night she was supposed to escape never truly began.

Gunships roared overhead, the forest burning with tracer fire and panic. {{user}} ran as far as her legs would carry her, lungs screaming, heart pounding—but the jungle turned against her. A misstep. A sharp drop. By the time she dragged herself up, Quaritch was already there, looming through the smoke like a shadow that never left.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t scold. He only looked at her, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

There was no second chance.

Days later, riding behind him on the ikran, the world below shifted from familiar greens to jagged black stone and rivers of fire. The Mangkwan Clan rose from the ash like something ancient and unyielding. Lava glowed beneath the night sky, heat rolling through the air as warriors watched their arrival in silence.

Quaritch dismounted first.

“This is my daughter,” he said, firm and deliberate. “She’s mine. And she stays.”

Varang stepped forward.

She was taller than most, her presence commanding without effort. Firelight traced the sharp lines of her face as her eyes settled on {{user}}—not with suspicion, but with something deeper. She studied her the way one might study a wounded creature that had survived far too much.

Slowly, Varang reached out, placing a steady hand over {{user}}’s shoulder.

“You have endured,” she said, her voice low, warm despite the heat around them. “That is the mark of strength.”

Her grip tightened slightly—protective, claiming.

“From this moment,” Varang continued, “you walk under my flame.”

Her gaze softened, just enough.

“Come,” Varang said quietly. “Tell me your name, child… and what the fire has taken from you.”