The bar was called The Last Light—a bitter joke, considering Vester existed in perpetual darkness held back only by soul-force lamps that mimicked day and night through dimming cycles.

Two workers sat at the scarred wooden counter, their shift-stained uniforms marking them as warehouse laborers. The older one—Grent, forty-three, missing two fingers from a loading accident five years back—raised his mug in mock salute.

"To Clear Light's Eve," he said, voice already slurring. "The Republic's favorite excuse to pretend we're celebrating something."

His companion—Vix, younger by a decade, still new enough to Vester to remember what actual holidays felt like—clinked his mug against Grent's. "What are we celebrating again? The Great One dying? That seems… morbid."

"Exactly!" Grent slammed his mug down, ale sloshing. "That's the point. There's nothing to celebrate. The Great One died, the Shroud came, humanity's been dying slowly ever since. But the Republic says 'Hey, let's have a festival! Let's drink and feast and pretend everything's fine!' Like parties make the Never-Ending Night less dark."

Vix drank deeply, grimacing at the weak ale. "Better than acknowledging we're all slowly dying in these outposts."

"Is it though?" Grent gestured vaguely at the bar's other patrons—soldiers mostly, drinking away stress before tomorrow's holiday chaos. "Is pretending better than facing truth? We're cattle. Expendable. The Republic breeds us, stations us, works us until Crawlers or accidents or simple exhaustion kills us. Then they replace us with fresh cattle and keep the machine turning."

"You're drunk."

"I'm honest my friend, being drunk just makes it easier to say." Grent signaled the bartender for another round. "Clear Light's Eve. Nobles feast in their safe districts. Officers get quality alcohol and real meat. And workers like us? We get weak ale and stale bread and one day off to pretend we're grateful for the privilege of not dying yet."

Vix stared into his mug. "My father used to tell stories about holidays before the Shroud. Real celebrations. Sun festivals. Harvest dances. Things that meant something."

"Those are fairy tales. The Shroud's been here longer than we've been alive. This—" Grent gestured at the dingy bar, the tired soldiers, the lamps flickering with artificial constancy. "—this is reality. This is all we get. Holidays are just the Republic's way of keeping us compliant. Give people one day of slightly less misery, call it celebration, send them back to grinding survival with renewed false hope."

"So why drink? Why participate if it's all meaningless?"

"I mean, meaningless distraction beats sober despair each and everyday my boy." Grent's laugh was bitter. "Tomorrow, nobles will celebrate excess. Commoners will mourn what we lost. And everyone will pretend the parties matter. But tonight?" He raised his mug again. "Tonight we drink until the lies feel less heavy."

They drank.

And drank.

And drank some more.

The bartender—a grizzled veteran named Torris who'd lost his legs in a Crawler ambush and now served drinks from a wheelchair—watched them with knowing eyes. He'd seen this pattern hundreds of times. Clear Light's Eve brought out the existential despair in people. Made them confront the grinding meaninglessness of survival.

Some dealt with it through celebration. Others through drink. Most through denial.

"Another round!" Grent demanded, his words barely intelligible now.

"You're cut off," Torris said firmly. "Both of you. You've had enough."

"Enough?" Grent stood—or tried to. His legs betrayed him immediately, sending him crashing into the bar. "There's no such thing as enough! Not when tomorrow, I have to pretend I'm not shitting my pants every day i see a darker shadow! Not when—"

"Out." Torris's voice carried authority earned through decades of service. "Now. Before I call the watch."

Vix tried to help Grent stand, but both were too drunk to coordinate. They stumbled toward the door, bouncing off tables, apologizing to soldiers they bumped into.

At the entrance, Grent turned back, his face flushed with alcohol and fury.

"You're all fools!" he shouted at the bar's patrons. "Celebrating nothing! Pretending the damned holiday matter! The Shroud doesn't care about our parties! The Crawlers don't take days off! Tomorrow, people will die while nobles feast and you'll all—"

"Out!" Torris roared.

They tumbled into the street, landing in a heap on cold stone. Above them, lamps flickered in their eternal mimicry of dusk. Around them, Vester prepared for Clear Light's Eve with all the hollow enthusiasm of people who knew celebration was mandatory regardless of whether joy existed.

Grent laughed—wild, bitter, broken. "Clear Light's Eve. What a fucking joke."

Vix didn't respond. He'd passed out, his face pressed against stone, ale-stained uniform soaking in gutter water.

Grent stared up at the artificial sky, at the lamps that pushed back darkness but couldn't create real light. "We're all dying," he whispered to no one. "Slowly. Together. And they give us holidays to make it bearable."

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere in the distance, alarm bells began to ring—routine patrol alerts, meaningless background noise in an outpost where danger was constant.

But tonight, those bells felt prophetic.

Like warnings no one would heed until too late.

-----

The Academy candidates' temporary quarters occupied a converted officer building near Vester's inner district—close enough to the Aurin convoy for quick departure, far enough from common barracks to maintain appropriate separation.

It was the nicest accommodation most of them had ever experienced.

