Bright found Baggen near the convoy compound's eastern perimeter, the hammer-wielder sitting alone on a supply crate, his expression distant with exhaustion and trauma.

"Hey," Bright offered, settling beside him. "You made it."

"Yeah," Baggen confirmed, his voice flat. "Made it. Survived. Whatever that's worth."

"It's worth something," Bright said. " Means you can keep going."

"Can I?" Baggen asked, not looking at Bright. "Keep going, I mean. After tonight. After everything."

Bright didn't answer immediately. Because what could he say? That it got easier? That trauma faded? That survival justified the cost?

All lies. Or at least, not entirely true.

"You'll function," Bright said finally. "You'll continue forward. Whether that's 'keeping going' in the way you mean—I don't know. That's something you discover rather than something someone tells you."

Baggen nodded slowly. "You're going to Central soon. Getting out of Vester."

"Yeah."

"Good. You deserve it. You and the others." Baggen paused. "I'm happy for you kids. Genuinely. Even if it means this is probably the last time we talk."

The recognition hung between them—the reality that Bright was entering a different world, that students brought up at central and regular soldiers occupied different trajectories, that Clear Light's Eve marked a divergence point rather than a shared continuation.

"You could come and apply for a post at house Aurin," Bright offered. "I think they're filling vacancies. You could probably qualify—"

"No," Baggen interrupted gently. "I couldn't. I'm a good soldier, Bright. Maybe even a decent fighter. But I'm not central material. Don't have that extra thing that makes someone exceptional rather than just competent."

"Baggen—"

"It's okay," Baggen said. "Really. I know my capabilities. Know my limits. I'll serve at Vester or get transferred to another outpost. I'll do my duty. I'll survive what I can survive. But I won't pretend I'm something I'm not."

Bright wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that Baggen underestimated himself. Wanted to believe that their brief friendship and loyalty mattered more than Baggen's fading potential.

But he didn't. Because Baggen was probably right. Central wasn't some run of the mill boonies, they selected for specific qualities—exceptional talent, rapid core development, tactical brilliance, survival capability under extreme pressure, it was a place for the mind as much as it was for the body.

Baggen was solid. Reliable. Competent.

But not exceptional. Not in the ways that mattered, not for the politics and murder of words that occurred in the republic.

And that's okay, Bright recognized. Not everyone needs to be exceptional. The world needs solid, reliable people who serve without requiring recognition or a fricking idea why they do so.

"What about Rolf, haven't seen him since" Bright asked. "—is Rolf okay?"

Baggen's expression shifted. Tightened. Something painful crossing his features before being forced back under control.

He didn't answer.

Just sat. Silent. His hands gripping the hammer he'd carried through the night, knuckles white with tension that wasn't entirely from exhaustion.

And Bright understood.

Rolf's dead.

The knowledge hit with familiar weight—another name on the casualty list, another squad member who wouldn't make it to morning or the shade of light that served as it , another person he'd fought beside who was simply… gone.

"When?" Bright asked quietly.

"I have no clue," Baggen said, his voice barely audible. "But that's what we can infer so far and that's what the scouts were saying as his last known location was where the horde of ants sprouted from. If he hadn't gotten back since then—" He stopped. Swallowed. "—there isn't a chance in hell he'll make it back now."

Bright sat with the information. Processing. Mourning. Carrying weight that seemed to accumulate endlessly—Hailen, the candidates who'd died tonight, soldiers from various squads, and now Rolf.

"I'm sorry," Bright offered.

"Yeah," Baggen said. "Me too."

They sat in silence for a long moment, neither finding words that mattered, both simply existing in shared grief.

"You should go," Baggen said finally. "Get a rest before your convoy's departure. You've got a journey ahead. New challenges."

"Baggen—"

"I mean it," Baggen interrupted. "This is goodbye, kid. We both know it. So let's not make it harder by dragging it out. You're going places I'll never reach. That's just the reality. And I'm genuinely happy for you."

Bright stood slowly, recognizing the dismissal for what it was—not rejection, but acknowledgment of their diverging paths, acceptance of the separation that the dreadful holiday had made inevitable.

"If you ever make it to Central—" Bright started.

"I won't," Baggen said. "But thanks for the thought."

