Kora parted her lips, tongue darting out as he fed his cock into her mouth. She sucked greedily, tasting herself on him, while his hand pumped the base. He face-fucked her shallowly, grunting, before pulling back. With a final groan, he stroked himself to completion, hot ropes of cum splattering her breasts and stomach.

He didn't help her clean up. Just wiped his cock on her thigh and dressed.

Kora lay there, spent and sticky, a bitter smile forming. It was done. The academy was hers.

Vaelith had been rough. Impersonal. Used her body with mechanical efficiency, taking what he wanted without care for her experience. It had hurt—physically, emotionally, spiritually. He hadn't cared.

When it was finished, he'd provided a clean cloth and pointed to her scattered clothing.

"Your name will be on the list," he'd said, already returning to his paperwork. "Congratulations on your selection, Private Kora. You've earned it."

The words had been acid.

Earned it.

Now, standing on the wall, Kora touched her abdomen where bruises still ached beneath her uniform. Physical marks would fade. The medical bay had salves for that.

The other marks wouldn't fade as easily.

Was it worth it? she asked herself.

The Academy. Training under Experts and Elites. Access to real information not the propaganda the republic pedals to the commoners. Escape from Vester's grinding desperation. A future beyond scout work and patrol duty.

Was it worth it?

She didn't know.

Might never know.

Make it count, Kora repeated to herself. Make it worth it.

She didn't know if that was possible.

But she would try.

Because the alternative—accepting that she'd traded something irreplaceable for nothing—was worse than any physical pain Vaelith had inflicted.

—-

Elsewhere,

Sunshine Squad gathered in their quarters that evening, three of their members selected—an unprecedented success rate for an independent unit.

Bright, Duncan, and Mara. There of fifteen slots. Over a quarter of the total selections.

Adam as usual sat with them, his exclusion hanging heavy despite attempts at normalcy.

"Three out of six," Duncan said, trying to inject positivity into the atmosphere. "That's… that's incredible. Atheon must have pushed hard for us."

"He did," Bright confirmed. "Still they were Merit-based recommendations. We earned our slots."

"You earned your slots," Adam corrected quietly. "Some of us did the math and came up short."

The words hung awkwardly.

Mara broke the silence. "Adam, your crazy intelligence—"

"Wasn't enough. I know." Adam's voice was level, accepting. "Sixteen years old. Baseline human strength. Rifle specialist. The math never favored me. I gambled on the odd chance they could see my worth, but—" He shrugged. "Initiates and fledglings with rare talents and combat records won. That's how it should be."

"That doesn't make it fair," Mara insisted.

"Fair and functional are different metrics." Adam managed a small smile. "I'm genuinely happy for you four. You'll represent Vester well. Just… don't forget where you came from. Don't become the kind of humans who see soldiers as some kind of asset instead of people."

His eyes found Bright's when he said it. Pointed. Deliberate.

Bright understood. Don't become what you were turning into. Don't lose yourself again.

"We won't," Bright promised. "We'll remember."

Baggen had been silent, nursing a cup of weak ale. Finally, he spoke. "Looks like you kids are gonna be in for a ride—" His voice cracked. "Doesn't matter. You three… you make us proud. Show Central what the north produces."

"Baggen—" Duncan started.

"No. I mean it." Baggen stood, gripped Duncan's shoulder firmly. "No regrets. No bitterness. You earned your slots. I'll keep fighting here. Someone has to hold the walls while you're off becoming great."

It was grace in the face of disappointment. Dignity in exclusion.

Rolf on the other hand was skulking at the fact he exceeded the age limit and his squad members were mostly chosen.

The celebration continued—subdued but genuine. They drank weak ale and shared stories about what Academy training might entail. Made jokes about Duncan probably challenging Expert-level instructors to weird ass contests. Speculated about whether Bright's spatial awareness would terrify or excite the Academy researchers.

But underneath the levity, reality pressed down.

Three were leaving. Three were staying. And the squad that had survived impossible odds together was fracturing.

Mara caught Bright alone near the window later that evening.

"Are we okay?" she asked quietly. "After everything—what happened before Crimson Fang, how cold you became, the way I—"

"We're okay," Bright interrupted gently. "I'm not… I'm not that person anymore. The machine I was building. I stopped construction. Asked for help tearing it down."

"Good." Mara's hand found his—not romantic, just connection. Grounding. "Because I need you human, private. We all do. The Academy's going to try to make us into weapons. We need to remember we're people first."

"People first," Bright agreed. "I'll remember."

