The medical bay looked like a war zone—which, technically, it was.

Atheon's rampage through ant swarms and Covenant agents had left the corridors littered with corpses, debris, and shrapnel. Bodies in various states of dismemberment decorated the floor. Blood—human and ichor both—pooled in corners and soaked into stone.

The medical staff had retreated to interior rooms with the wounded, leaving the outer corridors as killing ground between different armed groups who didn't quite trust each other enough to lower weapons.

Bright stood with his Academy candidate group—Duncan, Mara, Bessia, Kora, and Silas—in defensive formation near where Estovia lay recovering.

Across from them, Vaelith's hooded operatives maintained their own positions, weapons ready, faces concealed, identities carefully obscured.

The tension was thick enough to cut.

Everyone knew what these operatives were. Everyone knew they'd been hunting Estovia specifically. Everyone knew that if Atheon hadn't been present earlier, those hoods would have completed their assassination.

But with Atheon and Vaelith both absent—responding to Rowan's emergency beacon—the situation had become a complicated stalemate.

The operatives couldn't attack openly without witnesses reporting their actions. The Academy candidates couldn't abandon Estovia without leaving her vulnerable. And neither side was confident they could win if violence erupted.

So they waited.

In tense, hostile silence.

Surrounded by corpses and debris.

In what was supposed to be a place of healing.

Funnily, Bright thought with dark humor, watching his danger sense track every minute movement the operatives made. Death field around a healing center. Appropriate metaphor for Vester generally.

"This is stupid," Silas said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence with characteristic bluntness.

Everyone turned to look at him—or tried to. His Sense Fade made focusing difficult, made remembering why they were looking hard to maintain.

But Silas pushed through the effect deliberately, making himself present through sheer force of will.

"I said this is stupid," he repeated, walking directly toward the nearest hooded operative. "We're all just standing here, pretending we don't know what's happening. Pretending the obvious isn't obvious."

"Silas—" Duncan started, warning in his voice.

"No, I want to know." Silas stopped directly in front of the operative—close enough that his Sense Fade should have made the assassin forget he existed. Close enough to be threatening without actual aggression. "What's with the hood? Why hide your face? Everyone here knows you're some kind of Crownhold assassins. Everyone knows you were hunting Lieutenant Armand. So why the theater?"

The operative didn't respond. Just stood there, weapon ready, face concealed.

"Is it plausible deniability?" Silas continued, his tone conversational despite the lethal situation. "Like if we can't identify you specifically, Adept Vaelith can claim you were rogue agents? Independent contractors he had no knowledge of?"

Still no response.

"Or is it intimidation?" Silas tilted his head. "The mysterious hooded killer is scarier than Honestly, from a practical standpoint, the hoods just make you harder to track visually, which—" He gestured at Bright. "—doesn't matter when our resident poster boy here's ability maps your position regardless of your visual concealment."

"Silas," Bright said carefully, his danger sense tracking the rising tension, "maybe don't antagonize the assassins while we're in a defensive stalemate."

"Why not? They're not going to attack. Not with witnesses. Not with Atheon potentially returning any minute." Silas looked back at the operative. "Right? You're just here to maintain presence. To intimidate. To make sure we know that Vaelith's watching. But you're not actually going to do anything."

The operative's posture shifted microscopically—tension, recognition that Silas had read the situation accurately.

"Thought so," Silas said with satisfaction. "Political theater. Everyone performing their roles. You play menacing guardian, we play protective defenders, and nobody actually commits to violence because the consequences are too complicated."

"That doesn't make it safe," Mara pointed out. "Theater can become real very quickly if someone miscalculates."

"Everything in Vester can become real quickly if someone miscalculates," Silas countered. "That's not unique to this situation."

Kora, who'd been silent throughout, finally spoke. "They're waiting for an opportunity. For us to drop guard. For Atheon to be delayed long enough that they can complete their mission."

She would know, Bright realized. She'd paid Vaelith's price for her Academy slot. Had intimate knowledge of how the Adept operated, how he thought, how he created opportunities from chaos.

"So we don't drop our guard," Duncan said firmly. "We maintain position. We protect the Lieutenant. We wait for Atheon to return."

"And if something else arrives first?" Bessia asked quietly, her healer's instincts making her acutely aware of vulnerabilities. "If Covenant forces breach this position? If ants emerge? If—"

She didn't finish the thought.

Because the medical bay's entrance—the one Atheon had been defending before departing—suddenly darkened with new arrivals.

-----

Seven figures entered the medical bay with coordinated precision.

Professional. Trained. Moving with the kind of fluid coordination that marked them as Initiate-level specialists rather than common soldiers.

Leading them was a man Bright recognized instantly— even through the trauma of Grim Hollow's fall.

