only to turn the strike into a lever for domination.
For the first time, Layla understood she wasn't facing a phantom or a machine. She was facing mastery: predatory, deliberate, and patient.
Unity-9 tilted her head back a few degrees, voice calm but edged with something sharp. "You fight like a true soldier," she said. "But soldiers frequently break themselves on wars they don't understand. You want to matter, Iron Prophet? Then stop bleeding for a woman who will bury you, and stand where you belong."
The words fell heavy in the cramped quarters, louder than any battlefield.
Unity-9 didn't advance. She stood before the ruin of the shattered table as though it were a boundary she'd chosen. The light from the fractured visor painted her in shifting fragments, casting her face between shadow and cold cobalt shine.
"You feel it already," she said, voice quiet but carrying. "The weight of eyes on you. Soldiers who whisper your name in the dark like a prayer. Iron Prophet." The title slid off her tongue with unsettling ease, as if it had always belonged to her.
Layla forced herself to sit upright, one hand clamped against her ribs. Her glare was sharp enough to cut steel. "Don't you dare use that name."
Unity-9's concentric eyes shifted faintly, rings aligning, then breaking apart again. "Why not? You've earned it more than anyone here. They follow you into fire and return without a glyph carved for their sacrifice. That's more than your strategist can claim. Voss sends them out with faith in paper plans, and they come back in coffins - or not at all. You send them out, and they come back standing, sometimes even stronger than before."
Layla's jaw worked. "Helena leads us. You think breaking me changes that?"
"I think you already know it's broken," Unity-9 replied, soft but piercing. She gestured faintly at the room around them, at the air heavy with tension. "I've seen how your people look at her. I've seen how they look at you. She wears the burden of numbers, percentages, contingencies, sure. But soldiers don't rally to numbers. They rally to certainty. To someone who looks like them, talks like them. Bleeds like them."
Layla's breath caught, unsteady. Unity-9 pressed.
"No more glyphs. That's what they believe about you. And belief is more powerful than any weapon I've ever held."
The words cut deeper than her strike had. For all her fury, Layla couldn't deny it - she had seen it herself: the looks, the nods, the unspoken trust that seemed to grow thicker with every mission.
Unity-9 tilted her head a different direction, almost curious. "If Helena keeps leading, more glyphs will come. More graves. If you lead, they'll follow you into the dark without hesitation. And that will keep them alive. Do you really need me to tell you which choice matters?"
Unity-9's eyes pulsed faintly, concentric rings sliding back into alignment. She let the silence stretch until Layla was forced to meet her gaze again.
"As I expected, words aren't enough for you," Unity-9 said at last. "So I brought something better."
From a compartment hidden in the seamless plating of her forearm, she produced a device no larger than a soldier's ration pack - sleek, angular, matte-black. She set it on the edge of the broken table with delicate care, as though it were alive.
Layla's breathing hitched. Even without touching it, she could feel the hum of energy in the air. "What is that?"
"A shield generator," Unity-9 replied. "Portable. Compact. Tuned to high-frequency harmonics. It bends the air into a barrier strong enough to scatter rifles, redirect shrapnel, nullify the kind of fast-moving metal that keeps writing glyphs in your enclaves." She paused, tilting her head, letting the weight of the words sink in. "With this, no squad of yours will ever return draped in silence again."
Layla stared at it, her pulse thundering in her ears. The thought of carrying such a thing into the field - of giving her people that kind of protection - was intoxicating.
Unity-9's voice softened, cutting clean through the haze of temptation. "Helena won't bring you this. She can't. Her war is made of numbers, of calculated sacrifices. But I can end the need for sacrifice."
Layla tore her gaze from the generator to meet those impossible eyes.
Unity-9 didn't smile, but her words curved like a blade all the same. "Lead them, Iron Prophet. And I'll make sure no glyph ever marks your path again."
Layla's ribs ached as she straightened, one arm braced against the wreckage of the table. Her glare cut straight through the humming device, locking on Unity-9.
"You think a gift makes me yours?" she spat, each word ragged with pain. "I don't bend because some machine drops tech at my feet." Her hand hovered over the generator all the same, fingers trembling before they closed into a fist. "But if this keeps my people breathing, if it stops another headstone from being carved, then I'll use it. Not because you handed it to me- but because they deserve more than to die for Helena's plans."
Her chest rose and fell, fury and temptation warring in the set of her jaw. "So don't mistake me. This doesn't mean I trust you. But I'm perfectly content to bleed you dry for whatever keeps my squad alive. This better not be a trick."
Unity-9 didn't flinch at the venom in Layla's words. If anything, her concentric eyes gleamed brighter, rings tightening into a perfect circle before widening again.
