Captain Selene stood in the House Aurin convoy compound,sat reviewing the latest dispatch with carefully controlled expression.

The communication crystal pulsed with an encoded message from Republic command: Northern trade route cleared. Crawler threats eliminated. Safe passage to Central restored. Departure authorized at commander's discretion.

She read it three times, processing implications with the kind of cold forethought that had kept her alive through two decades of convoy operations.

The route's open, she understood. We can finally leave this nightmare.

Her hand moved to the roster—fifteen Academy candidates officially assigned to her transport. Fifteen names that represented the Republic's investment in future Adept-level or more capability.

Fifteen slots that might now be… fewer.

"Lieutenant Kress," she called to her second-in-command. "Compile a casualty reports. I need confirmed status on all Academy candidates. Who's alive, who's injured, who's—" She paused, professional detachment wavering microscopically. "—who's dead."

"Yes, ma'am." Kress moved to communications equipment, already dreading what he'd find.

Selene walked to the convoy's secured vehicles, studying them with tactical assessment. Twelve reinforced carriages, each capable of carrying four passengers plus supplies. Soul-force lamps mounted on every vehicle. Enhanced horses bred for endurance and speed.

More than adequate for those individuals, she calculated. But how many will actually board?

The night's chaos—the Covenant assault, the ant emergence, the political maneuvering—had transformed Clear Light's Eve from celebration into massacre. The kids from her limited surveillance had been scattered throughout Vester, some defending positions, some fighting for survival, some possibly already dead.

House Aurin pays me to deliver candidates to Central, Selene reminded herself. Not to rescue them from battles they chose to fight. Not to waste convoy resources retrieving people who made bad decisions. If they survive, they'll learn—Central is way cruel in its own way.

If they're at the compound when I'm ready to depart, they board. If not—

She didn't finish the thought. Didn't need to.

House Aurin's priorities were clear: protect the investment that could be protected, write off the losses that couldn't be recovered, maintain a profitable relationships with the Republic without overextending resources.

Merchant house philosophy, she thought with something between respect and disgust. Everything's a transaction. Everyone's an asset or a liability. Sentiment is luxury we can't afford.

Kress returned, carrying updated casualty reports with visible discomfort.

"Status?" Selene demanded.

"Confirmed alive: Private Bright , private Duncan, recruit Mara, recruit Bessia and private Silas. All currently engaged in the medical bay sector."

"The crownhold's girl? What about her and her merry band"

"Secured in an officer compound. Fewer candidates accounted for from her original ten. Four either dead, separated, or unconfirmed."

"Total confirmed alive?"

"Eleven. Four unconfirmed. Three probable deaths—though bodies haven't been recovered yet due to the ongoing combat operations."

Selene processed the report with a merchant's calculation. Eleven survivors from fifteen original candidates. Seventy-three percent survival rate. Not terrible for a crisis of this magnitude, but still representing significant resource loss.

Eleven boarding slots, she calculated. Adequate. Efficient. We leave as soon as they reach the compound.

"What about the remaining four unconfirmed?" Kress asked. "Should we attempt recovery operations? Send scouts to locate—"

"No." Selene's voice carried finality. "We're not risking the convoy security for unconfirmed candidates. If they reach this compound alive, they board. If not, they're casualties. Simple as that."

"That's… cold, ma'am."

"That's professional." Selene met his eyes. "I'm not paid to be warm. I'm paid to deliver Republic assets safely to Central. The candidates who prioritized survival over heroics will be rewarded. The ones who died playing hero—" She gestured vaguely. "—they're lessons for future selections about cost of poor tactical judgment."

Kress looked uncomfortable but nodded. He'd served under Selene long enough to know that arguing with House Aurin philosophy was pointless.

"Prepare for departure," Selene ordered. "I want convoy ready to move within twelve hours. Anyone who reaches this compound alive in that timeframe boards. Everyone else gets left behind."

"Understood, ma'am."

Selene returned to studying her vehicles, calculating supply loads, planning routes that would get them to Central fastest.

Eleven candidates, she thought. Maybe twelve if we're lucky. Adequate return on House Aurin's investment.

The rest? They chose their battles. Now they live or die with those choices.

Not my problem.

Just business.

-----

The four-way death royal in the corridor had reached critical mass—ants, Covenant fanatics, Crownhold operatives, and Academy candidates all grinding against each other in confined space where coordination was impossible and survival was a mathematical improbability.

Bright's spatial foresight tracked everything.

Every ant position. Every human movement. Every piece of debris that could become advantage. Every angle that could be exploited.

His perception registered Galan engaging Duncan, the Covenant assassin's Elasticity core absorbing strikes that should have crippled him, his curved blade seeking openings in Duncan's failing Bone Guard.

He's too defensive, Bright assessed. Galan's playing conservative—using his Elasticity to survive rather than pressing an advantage. Waiting for us to exhaust ourselves.

it was Smart and Effective. But it still created a pattern.

