Estovia Armand's eyes opened slowly, consciousness returning through layers of fog and pain.

She was moving—being carried. No, sitting upright, leaning against something solid. Voices around her, young voices, coordinated and tense.

"—we need to reach the medical bay before those assassins regroup—"

"—Bessia's medical expertise may have stabilized her for now, but she needs proper facilities—"

Estovia tried to speak, managed only a weak rasp that hurt her throat.

"She's awake!" someone called—a female voice, relieved.

A face appeared in Estovia's limited vision. Young. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Features showing exhaustion and determination in equal measure.

"Lieutenant Armand," the boy said. " Private Bright Morgan at your service. You're safe. For now."

Morgan.

The name triggered recognition through the pain. She had weathered the Grim Hollow disaster with him—or rather, the boy who had become a man far faster than anyone should have. Maturity included.

"Where—" Estovia's voice cracked. She tried again. "Where am I?"

"The logistics center," Bright said. "Or what's left of it. We found you during the ant incursion. Bessia stabilized your wounds—you were dying when we arrived."

His expression didn't change. "We also recovered your documentation."

Estovia's heart rate spiked. The documents. Where are they—

"It's secure," Bright said, catching the flash of panic in her eyes. "Kora has it. We're moving toward the medical wing—but those assassins are actively hunting you. This won't be a walk in the park."

"I know," Estovia whispered. "I've known for months. I gathered evidence—documented everything. I was preparing to send it to the Senate."

She swallowed, fighting through pain and medication. "Then this assault." A humorless breath escaped her. "Convenient timing. That bastard."

Her eyes hardened. "Well,I'm no pushover."

Everyone had an inkling of what she meant. The ambush had been sloppy—almost insulting in how obvious it was.

They had just come from an outpost torn apart by Covenant forces and crawlers. For something similar to erupt again inside Vester, so soon after, felt staged. Too convenient. Too loud.

Any sane command structure would have locked the gates, doubled patrols, and reinforced every weak point after an attack like that. You didn't leave the door open twice.

Which meant this wasn't negligence.

It was permission.

"We suspected. Your survival confirms it." Bright's voice carried something that might have been respect. "You've been investigating corruption at significant personal risk. That takes courage."

"Or stupidity." Estovia managed a weak laugh that hurt. "This is the second time I've ended up in life-ruining situations. And both times, you've been there. Starting to think you're my unlucky charm, Private."

"Or your very lucky one," Bright countered. "You're alive. That's not nothing."

"For now," Estovia said. "The person responsible won't stop. He can't afford to let me reach the Senate with this evidence."

Her gaze locked onto Bright's. In his eyes she saw something rare—determination tempered by humanity, conviction that hadn't yet been sanded down by the Republic.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked quietly. "You're supposed to stay protected. Avoid engagement. This—" her hand twitched weakly toward the ruined hall, "—this could cost you your advancement. You could die here."

Bright didn't look away.

"Probably," he said. "But if the price of advancement is pretending not to see what's right in front of me, then it was never really advancement—just survival with better paperwork."

He glanced toward his squad, spread out, bleeding, still standing.

"Besides," he added, voice lower now, "they already decided our lives were expendable. I'm just choosing who I risk it for."

Silas felt sick.

Not from blood or corpses—those were familiar—but from the words.

He was only here to stack bodies and sharpen his edge. That was the truth of it. Kora, he suspected, had followed because she hated being alone. Simple reasons. Honest ones.

Bright, on the other hand—Bright always spoke like this. Soft. Measured. Like he'd taken lessons on how to weigh a moment and fill its hollow spaces with exactly the right words.

It made Silas want to retch.

Not because the words were wrong.

But because they worked.

Because in a place like Vester, where most people survived by dulling themselves, Bright still chose to sound human—and somehow made it contagious.

Estovia felt something unexpected—hope, maybe, or at least faith that not everyone in Vester was corrupt or complicit.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me yet. We still need to survive long enough to get you proper treatment and your evidence to people who'll act on it." Bright's danger sense was clearly active—his eyes kept tracking things no one else could see. "Multiple threats converging. Covenant forces, Crownhold assassins, ant swarms. This night's far from over."

"Then I'd better not die before seeing him answer for his crimes," Estovia said with more strength than she felt.

"That's the spirit." Bright smiled slightly. "Now stay conscious if you can. We need to move, and carrying unconscious weight makes everything harder."

Around them, the young Academy candidates prepared to continue their desperate exodus through Vester's chaos, protecting a woman whose evidence could topple Adept-level authority, hunted by forces that wanted her dead.

And somewhere in the darkness, Vaelith Crownhold was receiving reports that Estovia Armand still lived, still had her documentation, still posed existential threat to his carefully constructed power.

The machinery of political violence turned.

And Bright's group stood directly in its path, armed with nothing but determination and each other.

It would have to be enough.

Because surrender wasn't an option.

And neither was letting Estovia die for having the courage to expose corruption.

Clear Light's Eve.

When ordinary soldiers discovered whether righteousness mattered more than power.

