Micah's knuckles were still clenched when the door opened. His words were poised like a blade, ready to strike Dr. Voss down the second he saw her face. But the figure standing in the threshold wasn't her.
Elias Dorne filled the frame of the open door with the kind of presence that didn't need announcing. He was visibly older than Micah remembered, the years etched into him like weather into stone. However nothing about him seemed diminished. His hair, long since turned iron-grey, was combed back without vanity, streaked darker at the temples as though time itself had relented in patches. A beard traced his jawline close and neat, not out of affectation but out of discipline.
His body carried no augmentation, no gleaming prosthetics or humming ports. Only scars - faded lines at the knuckles, a pair of burns running diagonal across his forearm, and one long welt that disappeared beneath his collar. He could have had them erased years ago but he never did. The Purists cherished their scars, and record of the endurance of the human spirit.
He wore a long field coat, its canvas dyed a muted brown that looked as though it had been weathered in both deserts and cities alike. The shoulders bore no insignia, no claim to rank, but the weight of the fabric, the careful repairs sewn into its seams, gave it an authority of its own. His boots were scuffed to dull leather, but each step was measured, purposeful.
What struck Micah most wasn't the scars or the coat, but his eyes - hazel flecked with pale green, sharp enough to read a man before he opened his mouth. They held the same clarity that had once steadied Micah through darker years, a gaze that asked for honesty and offered no room for pretense.
"Micah," he said, voice steady as carved stone. He stepped back, gesturing inside with a motion as calm as if this were any ordinary night. "Come in."
For a moment Micah froze, the familiar weight of the man's presence cracking his anger like ice underfoot. He hadn't seen his mentor in years, at least not in person. The last name of a man that he'd claimed for himself. His own father's name - Verin, felt like a chain. Elias Dorne had been the one to help him break it.
Micah crossed the threshold slowly. And there, inside, sat Helena.
She was at ease, legs crossed, posture regal. "Sit," she said simply, as though this meeting had been long planned.
Micah's anger bent under the weight of surprise. His eyes flicked past her to take in the room. He had expected simplicity. Bare walls, a cot, perhaps a desk stacked with files. Spartan efficiency - that was her reputation. Instead, her quarters were alive with layers.
Holoscreens embedded into the far wall streamed muted data feeds like living murals. Old paintings, chipped at the edges but clearly valuable, were mounted in gilded frames beside sleek glass cabinets filled with tech relics. A lattice of light traced across the ceiling, spilling in soft blue hues that mingled with the gold glow of antique lamps. It was art and machine, past and future, converging in one strange harmony.
Micah had the sense he was seeing a side of Helena no one else ever had.
"The tide of war is shifting," she began, her tone cool, deliberate. "And this stage of the battle requires new characters. I've asked Elias to join us - not as a guest, but as my stand-in."
Micah blinked. "Stand-in? What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "that I am leaving the city. The Cutter-Unity alliance changes the board. We cannot match them by holding ground and breaking slowly. So I will not. I will recruit new warriors. A new allyship. Cutter does not get to set the terms unopposed, we will play this game too."
The words settled like thunder. Micah's jaw worked, but Helena pressed on.
"I know Elias has been a valuable mentor to you. I am aware you chose his name as your own. It's my hope his presence will bring you clarity and grounding in the days ahead. And that you'll be open to continue learning from him."
Micah felt his anger slipping, disarmed by Elias's quiet presence and Helena's certainty. He tightened his fists, clinging to the edge. "Before you go spinning webs, Dr. Voss - why did you attack my sister?"
The words lashed the air, sharp, accusing.
Elias frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "Attack your sister? What are you talking about?"
Micah's breath came heavy. "It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes ago. She was broken - three ribs. She said it was you."
Helena's brows rose, her expression unreadable. "We've been here for hours. Elias can confirm it."
Elias gave a firm nod. "He's right, Micah. I've been here since well before curfew."
Her voice pressed forward, calm but edged with steel. "And why would I attack another Purist? Especially my top battlefield general? Why would I sabotage my own cause?"
Micah hesitated. He had no good answer. His sister's words had been enough - her pain, her conviction. But here, under Helena's stare, it sounded thinner than paper.
Elias's tone cut through, colder than before. "You took her word and stormed in here ready for blood, didn't you? After everything I taught you about patience? About seeing the whole field before you draw conclusions?" His disappointment was sharper than a shout.
Micah bowed his head slightly, shame flaring in his chest. "You're right. I… I apologize."
Helena let the silence hang just long enough before speaking again. "I will be gone for some time. You and Elias are free to perform as you have. He will replace me. All the pieces will fall into place when it's time. Until then, he will help you investigate what happened to Layla. My preparations are complete - it's time for me to begin my journey."
She stood, smoothing the front of her coat. "When Elias makes his announcement of the leadership change, there will also be a financial change. All operator paychecks will increase by ten percent, until stated otherwise."
Micah's brow furrowed. "And how do you plan to pay for that?"