"Good," she said softly, as though Layla had confirmed an equation. "Don't trust me. Trust is a leash, meant for animals who need masters. But use what I give you. Keep your people alive. Let them see the Iron Prophet does what Voss cannot."
Her gaze dropped briefly to the generator, then back to Layla's bruised frame. "Every time it saves a life, they'll remember who brought it into their hands. Not me. You."
The air around her shimmered faintly, as though the shadows bent to her will. Unity-9's outline fractured, light sliding off her body until she was little more than a distortion in the dark. Her voice lingered a heartbeat longer, detached from the form already vanishing.
"Lead them, Layla Verin. And when Helena falls, they'll already know who to follow."
The distortion blinked out. The room was empty again, save for the hum of the shield generator on the broken table. Layla's pulse hadn't even steadied before the door burst open with a hiss of pressure seals giving way.
"Layla!"
Micah stormed through, sidearm drawn, eyes sweeping the room like a hawk. His boots crunched over the shattered table as he advanced, breathing heavy from the sprint, but there was nothing more to see. Just Layla - bruised and shaking, and the device sitting on the splintered remains of the desk - a soft beacon of accusation.
"You're hurt," he snapped, gaze locking on her ribs, then the wreckage. "What happened? What did this to you?"
Layla stared at the spot Unity-9 had stood, the air still carrying her presence like smoke after a fire. Her jaw worked, words fighting to form, but none came.
Micah's hand twitched against his weapon. "Tell me. Now."
Her eyes finally met his. Not with fear, rather with something darker, heavier.
"She did."
Micah froze. The name didn't need to be spoken. His expression hardened, disbelief and fury flashing all at once. He pivoted toward the door as if he could still catch her. He figured he must've missed her by seconds.
Micah's jaw clenched, but his first words weren't questions, they were orders. "You're likely bleeding internally. We're going to the infirmary."
Layla tried to straighten, to brush him off, but pain lanced through her chest and stole her air. Micah was already at her side, slipping her arm over his shoulder, bearing her weight as if it cost him nothing.
"Don't argue," he said, guiding her through the door. His pace was brisk, but careful, each step balanced so her broken ribs wouldn't grind. The sharp edge in his voice had dulled, replaced with the steadiness of someone who'd carried her out of worse. "If you collapse on me, I'll carry you like a child. Don't test me."
The corridor lights bled across their armor as he steered her toward the infirmary wing. Operators they passed gave sidelong looks - at Layla's pain, at Micah's urgency, but none dared speak. The silence pressed heavier than his questions.
Only once the double doors of the medical bay slid open and the sharp smell of antiseptic hit the air did Micah's voice drop, low enough for only her to hear. "She'll pay for this."
The medics cut Layla's armor away, scanners whirring as they mapped the damage. Three ribs cracked, one fractured clean through. Painkillers hissed into her IV, softening the edges, but her eyes never left Micah as he paced at the foot of the bed. Micah's face had darkened, eyes lit with a fury Layla had never seen in him. His hand curled into a fist at his side.
"I warned her. I told her she was losing them, that she was losing us. And now she lays her hands on you!? My sister!?" His voice dropped, but the venom in it was louder than a shout. "That's no leader. That's a tyrant too afraid to face her own failures."
He leaned closer, his breath ragged. "If Helena thinks she can keep her grip by breaking you, she's already lost. I swear it, Layla - I won't let her put another mark on you. Not one."
Layla tried to lift her head, but the sedatives wrapped around her like leaden chains. Her tongue felt too heavy to move, her lips half-formed the word no, but nothing carried. Micah's voice thundered above her, each word landing like a hammer, but her mind lagged, slow and syrup-thick. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn't Helena at all, but Unity-9.
The thought flickered, then blurred. Her chest ached, her ribs screamed, and the drugs pulled her down again. All she could manage was a weak exhale, eyes fluttering shut, as Micah's vow hung in the air unanswered.
Micah stormed through the enclave, every step pounding like a drumbeat he couldn't silence. The medics' words echoed behind him: "she'll stabilize, she'll heal" - but they did nothing to quiet the image of Layla's ribs caving under a strike she never should have taken. His fists tightened until the knuckles ached.
The command wing loomed ahead, its doors lit with sterile glow. He cut through the guards without a word, their eyes flicking nervously as he passed. The rage in him was too sharp to mask. Helena would answer for this. She had to.
The corridor narrowed into the officers' quarters. He found her door, broad steel with the faint glow of a biometric lock, and lifted his fist to hammer it with all the weight of his fury.
Before his knuckles struck, the door hissed open.
Micah froze.
A figure stood framed in the low light of the chamber, older but unbowed, with a face Micah hadn't seen in years. The weight of recognition hit harder than any blow.
"Micah," the man said, voice steady, carved from stone.
Elias Dorne.