Adam sat in the Vester library—a small, poorly maintained collection of technical manuals and outdated texts—with his thoughts scattered.

The Academy rejection had hurt. Hurt worse than he'd expected, worse than his cold pragmatic assessment suggested it should.

Because for all his detachment, for all his carefully cultivated distance, Adam had wanted this. Had wanted escape, advancement, the chance to become something more than a baseline human with a rifle and an albeit decent intelligence network.

Now he sat with his calculations, working through a problem that most would consider already solved.

How do I still get to the Academy?

The official selection was final. Fifteen slots, fifteen names, no appeals process. The convoy would eventually depart, carrying the chosen candidates to Central, and Adam would remain in Vester until attrition or transfer or simple grinding survival claimed him.

That was reality.

Adam on the other hand specialized in finding alternatives to reality.

They would for the school and Adam was poised and ready to be part of the lucky fifteen by any means necessary.

- - - -

Elsewhere,

The ant colony had been growing for months.

Deep beneath Vester's northeastern perimeter, in cave systems that predated the outpost by centuries, the Crawler queen had established her nest. She was massive—fifteen feet long, her segmented body pulsing with organic corruption that marked all Shroud-touched creatures. Her mandibles could crush stone. Her chitin plating could deflect most conventional weapons.

But her true power wasn't combat capability.

It was production.

Every day, she birthed hundreds of worker ants—each the size of a large dog, each driven by hive-mind coordination, each expendable in service to the colony's expansion. The workers dug. Constantly, relentlessly, expanding the tunnel network that threaded through the earth beneath Vester like a cancer spreading through healthy tissue.

The colony had been careful. Patient. Digging routes that avoided major soul-force lamp emplacements, that stayed deep enough to escape surface detection, that created a vast subterranean maze positioned for eventual emergence.

Now, three hundred feet beneath Vester's training yards, a worker team had broken through into an old collapsed mineshaft—one that led upward, toward the surface, toward the light and warmth and prey that the queen's pheromone signals promised.

The workers surged forward, mandibles clicking in synchronized rhythm, beginning the final excavation that would bring them to the surface.

Behind them, deeper in the nest, the queen sensed the breakthrough as pheromones flooded the colony network.

Soldier ants—larger than workers, armored more heavily, mandibles capable of shearing through bone—assembled in the main chambers. Hundreds of them, waiting for the order to surge upward when the workers completed their tunneling.

The queen didn't think in human terms. Didn't plan strategically or consider consequences. But she felt—felt the warm bodies above, the rich feeding grounds, the opportunity for colony expansion that the surface represented.

She had been at peace in her home once, undisturbed, until a band of two-legged creatures arrived and reduced the structures she had labored over to ruin—work shaped by patience, crushed in moments.

The creature decided to exact revenge the only way it knew how. By gnawing at screaming flesh bags.

A great meal to partake in.

On the other end, the workers dug faster, driven by chemical imperatives they couldn't question.

The tunnels inched closer to Vester's surface.

And no one above knew they were coming.

-----

Further along,

Captain Seris Vale led Crimson Fang through their routine patrol with practiced efficiency.

The northeastern sector was considered a low-threat—mostly training grounds and supply routes, far enough from the main walls to avoid concentrated Crawler activity. Perfect for a standard patrol that would satisfy their duty rotation without unnecessary risk.

"Boring," muttered one of her squad members—Kaven, the chain-whip specialist who preferred a thirst for action to routine.

"A blade used too frequently dulls, there must be time for rest Kaven, you should know that by now." Seris replied, her silver hair catching the soul-force lamplight. Her Multiplier core hummed quietly in the background of her awareness, ready to amplify her capabilities if needed. But she doubted it would be necessary today.

Today was just about maintaining readiness until—

The ground trembled.

Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Seris's enhanced perception caught it immediately.

"Hold," she commanded, raising a fist.

Crimson Fang stopped in perfect synchronization, weapons ready, eyes scanning for threats.

Another tremor. Stronger this time.

"Earthquake?" Kaven suggested.

"We don't get earthquakes," Seris said, her tactical mind already running threat assessments. "This is something else."

Then she saw them.

Ants.

