The celebrations began at midday.

Vester transformed—or tried to—into something resembling joy. Soul-force lamps burned brighter than usual, their artificial light pushing back the Never-Ending Night with defiant brilliance. Banners hung from buildings, depicting the Great One in various states of celestial glory, commemorating the divine being whose death had birthed the Shroud.

In the inner districts, nobles feasted. Tables groaned under the weight of actual meat—not rations, not preserved protein, but fresh cuts from livestock the Republic had shipped for the occasion. Wine flowed freely, the kind that cost more merit points than most soldiers earned in a year. Musicians played, hired performers danced, and the wealthy celebrated with all the excess their privilege afforded.

In the outer rings, commoners gathered in smaller groups. Their celebrations were quieter, more somber. They drank weak ale and shared stories about the world before the Shroud—stories passed down through generations, each retelling blurring the line between history and mythology. Some mourned openly, treating Clear Light's Eve as a funeral for humanity's lost golden age. Others simply sought distraction, using the holiday as an excuse to forget, however briefly, the grinding reality of survival.

And throughout Vester, soldiers maintained their posts—or were supposed to.

-----

The Guard's Mistake

Private Deren stood at his assigned position on the eastern wall, watching the celebrations unfold in the districts below. His partner—a veteran named Koss who'd served in Vester for eight years—leaned against the parapet, clearly itching to abandon their post.

"This is pointless," Koss said for the third time in ten minutes. "Nothing's going to happen tonight. Crawlers don't care about human celebrations—they attack randomly regardless."

"We have orders," Deren replied, though his conviction wavered. Below, he could see soldiers drinking, laughing, enjoying rare moments of levity. "Guard duty doesn't pause for holidays."

"Orders written by officers who are currently feasting on real meat and quality wine." Koss pushed off the parapet. "Listen, kid. I've done eight Clear Light's Eves in this outpost. Nothing has ever happened. The holiday's sacred—even fanatics respect it. We're wasting time standing here when we could be getting drunk with everyone else."

"What if something does happen?"

"Then the alarm bells will ring, and we'll come running back. We're five minutes from this position. That's an adequate response time." Koss started walking toward the inner district. "Come on. I know a place that serves actual decent ale during holidays. You can't tell me you want to spend Clear Light's Eve staring at darkness when there's alcohol and pretty servers available."

Deren hesitated. His training said stay at post. His exhaustion said follow Koss. His youth said celebrations were rare and shouldn't be wasted.

"Five minutes response time?" he confirmed.

"Less if we run."

"Fine. But just one drink."

"Sure, kid. Just one."

They left their post, descending the wall stairs and disappearing into the celebration crowds.

Behind them, the eastern wall section stood unmanned.

And from their abandoned position, if they'd stayed and watched carefully, they might have noticed something odd happening in the distance—soul-force lamps beginning to flicker and die, section by section, like lights being systematically extinguished.

But they didn't see it.

They were already two streets away, headed toward Koss's favorite tavern, when the first lamp grid went completely dark.

Deren glanced back once, noticed the darkness spreading, frowned.

"Hey, Koss—those lamps—"

"Probably just a malfunction. Happens during holidays when they burn brighter. Circuits overload." Koss waved dismissively. "Maintenance will handle it. Not our problem. Come on, the ale's getting warm."

They continued walking.

And the darkness continued spreading.

-----

The Covenant Strikes

In the light generator facility—a critical infrastructure hub that powered Vester's northeastern grid—Markus worked with practiced efficiency.

Three other Covenant agents moved with him, their faces concealed by simple worker scarves that wouldn't draw attention. They'd entered the facility using Markus's legitimate access credentials, carrying toolboxes that contained weapons instead of maintenance equipment.

The two Republic engineers on duty died quickly. Professionally. Throats cut, bodies hidden behind equipment racks.

Then the real work began.

"The soul-force conduits are here," Markus indicated the glowing lines that channeled power to the lamp network. "Sever them in sequence—southwest to northeast. It will create a cascading failure that looks more like an overload rather than sabotage. Buys us maybe ten minutes before anyone realizes it's deliberate."

The agents worked with grim determination. Blades cut through enchanted cabling, disrupting the energy flow. Lamps throughout the northeastern sector began to die—not all at once, which would trigger immediate alarm, but in spreading waves that resembled technical failure.

Darkness bloomed across Vester's perimeter.

And in that darkness, things began to move.