"By suspending the TBN broadcasts during my absence," she said. "I don't need them discovered while Elias carries this burden, that should not be his to bear. The funds will be redirected into payroll. Cutter will notice the silence. He'll speculate, he'll worry, and he'll know something is moving beneath his feet. Then, when the time is right, the TBN will resume, and I will deliver what he most fears."
Her eyes passed over both men, sharp but almost softened at the edges. "Good fortune to you both."
With that, she left, the door sealing behind her with a hiss that echoed like the closing of a vault.
Micah stood in the charged silence of the room, Elias beside him. The war inside his chest hadn't ended. But Helena's shadow had left the room, and in its place stood what might be the most important person he'd ever met.
Micah exhaled, shoulders tight. "That wasn't me. I don't lose myself like that, not in front of people. I'm usually so good at this, you would be proud."
Elias studied him for a long moment, his face unreadable but not unkind. When he spoke, it was quiet, almost meditative.
"The function of any given system," he said, "is measured by what it does, not by what it's 'supposed' to do. You say this isn't who you are, yet the only 'you' there is for me to see, is the one that exists from moment to moment."
Micah's throat worked, but he said nothing.
Elias continued, not imposing, but steady. "It is unfortunate our meeting had to come in this state - with your emotions compromised, your judgment clouded. But life rarely waits for perfect timing. It teaches us however it can, and sometimes it hands us lessons when we are least looking to be taught."
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Don't be ashamed of the lesson. You misjudged. You trusted too quickly. That happens. What matters now is whether you keep telling yourself the story of who you think you are… or whether you begin to look clearly at who you've shown yourself to be."
Elias let the words hang, his tone still calm, but edged with quiet gravity. "If you can do that, Micah, then every mistake becomes the foundation of your strength, not the weight that breaks you."
Micah's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to insist Elias didn't understand, that the moment had been an outlier, nothing more. But the words caught behind his teeth.
Because Elias wasn't wrong.
Micah thought of the way he'd burst into Helena's quarters, half a second from violence, certain of his sister's word without stopping to test the ground beneath it. He thought of the way fury had carried him through the corridors, louder than reason, louder than caution. And now, standing here under his mentor's gaze, the fire that had seemed so righteous already felt clumsy, reckless.
He hated how quickly Elias could pull the ground out from under him with nothing more than a few measured words. Hated it, and needed it.
A long breath escaped him, slower than he meant. His shoulders sagged, the tension running off like a slow leak in a hydraulic seal. He felt raw, stripped down.
Elias hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't accused. But Micah felt more exposed here than he had in the chaos of the infirmary, more vulnerable than he had on any battlefield. He realized, uncomfortably, that Elias had just shown him something he'd been trying to deny: anger wasn't strength, not the kind that lasted.
For a moment, Micah felt small again - like the boy Elias had taken under his wing, struggling to keep up, desperate to prove he could match the man's standards. That sensation stung. But underneath it was a steadier truth, one that burned less like shame and more like clarity.
Elias's voice echoed in his head: What matters now is whether you keep telling yourself the story of who you think you are… or whether you begin to look clearly at who you've shown yourself to be.
Micah clenched his fist at his side, not out of defiance, but to anchor himself. The words were hard to hear, but they were also exactly what he needed.
Micah cleared his throat, the heat in his face fading into something more measured. "Thank you," he said, the words quiet but steady. "For reminding me… for putting it in front of me like that."
Elias inclined his head, not with triumph but with the ease of a man who had seen this moment before in countless others. His eyes softened, catching the light. "That's what I'm here for. Not to stand above you, Micah, but beside you. So tell me…" he leaned back slightly, as though to signal that the floor was his, tone softening into something almost playful, like a door creaking open to old familiarity, "what have you been up to all this time? What sort of trouble do you and your sister keep finding?"
At first, Micah hesitated. Summing it all up felt impossible, like trying to pour an ocean into a canteen.
For a heartbeat he felt like a younger version of himself, asked to account for his mischief before a mentor who somehow already knew the truth. But the question loosened something in him, and words began to spill.
He told Elias about the Red Sector, about the creatures closing in like a tide of teeth and claws, and how Layla had brought the squad back alive. His voice quickened as he described the mech drop, his hands sketching the arc of fire in the air. He recounted the broadcasts, the whispers of glyphs, the moments when it seemed the enclave was being held together by thread and willpower alone.
He didn't linger on the pain, or the exhaustion. What he chose instead were the victories, the sharp-edged miracles they'd pulled off against impossible odds. The time Layla had cut down an ambush squad before they'd even set their charges. The scramble through the collapsing spire where he'd rigged a detonation with seconds to spare. He glossed over the terror, but the pride was plain in his voice - pride not just in himself, but in Layla, in all of them.
Elias listened without interruption, hands folded loosely before him, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips. Micah couldn't tell if it was amusement, approval, or something else altogether. But the steadiness of his gaze only pulled more words out of him.
