Bessia saw Kora fall from her position near Estovia.

Saw the arterial spray. Saw the severed fingers. Saw the Phase Shift woman moving in for execution.

Her healer's training calculated the survival probability automatically: Severe traumatic amputation. Multiple digits. Arterial bleeding. Without immediate intervention—two minutes to unconsciousness from blood loss. Five minutes maximum to death.

She had seconds to decide.

Stay with Estovia—protect the evidence, maintain her assigned position, continue the mission that Bright had organized around.

Or abandon her post—save the damned Kora, provide healing that would be the difference between survival and death, prioritize the living candidate over the unconscious officer.

Mission versus person. Objective versus human cost.

The kind of choice Vester forces on people until they break.

Bessia made her decision instantly.

"Cover Estovia!" she shouted to anyone who could hear, already moving toward Kora's collapsing form.

Her bow dropped. Her arrows scattered. Her entire focus narrowed to a single priority: keep Kora alive.

She crossed the distance in seconds, her healing talent activating before she'd even fully reached the wounded candidate.

The Phase Shift woman saw her coming, recognized the threat, shifted her blade toward this new target—

Mara intercepted.

Her dual blades caught the Phase Shift woman's strike, redirecting it away from Bessia, buying precious seconds for the healer to work.

"Go!" Mara shouted, already engaging the Covenant specialist in desperate long range combat. "Save her! I'll handle this!"

Bessia reached Kora, her medical training overriding horror at the injury.

Stop the bleeding first. Cauterize the arteries. Prevent shock. Keep her conscious. Worry about reconstruction later if there is a later—

Her eyes scanned Kora's system,as she prepped her kit using her plant manipulation talent as a tool in sealing blood vessels, preventing the catastrophic loss that would kill in minutes. The severed stumps stopped fountaining, began clotting, started the emergency stabilization that meant survival rather than death.

Kora's screaming subsided to agonized whimpering, her remaining consciousness processing the reality: My hands are gone. My throwing knives are useless. I'm crippled. I'm—

"Stay with me!" Bessia commanded, her voice carrying authority earned through months of medical emergencies. "You're not dying! You hear me? You're. Not. Dying!"

But even as she stabilized the immediate trauma, Bessia's healer's assessment was devastating:

Severed digits. Clean cuts. Theoretically reattachable if we had proper facilities, Expert-level healers, hours of surgery.

But we're in battle. In a destroyed medical bay. With only my Fledgling-level talent and basic field medicine knowledge.

I can keep her alive. Can seal the wounds. Can prevent infection.

But I can't restore what's gone. Can't regenerate lost tissue. Can't give her back the hands that made her valuable.

She'll survive. But she'll never throw knives again.

Never fight the way she trained for.

Never be the soldier she was.

Kora's eyes found Bessia's, understanding dawning through pain and shock.

"My hands," Kora whispered. "My hands—"

"I know," Bessia said, her own voice tight. "I know. But you're alive. That's what matters right now. Stay alive. We'll worry about the rest later."

Around them, the battle continued.

Mara fought the Phase Shift woman with desperate intensity, her dual blades meeting the specialist's intangibility-enhanced attacks, both combatants operating at the edge of capability.

Duncan held off the lead Crownhold operative and assisted Bright against Galan, his Bone Guard cracking faster than it could regenerate.

The remaining combatants—Covenant specialists, Crownhold operatives, Academy candidates—ground against each other in chaos that had lost any semblance of coordination or strategy.

Just survival. Just desperation. Just people trying not to die while killing threats before threats killed them.

And Kora—hands destroyed, career ended, Academy advancement suddenly uncertain—lay in spreading pool of her own blood while Bessia worked frantically to keep her breathing.

This is the cost, Bessia thought with bitter clarity. This is what "protecting principles" actually means. Permanent injury. Destroyed futures. People paying prices they can't afford for battles they didn't choose.

But she kept healing anyway.

Kept Kora alive anyway.

Because the alternative—letting her die because the cost was too high—was worse than any price.

Clear Light's Eve.

When healing meant accepting that some wounds couldn't be fixed.

When survival meant living with what you'd lost.

When every principle defended came with price tags written in flesh and blood and futures that would never arrive.

Kora would live.

But the soldier she'd been—the knife specialist, the ranged attacker, the Academy candidate with promising future—that person was gone.