The Covenant assassin who'd been present during Grim Hollow's destruction. Who'd coordinated infiltration operations. Who'd fought with him and hailen months back. Who'd killed soldiers Bright had known, had trained beside, had shared meals with.

He survived, Bright thought with cold clarity. Of course he survived. The more clear headed fanatics always do.

The assassin—Galan—looked older than Bright remembered. Harder. Carved by scars that hadn't been there before. It was as though he wore a new face altogether, which fit neatly with his ability to reshape his own flesh at will.

Behind him, six more Covenant operatives fanned out, their movements smooth and deliberate, forming a practiced killing pattern without a word spoken.

Four men, two women. All Initiates. All carrying weapons with the casual competence of people who'd used them extensively.

This wasn't some cannon fodder cultists. This was a specialist team—the kind the Covenant deployed for high-value reasons when failure wasn't acceptable.

"Private Morgan," Galan said, his tone laced with false surprise. "How unexpected. The last I heard, you were running for your life when Grim Hollow came crashing down."

His gaze dragged over Bright—stance, balance, the subtle way he held himself now. Measuring.

"And now," Galan continued, a thin smile forming, "you're a candidate for the Republic's precious military academy. Impressive," he added softly. "That kind of advancement doesn't come easily."

"You," Bright acknowledged, his spatial foresight already mapping all seven Covenant specialists, calculating their threat levels. "Still murdering for some Great One's glory?"

"Always. It's quite fulfilling work." Galan's attention shifted to Estovia's recovering form. "Though I see you've taken up rescue operations. How heroic. How… inconvenient."

"You seem remarkably well informed about our situation," Bright said. It wasn't a question—just an acknowledgment of an uncomfortable truth. His eyes stayed on Galan. "Makes me wonder where that information is coming from."

"The Great One's will manifests through many vessels," Galan replied smoothly. "Sometimes those vessels pay well. Sometimes they provide resources and intelligence that serve larger purposes. The distinction doesn't particularly matter to dead targets."

"Seven Initiates," Duncan assessed quietly, his Bone Guard already forming. "Against six Academy candidates—three of us Initiates, three still Fledgling. Plus Vaelith's operatives behind us who might backstab us if this turns violent."

"Don't forget the injured officer we're protecting," Mara added, her dual blades ready. "Who can't defend herself and needs to be evacuated if the fighting starts."

"The odds are unfavorable," Bessia confirmed, her medical training making her acutely aware of the probability of great injury. "We're outnumbered, outpositioned, and protecting a vulnerable asset. Tactical assessment suggests—"

"We fight anyway," Bright cut in. "Because letting them kill Estovia isn't an option. She's a noble under our protection—and no one is going to hear excuses from a handful of nobodies about why an heir was abandoned to die."

His danger sense was howling now, fracturing his awareness into branching outcomes—most of them soaked in blood.

"And because," he finished quietly, "some battles are worth taking even when every honest calculation says the odds are against you."

Galan smiled—cold, appreciative. "That's the spirit that got you out of Grim Hollow alive. That desperate, stupid heroism that refuses to accept impossible odds." His weapon—a curved blade designed for assassination rather than open combat—slid from its sheath. "I'm almost sad to kill you boy. Almost."

"Then don't," Silas said lightly, his Sense Fade pulsing as his presence thinned, slipping toward absence. "Walk away. Tell your dead god the situation was… inconvenient."

His smile was thin, humorless.

"Preserve your strength for wars that don't involve killing children."

The air seemed to tighten as his presence became harder to pin down.

"Some of us might die here," he finished calmly. "But you will pay for every one of us. In full."

"Can't do that." Galan's specialists spread out, preparing for a coordinated assault. "Contracts are contracts. The Great One's will must be fulfilled."

"So this is it," Duncan said, his stance settling into a combat-ready position.

"Sounds about right," Mara confirmed, her blades catching lamplight.

"Well," Kora murmured, testing the balance of her throwing knives, her movements precise despite the fear threading through them. "Looks like I might die over something I don't even pretend to care about."

She exhaled softly, almost amused.

"Guess that's still more purpose than most soldiers ever get."

—-

The medical bay—place of healing turned death field, sanctuary become battlefield—prepared for violence that would determine whether principles mattered more than power.

Or whether power simply crushed principles and moved on.

The tension peaked.

Weapons ready.

All the numbers pointing toward tragedy.

And somewhere above, dim light was approaching—, bringing a source of light that would reveal how many had survived the night.

If any of us survive at all, Bright thought.

Then Galan moved.

And the medical bay erupted into violence that would test whether heroism meant anything in a world designed to grind heroes into dust.

The battle began.

And nobody knew how it would end.

Except badly.

For someone.

Probably everyone.

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