The House Aurin convoy arrived at Vester's gates six days after the Academy selections were announced.

Twelve reinforced carriages, each pulled by enhanced horses bred for endurance and speed. Soul-force lamps mounted on every vehicle, casting protective light that pushed back the Shroud's influence. Armed escorts—twenty soldiers in Aurin livery, all Initiates minimum, led by a stern-faced Captain named Selene.

The fifteen selected candidates assembled in the main courtyard, their belongings packed, their futures waiting beyond Vester's walls.

Bright stood with Duncan and Mara, watching the convoy arrange itself with military precision. Around them, the other twelve selected candidates gathered—some excited, some nervous, all aware that this moment marked the end of one life and the beginning of another.

Ellarine of House Crownhold stood with her cousin Marcus and the fire manipulator Theron. The young Crownhold heir maintained her usual controlled expression, but Bright noticed her eyes tracking the convoy's preparations with keen interest.

Silas flickered at the edge of perception, his Sense Fade making him easy to overlook even when standing directly in the group. Bessia stood looking slightly overwhelmed by the House Aurin pageantry.

Kora kept to herself, separate from the others, her posture rigid. She hadn't spoken much since the selection announcement. No one had asked why.

Jackson—the merchant's son—was already networking, introducing himself to the Kadesh-affiliated candidates with practiced social ease. Bolt, the independent, looked uncomfortable in his new travel clothes, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

Captain Selene approached the assembled candidates, her voice carrying authority earned through decades of service.

"The journey to Central takes approximately three weeks under normal conditions," she announced. "We'll travel the northern trade route—fastest and most secure path through Republic territory. Your safety is House Aurin's responsibility. Follow instructions, maintain formation, and we'll reach the Academy without incident."

It was a good speech. Professional. Confident.

Then Lieutenant Orin Faulk approached from the command building, his expression grim.

"Captain Selene. A word."

The two officers stepped aside, their conversation too quiet to hear clearly. But Bright's spatial foresight picked up the tension—the way Selene's posture shifted from confident to concerned, the way Faulk gestured toward a map he'd brought.

After several minutes, Selene returned to the candidates, her professional mask firmly in place despite whatever news she'd received.

"Change of plans," she said flatly. "The northern trade route has been compromised. Crawler activity has increased dramatically in the past week—multiple Monarch-level threats confirmed. The route is temporarily impassable."

A ripple of concern spread through the candidates.

"What does that mean for departure?" Ellarine asked, her voice steady.

"It means we wait." Selene's jaw tightened. "House Aurin won't risk Academy candidates on a compromised route. We'll remain in Vester until either the northern route is cleared or an alternate path is secured."

A cold weight settled in Bright's stomach—an unsettling sense of déjà vu washing over him.

He pushed the thought aside and focused on practical concerns.

"Where will we quarter?" Duncan asked. "Our barracks assignments—"

"Will remain unchanged for now," Faulk interjected. "You're still officially Vester personnel until transfer is complete. Maintain your current duties, attend scheduled training. Consider this an extended transition period."

It was logical. Professional. And deeply unsettling.

Because everyone who understood Vester's political undercurrents could feel it—the timing was too convenient. The northern route compromised now, right after Academy selections, right before Clear Light's Eve?

"Dismissed," Selene said. "Report here daily at morning formation for convoy status updates. Be ready to depart on short notice."

The candidates dispersed, their excitement dampened by delay, their futures pushed back into uncertain waiting.

-----

Bright was walking back to his quarters, lost in thought about timing and coincidences and the sick feeling that something terrible was being orchestrated, when an unfamiliar voice called out.

"Private Morgan. A moment?"

He turned. Ellarine of House Crownhold stood a few paces away, her posture perfect, her expression controlled but not cold. Up close, she looked younger than her bearing suggested—maybe seventeen, though her eyes held calculation beyond her years.

"Recruit Ellarine," Bright acknowledged formally. They weren't peers yet—she was noble-born, he was independent. The Academy might equalize them, but in Vester, hierarchies mattered.

"Just Ellarine is fine. We'll be classmates soon enough." She moved closer, studying him with open curiosity. "I've heard stories. The wonderkid who carved through Grim Hollow's Crawlers. The Private who leads an independent squad to unprecedented Trial success."

Ellarine's voice carried something unexpected—not manipulation, but genuine interest. "I've been watching you. Trying to understand what makes someone worth the Republic's investment. Trying to learn before the Academy teaches us their version."

"And what have you learned?"

"The usual, talent alone isn't enough."

"So what do you think is?"

"I don't know yet." Honest, at least. "House Crownhold teaches that attachments are weakness—that emotional bonds compromise judgment. A cousin of mine embodies that philosophy perfectly. But watching the common folk struggle—watching them choose empathy—makes me wonder if the philosophy itself is flawed."

It was the most vulnerable thing Bright had heard from any Crownhold. The fact that she'd admit doubt, question her House's core teaching, suggested either remarkable honesty or sophisticated manipulation.