Covenant agents emerged from hiding positions they'd maintained for months. Not attacking yet—just positioning, occupying the blind spots created by dead lamps, preparing for coordinated assault.

In the southern district, another team hit a supply depot. Guards died before they could sound alarm. Food stores were set ablaze, creating smoke and chaos that would draw response forces away from more critical positions.

In the western sector, a third team targeted the officer barracks—not the main compound where Adepts resided, but the secondary housing where Lieutenants and Captains quartered. Blades in the dark. Silent kills. Eliminating mid-level command structure that would be crucial for coordinating defense.

The Covenant moved like a plague through Vester's infrastructure, precise and deadly.

And the celebrations continued, oblivious, for precious minutes that would cost lives.

-----

Vaelith's Orchestration

In his private office, Adept Vaelith Crownhold listened to reports flowing through his communication mirrors with cold satisfaction.

"Northeastern lamps down," his aide reported. "Covenant forces positioning as expected."

"Southern supply depot burning. Three officer casualties confirmed in western barracks."

"Guard posts on the eastern wall abandoned."

Each report confirmed what Vaelith had orchestrated. The Covenant's assault was proceeding exactly according to the intelligence he'd fed them through Markus. Attacking positions that would cause maximum chaos while avoiding areas where Crownhold interests were concentrated.

"Phase two," Vaelith ordered. "Deploy our people."

His aide nodded, activating additional mirrors that connected to operatives wearing Crownhold colors—though their faces were concealed by dark hoods, their identities carefully obscured.

These weren't official Crownhold soldiers. They were family assets. Specialists brought from the House's darker operations—the kind who handled problems that couldn't be solved through politics or law.

Assassins, essentially.

"Target list Alpha," Vaelith said, sliding a document across his desk. "Independent nobles who've been resistant to Crownhold expansion. You know how it goes. Make it look like Covenant kills—use their signature black ink markers or whatever , leave prayer stones, ensure the bodies are found with appropriate 'evidence.'"

"And what about the girl from House Armand?" his aide asked.

Vaelith's smile was cold. "She and her 'merry band' of corruption investigators have been gathering evidence against me for months. The chaos provides perfect cover. Send a full team—six operatives minimum. I want her dead, along with anyone she's been coordinating with. Lieutenant Orin Faulk, the archivists, anyone with access to her documentation."

"The evidence itself?"

"Seize it if possible. Destroy it if not. But the girl dies tonight, along with her conspiracy."

The hooded operatives dispersed through Vester's corridors, moving with professional silence toward their designated targets.

And throughout the outpost, soldiers finally began to realize something was wrong.

-----

The Alarm

It started with screams.

A patrol team in the southern district discovered the burning supply depot, found the dead guards, and managed to sound the alarm before some Covenant agents silenced them.

Bells rang across Vester—not the routine patrol alerts, but the full emergency klaxons that meant serious threat.

The celebrations fractured immediately. Soldiers dropped their drinks, grabbed their weapons, ran toward their assigned positions. Officers shouted orders, trying to organize response through the chaos.

But the damage was done. The Covenant had struck first, established positions in darkness, eliminated key personnel. Vester's defense was already compromised before most soldiers even knew they were under attack.

In the officer barracks, Captain Rowan Kadesh emerged from his quarters, blade already drawn, cores blazing with power.

"Report!" he bellowed at a passing Lieutenant.

"Multiple breaches, sir! Cult forces have been confirmed! Our light sources have been sabotaged, the supply depots are burning, and casualties are mounting—"

"Where are the other adepts?"

"Unknown, sir! Communication network's been disrupted ever since the attack began—"

Rowan cursed. The coordination was too precise—this wasn't chance. It was a plan that must have taken months to assemble.

How had so many pests taken root in his home?

This wasn't a random assault. It was deliberate. Someone had fed the Covenant intelligence on Vester's defensive gaps.

Who could have orchestrated something like this?

His eyes narrowed, mind cycling through possibilities—alliances, grudges, incentives—until one answer remained.

A face surfaced in his thoughts, wearing a devilish smile.

Vaelith.

It had to be. No one else had the access, the ruthlessness, the cold calculation to orchestrate something as absurd as this.

But proving it while under active assault was impossible. Survival first. Justice later.

"Organize the response teams!" Rowan ordered. "Prioritize the lamp grids—we need the light to take on those bastard fanatics. Our secondary objective is to contain the Covenant forces before they breach the inner districts. Move!"

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