Crawler ants, emerging from a fissure in the training ground about fifty meters ahead. Not a full breach—just a crack in the surface, maybe two feet wide. And from that crack, worker ants poured out in a steady stream.

Three. Five. Eight. A dozen.

Each the size of a large dog, chitin plating gleaming with Shroud-corruption, mandibles clicking in synchronized rhythm.

"Contact," Seris announced calmly. "Crawler ants. Worker class. We engage then eliminate. I don't want survivors reaching the worker districts."

Crimson Fang moved with the coordination that had made them undefeated. Two members flanked left, two flanked right, while Seris and her remaining fighter held center. Perfect encirclement, preventing the ants from dispersing.

The workers charged with typical Crawler aggression—no fear, no hesitation, just pure drive to attack threats.

Seris's chain-blade extended, the segmented weapon whipping out to catch the first ant mid-charge. Her Multiplier core activated, amplifying her strength enough to redirect the ant's momentum, sending it crashing into two others behind it.

Kaven's axe curved around another worker's legs, yanking it off balance. His follow-up strike crushed its head with brutal efficiency.

The other Crimson Fang members engaged with professional precision—each movement economical, each strike calculated, each kill clean. This was what separated them from average squads: perfect execution even against unexpected threats.

Within three minutes, all twelve ants were dead.

Seris approached the fissure carefully, studying the opening with analytical interest.

"They're coming from deeper than usual," she observed. "Didn't know those ant from the northeast could get this far."

"Maybe they are migrating captain?" one of her squad suggested.

"Possibly. Or expanding." Seris knelt, examining the fissure's edges.

"Should we report it?"

"Obviously." Seris stood, wiping ichor from her blade. "But it's not urgent. Just some stray ants spreading out a bit farther than their usual range. Probably seeking new feeding grounds "

She pulled out a compact mirror—standard issue for patrol leaders with wealth, soul-force attuned for quick communication with command.

"Crimson Fang to Command," she said into the mirror's surface. "Patrol encountered Crawler ants in northeastern sector, training ground seven. Twelve workers eliminated. Evidence of tunnel expansion from known eastern cave colonies. Recommend increased patrols in this sector."

The response came quickly: "Acknowledged, Crimson Fang. Report filed. Continue patrol route."

Seris dismissed the mirror and turned to her squad. "Get some rocks and seal that fissure. We don't need more ants wandering through today."

One of her members with stepped forward, hands glowing with channeled power. The ground shifted, stone and dirt flowing like liquid to fill the crack, sealing it completely.

"Clean work," Seris approved. "All right, let's be on our merry way. This was a minor hiccup . Don't let it make you complacent."

Crimson Fang moved on, leaving behind a sealed fissure and a dozen ant corpses that would be collected by cleanup crews later.

To them, it had been routine. Slightly unusual—ants this far from their normal territory was mildly noteworthy—but not alarming. Just Crawlers doing what Crawlers did: spreading, seeking food, expanding into new areas.

As they disappeared around a corner, resuming their patrol route, none of them noticed the subtle vibrations still echoing from deep underground. Didn't sense the vast network of tunnels spreading beneath Vester like roots through soil.

Didn't know that what they'd encountered wasn't migration or random expansion.

It was reconnaissance.

The colony testing defenses.

Preparing for something much larger.

But to Crimson Fang, it had been just another routine encounter. Ants a bit farther from their usual caves. Mildly interesting, properly reported, professionally handled.

They continued their patrol, unaware that they'd just witnessed the first probe of an invasion that would emerge in full force during Clear Light's Eve.

When the queen's patience finally ended.

When hundreds of soldier ants would surge upward through dozens of tunnel exits.

When Vester would learn that the threat beneath their feet had been growing for months, patient and hungry and unstoppable.

But that was days away.

Today, it was just twelve dead ants and a sealed fissure.

-----

Back in the depths, the queen received pheromone reports from her deceased workers' final chemical signals.

Acceptable, the queen's simple intelligence assessed.

She pulsed new commands to the colony: Continue expansion.

The workers dug faster.

The soldiers assembled.

And Vester remained largely unaware that beneath their training grounds, beneath their barracks, beneath their carefully maintained defenses, something ancient and hungry was preparing to emerge.