They looked at each other one final time—squad members who'd fought together, friends who'd shared trials, people whose trajectories were separating in ways that might never converge again.

Then Bright walked away.

Leaving Baggen to his grief and his hammer and his acceptance of his limitations.

Leaving another part of Vester behind.

Another connection severed by advancement and circumstance and the brutal reality that the exceptional people moved in different circles than competent ones.

-----

Adept Goba stood at the convoy compound's command post, reviewing the final preparations while simultaneously cataloging the Academy candidates with professional assessment.

Ten survivors. Soon to be fifteen again once the vacancy nominations were processed.

But what kind of candidates? Goba wondered, his enhanced perception reading micro-expressions, body language, trauma responses with Adept-level precision.

Some looked like what civilians expected Academy candidates to be—young, talented, determined to serve the Republic. The huge boy, ducan, the little girl, Mara, and their healer bessia fit that category.

Sheep who think they're wolves, Goba classified. Good people who'll struggle with Academy's brutality. Who'll either break or transform in ways they won't recognize.

Others looked harder. More predatory. Like tonight's violence had awakened something rather than traumatizing them.

Silas existed in that category—the invisible one who killed with efficiency that suggested natural aptitude rather than learned skill.

Ellarine Crownhold showed signs of transition—noble upbringing colliding with combat reality, producing either breakdown or evolution into something genuinely dangerous.

And a few candidates Goba didn't recognize—survivors from squads he hadn't directly encountered—showed expression that made his Adept-level instincts register caution.

Already wolves, Goba identified. Already comfortable with violence. Already understanding that power matters more than principles.

Those are the dangerous ones. Not because they're evil. Because they're effective.

But still there was an outlier in his observation. Private Bright Morgan. The boy was not really a sheep but he wasn't also a wolf. He was something else entirely but he could put his finger on what.

Still the academy would accelerate their development. Would provide training, resources, ideology that transformed these natural predators into sanctioned hunters.

Some will become champions, Goba predicted. Who defend the Republic with genuine commitment. Who use power responsibly.

Others will become tyrants. Will use the training to advance their personal interests. Will become exactly what I am—people who make hard choices without hesitation and call it duty.

He didn't know which category would claim which candidates. Couldn't predict who'd break versus who'd excel.

That's what Central determines, Goba thought. *That's what the Academy reveals—who has the spine to take power into thru own hands.

Behind him, a soldier from house Aurin approached with a final transport manifests.

"Vester's defensive status?" Goba asked.

"Stabilized. Every threat's been eliminated. The remains ant workers have been driving off anc reverted to their individual hunting behavior—they are easily managed by standard patrols. Infrastructure damage is significant but repairable. Casualty count finalized at five hundred forty-three confirmed dead."

Goba processed the number without visible reaction. Five hundred forty-three people. Dead in a single night. During a holiday celebration.

Catastrophic. But not unprecedented. The Shroud produces worse regularly.

And ultimately, not my primary concern. My mission was helping the adepts here and eliminating major threats. Both accomplished.

"My forces are ready for departure," Goba announced. "We've assisted with the immediate crisis response. Remaining cleanup is local responsibility. I have other assignments requiring attention."

"Understood sir,"The house Aurin soldier confirmed.

He took one final look at the Academy candidates—wolves and sheep and everything in between, all heading to Central, all about to discover what they were actually made of.

Good luck, he thought without voicing it. You'll need it.

Then he departed, his Engine rumbling as he coordinated his forces for departure, already filing mental reports about Clear Light's Eve disaster and political complications and classified information that needed containing.

Another crisis managed. Another set of problems solved through his overwhelming force.

Another night survived.

The convoy compound settled into exhausted calm —survivors processing trauma, candidates preparing for the journey, mercenaries maintaining a professional vigilance.

The holiday was ending.

And with it, Vester's brightest talents were leaving.

Heading to Central. To the Academy. To futures that would either forge them into champions or destroy them completely.

Wolves among sheep, Goba had thought.

But the truth was more complicated.

They were all sheep right now. Pretending to be wolves. Learning what predation meant. Discovering whether they had the capacity to become actual hunters or would remain prey with delusions.

Central would reveal the answer.

The Academy would sort them.

And some would rise to become champions.

While others would simply… break.

That was the nature of selection.

That was the cost of advancement.

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