Private rooms. Clean sheets. Windows with actual glass. A common area with comfortable furniture and a functional fireplace. Food delivered from officer's mess rather than standard rations.

"They're trying to remind us we're special," Mara said, examining the room she'd been assigned. "Keep us separate from regular soldiers. Start the social stratification before we even reach the Academy."

Bright stood in the common area, his danger sense a constant roar in the back of his mind. He'd learned to function through the noise—had to, or he'd be paralyzed by warnings that screamed threats from every direction.

But tonight it was loud. Louder than ever.

Duncan entered from his own room, freshly promoted private insignia catching lamplight. "This feels wrong. Sitting in comfort while regular soldiers prepare for tomorrow's festivities."

"It isn't, it just the way it is, deal with it," Silas said from a corner. " we didn't ask for preferential treatment. The Republic's establishing hierarchy. This is just the beginning."

The fifteen candidates had gathered in the common area—some excited about Clear Light's Eve, others nervous, all aware that the delayed departure had trapped them in Vester for whatever was coming.

Ellarine sat near the fireplace, reading a manual with focused intensity. Marcus stood by the windows, his expression distant. Kora remained apart from the others, isolated by shame everyone could sense but no one discussed.

Bessia was reviewing botanical texts—studying her newly absorbed Verdant Growth core with academic thoroughness. Garren practiced maintenance on his weapons. Bolt, the independent, looked perpetually uncomfortable with the luxury, like he expected someone to tell him it was a mistake and send him back to common barracks.

Jackson—the merchant's son—was networking, of course. Moving between candidates, making connections, building social capital before they even reached Central.

"Tomorrow's going to be interesting," Jackson said, his tone suggesting he saw Clear Light's Eve as another quick move ahead in the social ladder. "Nobles celebrating, commoners celebrating , everyone distracted. Good time to observe social dynamics. See how different classes handle ceremonial obligations."

"Or it's a good time to stay alert," Bright countered. "I just don't feel good about the anniversary stuff.."

"You're paranoid."

"I'm cautious. There's a difference." Bright's danger sense spiked, making him wince. "Something's coming. I can feel it."

"Your ability," Ellarine said, looking up from her manual. "Does it ever give you peace? Or is it just constantly screaming warnings?"

"Now why would I tell you that? All you have to know is that it's constantly active. But tonight?" Bright touched his temple like the warnings gave him physical pain. "Tonight it's not just some background noise. It's loud. Like standing next to a bell that won't stop ringing."

"Specific threats?"

"Everything feels wrong. Like multiple crises converging toward the same moment."

"Well, this is depressing," Jackson said brightly, deliberately breaking the tension. "We're supposed to be celebrating our selection. Academy-bound! This is the dream most soldiers die chasing, and we're sitting here predicting doom."

"Because doom is coming," Mara said quietly. She'd been silent most of the evening, processing her own concerns. "Everyone knows it. For most of us, the inevitable is an early death. The ones who reach old age are usually the mediocre—those never pushed to the front, never forced to bear the full weight of battle."

"So what do we do?" Bessia asked. "We're glorified non-combatants now. Officially. Academy candidates aren't supposed to engage in defensive operations—we're too valuable to risk."

"That's convenient policy when applied to us," Duncan said,"But if the outpost is attacked, do we really sit in this comfortable building while soldiers die? Do we even have a choice? I wouldn't be surprised if the battle starts right here, all because of the rat's-ass karma Silas has been racking up."

"Still," Ellarine said flatly. "Cowering is exactly what we'll do. We're resources the Republic has invested in. Our job is to survive, reach the Academy, and become the great ones who eventually command defensive operations. Dying in an outpost assault wastes that investment."

"That's cold."

"That's logical. Emotion doesn't change simple mathematics." Ellarine's Crownhold training showed in her assessment. "Our survival serves the greater strategic goal. Individual heroism that results in our deaths serves no one."

Bright understood her logic. Even agreed with parts of it.

But his danger sense wasn't evaluating tactical optimization. It was screaming warnings about threats that wouldn't respect Academy candidate privilege. Threats that would kill valuable resources just as easily as expendable soldiers.

"I'm not hiding," Bright said quietly. "If something attacks Vester before we leave, I fight. Academy candidate or not, I'm still a soldier. Still capable. Still responsible."

"That's suicidal idealism," Ellarine countered.

"Maybe. But it's my idealism." Bright met her eyes. "I nearly lost my self chasing efficiency. I'm not going back to that. If soldiers are dying, I help. The Republic can be angry about wasted investment after we survive."

Duncan nodded. "Same."

Mara's hand moved to her blades. "Obviously."

Silas flickered more solidly into perception. "Count me in."

"This is why independents have such high casualty rates," Ellarine said, but her tone carried something like respect. "Fine. If chaos arrives tomorrow, those who want to play hero can do so. But don't expect the rest of us to commit suicide alongside you."

The common area settled into uneasy quiet, each candidate processing their own approach to tomorrow's convergence.

And through the windows, Vester prepared for Clear Light's Eve—hollow ceremony laid bare as people, monsters, and fanatics alike jollied themselves for the coming revel.

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