Crimson Fang's report was filed, noted, and largely forgotten amid the dozens of other routine patrol reports that came in daily.

A full extermination operation would be required.

But that was tomorrow's problem.

Tonight, Lieutenant Orin Faulk stood in Vester's main hall with two recruits before him—Duncan and Silas—and a ceremony that had been postponed by the chaos of unpredictability.

The hall was packed. Soldiers had gathered to witness the promotions—what should have been a routine formality had turned into a spectacle, especially for Academy-bound recruits whose advancement reflected favorably on Vester's training programs. Beneath the ceremony, multiple agendas lay quietly entwined within what was, on paper, a mere recruit's promotion.

Atheon stood to Faulk's right, his presence lending weight to the proceedings. Vaelith and Rowan flanked the opposite side, political balance preserved even in this drab ceremonial moment—a stark contrast to the candidness seen back in Grim Hollow.

"Recruit Duncan," Faulk's voice carried formal authority. "Step forward."

Duncan moved to stand before the officers, his posture military-perfect despite injuries from the ant engagement still being treated by medical staff.

"You have demonstrated exceptional capability in combat operations," Faulk read from official documentation.

Atheon stepped forward, carrying the insignia that marked Initiate rank—a silver pin, simple but significant.

"The Republic recognizes your advancement," Atheon said, his scarred hand placing the pin on Duncan's uniform. "You are hereby promoted to private rank, with all rights and responsibilities that entails. Serve with honor."

"I will, sir." Duncan's voice was steady, proud.

The hall erupted in applause—genuine, enthusiastic. Duncan was well-liked, had earned this promotion through clear merit.

"Recruit Silas," Faulk continued. "Step forward."

Silas materialized from the crowd. Even now, standing before the assembled officers, he flickered at the edge of perception. People's eyes wanted to slide past him, to forget he was there.

But his combat record couldn't be forgotten. Neither could his demonstrated capabilities.

"You have demonstrated exceptional capability in reconnaissance and tactical elimination operations," Faulk read on, spewing cheap praises.

This time Rowan Kadesh stepped forward with the insignia. The Kadesh Adept's expression was difficult to read—Rowan hated politics but understood the value of recognizing genuine merit.

"The Republic recognizes your advancement," Rowan said, pinning the insignia to Silas's uniform. "You are hereby promoted to private rank. Your talents serve the greater survival. Use them wisely."

"I will, sir." Silas's voice was quiet, but present. Deliberately present.

More applause, though slightly more subdued. Silas's talent made people uncomfortable—the way he could be forgotten, erased from perception, unsettled even allies.

But discomfort didn't negate capability.

"Two new Initiates," Faulk announced to the assembled soldiers. "Both Academy-bound. Both representing Vester's commitment to excellence. Both proving that merit, not birthright, determines advancement."

The last part was pointed—a subtle dig at House-based selections, at political considerations that compromised pure meritocracy.

Vaelith's expression didn't change, but something cold flickered in his eyes.

After the ceremony, as soldiers dispersed to evening duties, Bright found Duncan and Silas near the hall entrance.

"Congratulations," Bright said genuinely. "Well earned."

They stood in the hall entrance, watching Vester's evening routines unfold around them, aware that normalcy was temporary in this parts.

For all his composure, Bright remained uneasy, his danger sense steadily climbing in pitch.

And for once, he couldn't filter it out.

Because this time, the threat felt unlike background noise.

It was a tsunami building on the horizon, inevitable and devastating.

And all he could do was watch it approach and hope he'd be strong enough to survive the impact.

-----

Beneath the surface, the ant queen sensed her workers completing new tunnels.

Soon, her pheromones pulsed to the colony. Soon we feed.

The soldiers assembled, hundreds strong, waiting for the command to surge upward.

The workers dug faster, driven by chemical imperatives.

And the surface dwellers above remained largely oblivious, focused on human threats, unaware that something ancient and hungry was preparing to emerge from the depths.

Multiple threats.

Multiple agendas.

All converging toward the same point in time.

Clear Light's Eve.

When Vester would learn that survival meant facing dangers from above, below, and within simultaneously.

The machinery of crisis turned.

Indifferent to hope.

Patient with despair.

Inevitable.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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