Bright's spatial awareness mapped the corridor's floor—broken stone, scattered debris, the detritus of a night-long combat.

And there—there—a piece of shrapnel. A metal fragment torn from a destroyed medical equipment, razor-sharp edges exposed, positioned three meters from Duncan's current defensive position.

If I can maneuver Galan onto that, Bright calculated, drive his knee down onto the sharp edge—even his Elasticity core can't activate if he doesn't recognize the threat. Reflex defense requires awareness. Surprise negates reactive abilities.

"Silas!" Bright called, his voice cutting through combat noise. "Tag team on Galan! Pattern Theta!"

Pattern Theta was improvised code—something they'd never actually trained for. They loathed each other, but Bright trusted Silas's combat intelligence to read intent from context.

Silas understood instantly. His Sense Fade flickered, his Speed Enhancement activated, and he materialized behind Galan with dagger already moving.

It was not a killing strike. A forcing strike—aimed at Galan's back in way that made the Covenant assassin pivot, shift position, move exactly where Bright needed him.

Galan's Elasticity core activated automatically, his torso becoming flexible, absorbing Silas's blade without lethal damage.

But the attack forced him to step—to reposition, to plant his foot, to shift weight exactly as Bright's spatial foresight had predicted.

Bright moved simultaneously, his extended blade driving at Galan's head, forcing another defensive response, another position shift.

Galan dodged—professional, practiced, his combat instincts reading the strike pattern, his body moving to optimal defensive position.

His knee came down hard on the shrapnel Bright had identified.

The razor-sharp edge punched through Galan's knee joint from below—angle his Elasticity core wasn't monitoring, threat he hadn't consciously registered, penetration happening before reactive defense could activate.

Metal tore through cartilage, ligaments, the soft tissue that made leg joints functional.

Galan's scream was immediate, visceral. His leg collapsed, as its structural integrity compromised and its weight-bearing capability destroyed.

He went down hard, his curved blade clattering from his nerveless fingers, his Elasticity core useless against injury that had already occurred.

"FINISH HIM!" Bright commanded.

Duncan was there instantly, his war hammer descending with Bone Guard-enhanced force, crushing Galan's skull before the Covenant assassin could recover.

One very large threat was eliminated.

-----

Kora tried to stand.

Her logical mind understood it was pointless—her hands were gone, her throwing knives useless, her combat capability reduced to nearly zero.

But some desperate, primal part of her insisted: Get up. Fight. Don't die lying down.

She pushed herself upright with her forearm stumps, blood still seeping despite Bessia's emergency healing, pain overwhelming rational thought.

"Kora, don't!" Bessia shouted, trying to restrain her. "You're too injured! You need to—"

An ant emerged from the floor directly beside them.

An Initiate-tier variant, mandibles spreading wide, compound eyes registering easy prey.

Kora saw it. Understood. Knew what was coming.

I'm going to die, she realized with crystalline certainty. Here. Now. Killed by mindless insect because I can't defend myself.

Because I traded my body for Academy slot. Because I let Vaelith—

The ant's mandibles closed on her leg.

Not cleanly. Not mercifully.

The chitin plating tore—ripping through muscle, grinding against bone, pulling flesh away in ragged chunks that exposed internal structure.

Kora's scream exceeded anything human lungs should produce. Pure agony given voice, the kind of sound that made everyone who heard it flinch instinctively.

The ant didn't stop. Its mandibles worked systematically, like industrial equipment processing meat, shredding her leg into component parts.

Skin peeled away in strips. Muscle separated from bone. Blood fountained in arterial spray that painted the corridor floor red.

It's eating me alive, Kora's fragmenting consciousness registered. Consuming me while I'm still conscious. While I can still feel every—

Her leg came off at the hip—complete separation, the ant's mandibles having ground through everything that connected limb to torso.

She collapsed, her remaining leg unable to support her, her body going into shock from catastrophic trauma.

The ant continued feeding, its mandibles now targeting her torso, seeking soft tissue, easy protein.

Bessia tried to intervene—her plant manipulation activating desperately, trying to get her off from their clutches.

Another ant grabbed Kora's shoulder, its mandibles crushing bone, tearing arm from socket.

Her skin shredded like wet paper—cartoon physics made real, flesh separating from muscle, muscle separating from bone, entire anatomical structure coming apart under systemic attack.

Bessia's petty healing couldn't compensate. Couldn't seal injuries faster than they were inflicted. She couldn't preserve life that was being systematically dismantled.

Kora's consciousness faded—not peacefully, not mercifully, just… ending. Her brain finally shutting down when blood loss and trauma exceeded what even desperate determination could overcome.

She died staring at ceiling, her body still being processed by ants that didn't care about her pain, her fear, her destroyed dreams.

Just protein. Just fuel. Just another casualty.

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