He decided to treat it as the former until proven otherwise.

"The Academy will test both approaches," Bright said. "We'll see which one produces better results."

"Or it'll teach us that both extremes are flawed. That the answer is somewhere in the middle." Ellarine's eyes found his. "I wanted to talk before we arrive at Central. Wanted to understand who my classmates actually are, not just their reputations. Because the Academy—from what my family's told me—it's not just combat training. It's political. Social. Every interaction matters. Every alliance or rivalry shapes futures."

"You're recruiting allies already."

"I'm establishing understanding. There's a difference." She smiled slightly. "I know you're independent. Know you have no interest in House games. But we're going to be surrounded by nobles whose entire existence revolves around leverage and obligation. I'd rather face that with people I respect than with strangers I have to manipulate."

It was startlingly direct. Almost refreshing after weeks of Vester's political maneuvering.

"What makes you think I won't become another manipulator?" Bright asked. "The Academy might change all of us."

"It might. But I watched your struggle with grief and your conscience. That suggests a core that doesn't bend easily." Ellarine glanced toward where the Aurin convoy was being secured. "We've got three weeks in Vester now. Three weeks watching how people handle delay, disappointment, pressure. I'm going to use that time to understand my future classmates better. Starting with you."

"I'm not that interesting."

"You're fascinating, actually. An initiate at sixteen isn't a usual sight. The Academy's going to either celebrate you or try to control you. Probably both." She stepped back, ready to leave. "Watch for the hiccups, Morgan. The Academy won't be what you expect. Make sure you know who your real allies are before you get there."

She walked away, leaving Bright standing in the corridor with new questions and old concerns.

The delay suddenly felt less like inconvenience and more like providence.

Or a fucking trap as his spatial foresight bellowed, whispering in waves.

Hard to tell which when danger was a constant in this parts.

-----

In a shadowed corner of Vester's warehouse district, Markus, officially recognized as a worker in vester , secretly an umbral spy for the Covenant—reviewed his coded journal one final time.

Months of careful documentation. Patrol schedules. Defensive gaps. Supply chain vulnerabilities. Everything his handlers would need to coordinate the Clear Light's Eve assault.

The Academy selection had been unexpected.

But first, he had to complete his current assignment.

Clear Light's Eve. Nine days away now, with the Aurin convoy delayed.

Marcus pulled out the compact mirror he'd hidden in his quarters—not a vanity tool but a communication device, soul-force attuned to his Covenant handler.

He activated it, watching the surface shimmer and clear.

A face appeared—hooded, features obscured, voice distorted by the enchantment.

"Report."

"The Aurin convoy was delayed," Markus said quietly. "Heard the Northern route was compromised by some Crawler activity. "

"Problematic. Those kids, were supposed to be evacuated before our operation. They are like shining headlights at the moment, everyone would be paying attention."

"Can't be helped. Should we abort?"

Silence on the other end. Long enough that Markus wondered if the connection had failed.

Then: "No. Proceed as planned. The Academy candidates' presence is… acceptable collateral risk. If they're caught in the assault, the Republic will view it as tragedy rather than conspiracy. Might even strengthen the narrative that Vester's defenses are inadequate."

Markus felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. He'd known some of the candidates would die in the coming assault—

expendable assets in the Covenant's holy mission.

But Academy candidates? Young soldiers selected for their potential, marked for advancement?

"Understood," he said, because that was his role. His purpose. His commitment to the Great One's will.

"The assault commences at sunset on Clear Light's Eve. First breach will occur in Sector Seven—" The voice continued, detailing the revised plan, accounting for troop positions, supply vulnerabilities, the timing of Crawler coordination.

Markus documented everything, his hand steady despite the growing discomfort.

When the briefing ended, he destroyed the mirror—standard protocol, no communication device could be allowed to survive intact. Then he encoded his final update into the journal format his Covenant contacts would recognize.

Commence the attack. The will of the Great One demands it.

The words felt hollow.

They'd felt hollow for weeks now.

Ever since Vaelith had intercepted him, revealed that he knew Markus's true allegiance, and explained with cold precision how the Covenant's assault was being used—redirected, manipulated, turned into a tool for Crownhold political advancement rather than genuine service to the Great One.

We're pawns, Marcus realized. All of us. The Covenant thinks we're serving divine purpose. Vaelith thinks we're serving his ambitions. The Republic thinks we're fanatics.

And maybe we're all just… lost.

But he'd made his choice years ago when he accepted the Covenant recruitment. Had decided that the Shroud was divine judgment, that the Republic's resistance was blasphemy, that serving the Great One meant facilitating humanity's righteous destruction.

Too late to reconsider now.

The attack was coming.

In nine days, Vester would crumble.

And Markus would either die in the assault or escape to the wild, carrying his secrets and guilt toward a future he no longer believed in.

The Great One's will, he whispered to the empty room.

But the words tasted like ash.

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