They stood together, watching the Never-Ending Night press against the walls, aware that in some days time they'd be leaving this place. Leaving behind squadmates who'd become family. Leaving behind the grinding, desperate survival of Vester.

Moving toward something new. Something unknown. Something that might make them stronger or might destroy them entirely.

But at least they'd face it together.

Three members of Sunshine Squad, heading to the Academy.

It would have to be enough.

-----

In another corner of Vester, hundreds of disappointed soldiers nursed their shattered dreams in various ways.

Some drank. Some trained harder, as if proving their worth after rejection mattered. Some simply stared at walls, processing the brutal mathematics of exclusion.

A young man—nineteen years old with a decent record but no distinguishing characteristics sat in the barracks common room, watching his hands shake.

Not good enough. Never good enough. Will never escape this place.

Beside him, another —twenty-two, similar story, similar disappointment—said nothing.

Just existed in the quiet despair of knowing that seven years of service, of fighting Crawlers and holding walls and surviving impossible odds, amounted to adequate but insufficient.

Across the room, other soldiers made plans. Some would request transfers to different outposts, hoping fresh environments would offer new opportunities. Some would resign themselves to Vester, to the grinding reality of service until attrition claimed them. Some would push harder, prepare for the next recruitment cycle in two years, gamble on age limits and changing odds.

But all of them understood the truth: most soldiers never escaped the outposts they were assigned to. Most fought and survived and eventually died without ever advancing beyond Initiate rank. Most dreams died exactly like this—with a list of fifteen names that didn't include yours.

The Republic needed soldiers. Needed people to hold the walls against the Shroud, to man the outposts, to do the grinding, thankless work of survival.

The Academy trained leaders. The exceptional few who would command those soldiers.

Everyone else? They were the foundation. The expendable masses whose sacrifice enabled the exceptional to rise.

It was brutal. Unfair. Necessary.

And it broke dreams with mechanical efficiency.

In the medical bay, a healer—not Bessia, who'd been selected, but another one with similar capabilities and worse luck—bandaged a training injury and tried not to think about how certain she had felt before the names were announced.

In the armory, a weapon specialist maintained equipment and calculated whether selling everything and fleeing Vester was better than accepting years more service in a place that had rejected his advancement.

In the training yards, dozens of soldiers pushed themselves through exercises, burning disappointment into exhaustion, turning exclusion into fuel for another day's survival.

And in Vaelith's office, the Adept reviewed his selections with cold satisfaction.

Three Crownhold house members—predictable, necessary.

Kora—purchased, useful, already indebted.

Four independents—couldn't be prevented without raising questions.

The rest—political balances and acceptable compromises.

Fifteen slots, Vaelith thought. And I've secured varied influence over at least five of them directly, with potential leverage on others.

Kora especially. She'd proven her willingness to pay prices most wouldn't. That desperation, properly directed, would make her a valuable asset at the Academy and beyond.

She thinks she bought her freedom, Vaelith mused. But she bought a leash. She just doesn't realize she's wearing it yet.

Outside his window, Vester continued its grinding routine. Soldiers trained, worked, fought, survived. The grey Night pressed on as the Shroud waited patiently for weakness.

And in days to come, on Clear Light's Eve, the Covenant would attack exactly where Vaelith had arranged for them to strike.

The selected fifteen would depart before then—safely away from the carnage, their potential protected.

Everyone else would face the assault Vaelith had orchestrated.

Collateral damage, he rationalized. Necessary sacrifice.

The pieces were positioned. The plan was set.

Now he just had to wait for the board to tip in his favor.

-----

Fifteen names.

Fifteen futures secured.

Hundreds of dreams crushed.

And beneath it all, the grinding machinery of the Republic's survival, consuming soldiers like fuel, burning through lives in the eternal fight against the Shroud.

The selected celebrated.

The excluded endured.

And the machinery turned, indifferent to both.

Because in Vester, in the Republic, in the brutal reality of humanity's desperate survival, some people were chosen to rise.

And everyone else was chosen to hold the walls until they couldn't anymore.

That was the mathematics of the situation.

That was the price of advancement.

That was the truth the Academy announcement had made undeniable.

And in some time, the selected would leave—carrying with them the hopes of those who'd been passed over, the expectations of those who'd recommended them, and the weight of knowing that their opportunity had come at the cost of hundreds of others' dreams.

Whether they deserved it or not.

Whether they'd earned it fairly or paid for it in ways that would haunt them.

They were going.

And that changed everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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