Severed as completely as her fingers.

Lost in millisecond of combat.

Never coming back.

The battle ground on.

And Bessia held Kora's remaining hand fragments, keeping her conscious, keeping her alive, wondering how many more pieces they'd all lose before dawn finally arrived.

If it arrives at all.

——

Bright's spatial foresight tracked everything—Kora's mutilation, Bessia's abandonment of Estovia, Mara's desperate interception, Duncan's cracking defenses.

The probability trees were collapsing toward single, terrible conclusion:

We're losing.

Not immediately. Not in the next few seconds. But inevitably, as exhaustion accumulated and injuries mounted and resources depleted.

We can't win this fight.

The mathematics were brutal and clear.

Seven Covenant Initiates (now five after Silas's kills) plus four Crownhold operatives (now fully hostile) against six Academy candidates (now effectively five with Kora disabled and Bessia occupied with healing).

The temporary alliance that had briefly improved their odds had shattered. Now they faced nine Initiate-level opponents with only Bright, Duncan, Mara, and Silas capable of meaningful combat contribution.

We need to retreat, Bright's tactical assessment concluded. *Extract Estovia and Kora. Fall back to a more defensible position.

But retreat meant abandoning the medical bay. Meant giving up the evidence Estovia had nearly died protecting. Meant letting Vaelith's operatives potentially reach and destroy the documentation that proved the systemic corruption.

Principles versus survival.

The choice Vester kept forcing until people broke.

Bright's blade met Galan's curved weapon again, the impact sending shock through his enhanced muscles, his Body Enhancement core straining to maintain capability against an opponent who was simply better—more experienced, backed by allies while Bright's support collapsed.

"You're losing," Galan observed, his Elasticity core absorbing another strike that should have killed him. "I can see it in your eyes. The realization that heroism isn't enough. That principles don't win battles against superior force."

"Shut up," Bright growled, his spatial foresight already calculating escape routes, evacuation priorities, the grinding reality of a managed retreat.

"You could surrender," Galan suggested. "Leave that lady. Walk away. Preserve your lives and your chance to join your peers at central. You're not actually invested in this fight."

"We're invested in not being the kind of people who abandon wounded officers to assassins," Bright countered, his blade extending to force Galan back, buying seconds to assess.

"Noble sentiment. Terrible tactics." Galan pressed forward again. "Your friend just lost her hands. Your healer is occupied. Your tank is cracking. How many more pieces of your squad are you willing to sacrifice for a woman you barely know?"

All of them, Bright realized with sudden clarity. I'd sacrifice all of us. Because the alternative—becoming the kind of person who calculates human worth in tactical value—that's worse than death.

That's what I almost became. That cold, empty thing that measured everything as assets and liabilities.

I'm not going back to that. Even if it kills me.

Plus, I can't just back down now, this prick must die.

"Duncan!" Bright called. "Mara! Silas! We're extracting! Bessia, get Kora mobile! We're leaving!"

"Estovia?" Duncan asked, still holding off the lead Crownhold operative.

"Bring her! We take everyone!" Bright's spatial foresight showed him the route—through the medical bay's back corridors, toward the interior rooms where medical staff had retreated, creating new defensive position before enemies could fully capitalize.

"Retreat acknowledged!" Silas's voice came from shadows, his Sense Fade already positioning him to cover their extraction.

The Academy candidates began a coordinated withdrawal, pulling back from engagements that were killing them slowly, prioritizing survival over victory.

And the Covenant specialists and Crownhold operatives, recognizing the shift, pressed their advantage—sensing weakness, smelling blood, moving to prevent the escape that would preserve their targets.

The medical bay erupted into even more chaotic violence as retreat turned into a desperate fighting withdrawal.

This is going to cost us, Bright understood. Someone's going to die covering this extraction. Someone's going to have to sacrifice themselves so others can escape.

The question is who.

And whether their death actually saves anyone.

Or just delays the inevitable.

Clear Light's Eve.

When even victory meant loss.

When survival required sacrifice.

When every choice was wrong and you picked the least terrible option.

The retreat began.

And somewhere in the chaos, someone's luck was about to run out completely.

The mathematics demanded it.

The only question was whose name would be added to the casualty list.

And whether anyone would survive to remember them.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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