Or whether power simply crushed righteousness and moved on.

The answer was still being written in blood and choice.

And Bright Morgan had chosen his side.

Now he just had to survive the consequences.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—-

Elsewhere,

The medical bay had become a slaughterhouse.

Ants swarmed through corridors designed for healing, their mandibles clicking as they sought easy prey among wounded and medical staff. Covenant agents moved between the insect chaos, executing targets they'd marked weeks ago—officers who'd resisted their infiltration, healers who'd treated Republic soldiers too effectively, anyone whose death served the cause.

Then Adept Atheon arrived.

His presence flooded the medical bay like a physical force—soul-force pressure that made the air thick, that sent weaker combatants stumbling just from proximity to his manifested power.

The first Covenant agent died before he realized Atheon had entered the room. A strike so fast it seemed the fanatic's head simply separated from his shoulders, body collapsing while still holding his weapon.

Atheon moved through the corridors like incarnated wrath.

An ant soldier charged him, mandibles spread wide. Atheon's enhancement-core-powered fist met its face with enough force to pulverize chitin plating, to shatter the internal structure that kept the creature functional. The ant's head caved inward, its body continuing forward through momentum before collapsing in a twitching heap.

Three more ants converged from different angles—coordinated swarm tactics that should have overwhelmed a single opponent.

Atheon killed them in four seconds.

His blade carved through the first ant's thorax, severed it completely. His follow-through caught the second ant's mandibles mid-strike, shattered them, then reversed to bisect its head. The third tried to retreat—Atheon's thrown weapon impaled it to the wall, pinning it like an insect in a collection.

Covenant agents tried to engage. They died faster than the ants—humans weren't designed to fight Adept-level opponents, especially not ones as experienced and furious as the fist of men.

He grabbed one agent by the throat, lifted him off the ground with single-handed strength, and crushed. Bones cracked, windpipe collapsed, the fanatic's struggles ending in seconds.

Another agent tried to stab him from behind. Atheon's combat instincts—honed through decades of survival—registered the threat without needing to see it. He pivoted, caught the blade with his bare hand, snapped it, then drove the broken steel through its wielder's eye socket.

The medical bay's defenders—soldiers and healers who'd been barely holding against the swarm—watched with something like awe as their Adept commander transformed the space from a desperate last stand to one-sided massacre.

"Secure the wounded!" Atheon bellowed between kills. "Get them to interior rooms! Reinforce the doors!"

His orders carried authority that couldn't be questioned. Soldiers moved immediately, dragging injured comrades away from the fighting, following Atheon's protection like sailors following a lighthouse through storms.

Within minutes, the immediate threat was contained.

Ant corpses littered the corridors. Covenant bodies decorated the floor. And Atheon stood at the medical bay entrance, blood-soaked and breathing hard, his blade dripping ichor and human blood in equal measure.

"No one else dies here," he declared to the remaining defenders. "This position holds. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they chorused, their voices carrying renewed hope.

Then Atheon heard approaching footsteps—multiple signatures, some familiar.

He turned, fist still ready, and saw Vaelith Crownhold approaching with some of his operatives.

-----

Vaelith swept into the medical bay with calculated composure, his expression showing concern and determination that would have been convincing to anyone who didn't know his actual involvement.

"Atheon," he acknowledged, surveying the carnage with what looked like approval. "Impressive work. The medical bay would have fallen without your intervention."

"Where were you?" Atheon's voice carried edge. "Coordinating defensive response from your office while soldiers died?"

"Coordinating is defensive response," Vaelith countered smoothly. "Someone needs to manage the larger strategic picture while others handle minor engagement. That's how command structures function."

Atheon wanted to argue—wanted to accuse, wanted to demand answers about the orchestrated chaos and some convenient casualties. But the medical bay wasn't the place, and proving Vaelith's involvement during an active crisis was impossible.

"Your operatives," Atheon said instead, gesturing at the hooded figures flanking Vaelith. "Why are they concealed? Standard Crownhold soldiers wear proper insignia."

"Security protocols," Vaelith replied without hesitation. "During coordinated assault with Covenant infiltration, concealing identities prevents targeted elimination. They're here to reinforce the medical bay defenses, nothing more."

The explanation was plausible. Rational. Exactly what an innocent authority would claim.

But Atheon's instincts screamed warnings his proof couldn't support.

The hooded operatives spread out, taking defensive positions around the medical bay entrance. Their movements were professional—too professional for standard soldiers. These were specialists.

"We're establishing this as a rally point," Vaelith announced. "Medical facilities are critical infrastructure. We hold here, evacuate wounded to interior rooms, wait for dawn when we can assess the full damage."

It was sound tactical planning. Exactly what should be done during crisis.

But something in Vaelith's tone, in his positioning, made Atheon's combat instincts flare.

He's waiting for something. Expecting someone.

Then he heard new footsteps—younger voices, exhausted breathing, the shuffle of people carrying wounded.

Academy candidates.

Led by Bright Morgan.

And from what he could tell, he was carrying the Armand noble —the logistics officer from his outpost—on his back.

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