By the time he paused for breath, Micah realized he'd been talking for several minutes, his voice rising, his gestures animated as though he were recounting it all around a fire with the squad again. His pulse was quick, but not with anger this time - with memory, with pride, with the sense of having lived something worth telling. He half-laughed, shaking his head. "Guess I didn't know how much I needed to tell someone who'd get it."
"You tell it like it's still happening," he said softly. "Like the smoke is still in your lungs." His eyes narrowed just a fraction, studying Micah the way one might study a map. "That pride in your voice… that's not nothing. Hold on to it. Most people come out of fire remembering only the ash."
Micah blinked, uncertain. He'd expected a lecture, a correction, maybe even a warning. Instead, Elias's tone carried something gentler - an invitation to linger in the glow of what had been done, not just the shadow of what might still fail.
"You and Layla… gods, the two of you have been carrying more weight than anyone should. And somehow you keep coming back standing."
He glanced between Micah and the door Helena had left through, his expression softening. "I'm proud of you… both of you. Whatever happens from here, don't think it goes unseen. This war - " he gestured loosely around them, as if it stretched through the walls " it's being shaped by what you and your sister do out there. I'm honored Dr. Voss asked me to step in. If it means I get to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Dorne twins… then I'll count myself lucky."
Elias let the last words between him and Micah hang in the quiet for a moment. Then he drew a slow breath, his eyes cutting toward the bank of monitors built into Helena's quarters.
"There's just one more thing," he said, his voice gentler now, almost conspiratorial. "She left me with a task - to speak not just to you, Micah, but to all of them. And I intend to do it properly."
He moved with practiced efficiency, crossing the room to the console. His broad hands tapped across the interface with surprising grace for a man of his build. The lighting in the chamber shifted, overhead strips dimming to a low, burnished glow that framed him in silhouette. One by one, the monitors along the wall came alive, their feeds blooming outward into the far reaches of the enclave.
Micah watched him, arms folded tight, unsettled by how natural it seemed. Elias wasn't fumbling through borrowed authority, he stepped into it like he'd always been meant to stand there.
The older man glanced back over his shoulder at Micah. His expression wasn't stern, but weighted with expectation. "You don't have to agree with every word I say," Elias murmured, his voice low enough to stay between them. "But you should hear them. Watch how they respond. A leader doesn't just give orders, Micah. He learns by seeing how the people choose to follow."
The glow of the monitors deepened, Elias's frame outlined against their light. He clasped his hands behind his back, squared his shoulders, and let the silence stretch until it was clear the moment was no longer private. Elias stood framed in the light, posture steady, his broad hands clasped behind his back. Micah watched from the side of the room, the glow of a dozen feeds washing over his mentor's face.
"Brothers. Sisters. Purists." His voice carried with an even cadence - low, grounded, commanding without the need to sharpen itself into steel.
"I wanted to address the changes before they became whispers and rumors. You've all seen shifts in our camp these last days. Tonight, let me cut through the haze. Dr. Voss has chosen - for reasons of strategy, not absence - to take the fight beyond Sovereign City's walls. She seeks strength where none thought it could be found, and when she returns, she will have changed the tide of the battlefield. Until then, she has entrusted me to safeguard what we've built."
He let the pause sit, just long enough for the words to settle.
"I am Elias Dorne. Many of you don't know me, but some of you do - through my students, through my work in the shadows of this long war. What matters is not my name, but the faith Dr. Voss has placed in me. She asked me to hold the line here, while she carves new ground abroad. I have accepted, not out of pride, but out of duty."
A shift in his tone, softer but no less resonant:
"Each of you has given more than you ever thought you could. Blood, brothers, homes, and futures. I won't insult you by promising a war without loss. But I can promise this: every loss will be felt, every sacrifice honored, and every life valued. You deserve to feel that your cause is not just righteous, but protected."
He leaned a fraction closer to the feed, his voice carrying with a sharper edge.
"As of this hour, all operators will see a ten percent increase in pay. This isn't charity, it's recognition. You keep the Purists alive. You keep the fires burning. And until she returns, you'll know that your labor, your risk, is not forgotten."
The murmurs across the feeds were audible - surprised gasps, voices cutting low. Elias let them echo for a moment before continuing.
"Layla Verin - the Iron Prophet - has shown you what resolve looks like on the battlefield. Dr. Voss has shown you what resolve looks like in strategy. Both forms of leadership are vital, and both belong to you. It is my honor to serve alongside them both, and alongside all of you, in this chapter of our struggle."
He adjusted his posture, giving both himself and his virtual audience a moment to breathe.
"The days ahead will test us. Cutter will test us. Unity-9 will test us. But Purists are forged in fire. And when Dr. Voss returns, this enclave will be ready to meet whatever comes."
The monitors dimmed, the feed cutting to black. Elias turned slowly from the console, the glow fading from his face. Micah realized he'd been holding his breath. As the glow faded, Micah found himself thinking less about fracture and more about balance. Layla's fire, Dr. Voss's vision, Elias's steadiness - three legacies, not one. If the Purists could carry even a piece of each, perhaps the future wasn't as fragile as it seemed.