### **Chapter 4: The Fragile Mirror**
As the years began to fold into one another, the weight of my double life grew heavier, like a silken cloak lined with lead. By the age of ten, I had become a master of the "hollow space"—the art of being present in body while my spirit was miles away, drifting through the digital veins of the city.
In the Veyra household, the love remained a constant, warm tide. My brothers were no longer boys; they were young men, their shoulders broadening, their voices dropping into the gravelly registers of warriors. They were my world's sentinels, and I was their sacred charge.
"Try this on, Astra," my mother whispered one evening, her eyes shining with a soft, misty light. She held up a gown of woven moon-thread, a fabric so light it seemed to float on the air. "The Gala of the Rising Star is in two days. It is the first time you will be seen by the Great Prides as a young lady. Your brothers have been training for weeks just to be your escorts."
I ran my fingers over the cool, shimmering fabric. To my mother, this was a rite of passage—the beginning of my journey toward finding a Unit of husbands who would cherish me. To me, it was a disguise.
"It's beautiful, Mother," I said, my voice practiced in its gentle melodic tone.
"You are the heart of this house," she said, kissing my brow. "Always remember that. Your brothers fight so you can be at peace. That is their **Duty**, and yours is to be the joy they return home to."
*Joy.* It was a heavy burden to carry.
That night, the house was filled with the sounds of preparation. I could hear Leo in the courtyard, the rhythmic *thwack* of his practice spear hitting the training dummies. I could hear Jax and Marc arguing over the logistics of the gala's security. They were so busy guarding the doors that they forgot to guard the shadows.
I slipped out of my room, not through the door, but through the ventilation shaft I had spent months loosening. I didn't wear moon-thread. I wore a suit of matte-black compression gear I had scavenged and modified from the brothers' old flight-suit liners.
I moved through the estate like a ghost—no, like a glitch. Using my **Mental Strength**, I didn't just walk; I manipulated the light around me, bending the perceptions of the security cameras so they saw only empty hallways.
My destination was the Outer Hangar. It was a place I was never supposed to go—a forbidden cathedral of grease, cold steel, and the raw power of the **Iron Beasts**.
The hangar was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the cooling fans. In the center of the bay stood a decommissioned "Scout" class Mecha, a rusted titan named *The Silver Wing*. It was too small for the modern pilots, too "weak" for the men of the Veyra line.
I climbed the maintenance gantry, my small hands certain and steady. I reached the cockpit hatch and placed my palm against the biometric scanner. A normal woman's touch would have triggered an alarm. But I sent a pulse of silver energy through the wires, mimicking the frequency of a command-level override.
The hatch hissed open.
The interior of the cockpit was cramped, smelling of ozone and old leather. I sat in the pilot's chair, my feet barely reaching the floor pedals. I closed my eyes and reached out.
*Neural Link: Initiating.*
Most men described the link as a violent surge, like a beast trying to bite its way into their brain. But for me, it was a homecoming. My **Mental Sea** expanded, flowing into the machine's processors like water into a dry riverbed.
I didn't try to "tame" the machine. I became it.
The sensors became my eyes. The external armor became my skin. I felt the thrum of the fusion core in my chest, a second heartbeat that was much stronger than my "fragile" one. For a few glorious minutes, I wasn't a ten-year-old girl in a gilded cage. I was a thirty-ton predator of steel and fire.
*Calibration complete,* the machine's AI whispered directly into my mind. *Synchronization level: 99.8%.*
I allowed myself one small movement. I lifted the Mecha's massive right hand and watched through the monitors as it moved with the same fluid grace as my own. No lag. No noise. Just perfection.
Suddenly, the hangar lights flickered. A heavy footstep echoed on the metal floor below.
"Who's there?"
It was Jax's voice. He had finished his training early. He was supposed to be in bed, but his protective instinct was a restless thing. I could hear the clatter of his combat boots as he climbed the gantry.
*Disengage. Now.*
I severed the link with a jagged mental snap. My vision blurred, the sudden return to my small, weak body feeling like a physical blow. I scrambled out of the cockpit just as Jax reached the top level.
"Astra?" He stopped, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark. He looked at the open hatch, then at me—a small, dark figure standing on the edge of the gantry.
His face went pale. He didn't see a pilot. He saw his baby sister standing in a dangerous place, far too high up, near a machine that could crush her.
"Astra! Get away from there!" He lunged forward, his "Beast Strength" allowing him to clear the distance in a single leap. He scooped me up, his arms trembling with a mix of terror and fury. "What were you thinking? You could have fallen! You could have been killed!"
He held me so tight I could barely breathe, his heart thudding like a hammer against my ribs.
"I... I just wanted to see what you see, Jax," I lied, my voice small and tearful. I buried my face in his shoulder, playing the part of the curious, frightened child. "The Silver Wing looked so lonely."
Jax let out a long, ragged breath, his anger dissolving into that suffocating devotion I knew so well. He carried me down the gantry, his steps careful as if he were carrying a glass of water to the brim.
"It's not a toy, Astra," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "These things are monsters. They take a piece of your soul every time you touch them. I don't ever want you near one again. Do you understand? Your **Duty** is to stay where it's safe. My duty is to make sure you never have to know the weight of this steel."
He carried me back to the house, never letting go, his brothers meeting him at the door with frantic questions and even more smothering affection. They tucked me into my bed of moon-thread and silk, staying until they thought I was asleep.
In the dark, I looked at my hands. They were shaking—not from fear, but from the lingering electricity of the link.
Jax was wrong. The machine didn't take a piece of my soul. It was the only place where my soul finally felt large enough to breathe.
They would dress me in silk for the gala. They would stand guard at my side like iron towers. But they couldn't stop what was coming. I had tasted the lightning, and the "safety" of the Nest would never be enough again..