Three Days Before

Bessia sat in the medical bay, inventory sheets spread across her lap, but her mind was elsewhere.

Fifteen slots.

The number haunted her. She'd been running calculations since the announcement.

Healing soul talent. High tier fledgling. Decent combat record—twelve Trial wins, four losses. Age seventeen. No noble house backing. No rare talent that made her indispensable.

She was good. Solid. Reliable.

But in a competition for fifteen slots among hundreds of desperate candidates, good might not be enough.

"You're thinking too hard," one of the other medical assistants said, passing by with bandages. "Can hear it from across the room."

Bessia forced a smile. "Just inventory."

"Sure. And I'm the Queen of the Republic." The assistant—an older woman named Kira who'd been at Vester for fifteen years—paused. "The damn academy slots?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Everyone under twenty-four has the same look. Like they're trying to calculate whether hope or despair weighs more." Kira set down her supplies. "You have a shot, you know. Any thing related to healing is rare enough. Combat medics are always in demand."

"Combat medics, yes. But the Academy trains leaders. Adepts. People who'll command squads and hold strategic positions." Bessia's hands tightened on the inventory sheets. "I'm support. Valuable support, but—"

"But you think they'll prioritize offensive capabilities over healing." Kira nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe they're smart enough to know that an Adept who can heal themselves is harder to kill than one who can just hit harder."

It was a kind thought. Bessia appreciated it.

But kindness didn't change mathematics.

She'd calculated her odds at thirty-two percent. Maybe thirty-five if she performed exceptionally in the remaining Trials. But with Morgan, Duncan, and Silas guaranteed slots, and Houses Crownhold and Kadesh claiming their share, the competition for peripheral spots would be brutal.

"I need to improve my combat record," Bessia said quietly. "Win more matches. Make myself indispensable."

"Or you need to make the right people notice you," Kira suggested. "Politics plays a role, whether we like it or not."

Bessia thought about that. She'd always avoided political maneuvering—found it distasteful, preferred to let her capabilities speak for themselves. But maybe that was naive. Maybe in a world where fifteen slots determined futures, distaste was a luxury she couldn't afford.

But who would even sponsor me? she wondered. Adept atheon barely knows I exist. Adept Crownhold only cares about people he can manipulate and Adept Rowan seems allergic to politics entirely.

The medical bay door opened, and a familiar scarred face appeared—Sergeant Tyven, carrying a squad member with a twisted ankle.

"Bessia," he said. "Need your help."

She stood immediately as she assessed the injury—minor sprain, easily fixed.

"Hold still," she told the injured soldier—one of the younger Fledglings, barely seventeen. "This'll sting for a moment."

Her hands moved with practiced precision, setting the bone and soothing the point with ointment. The soldier gasped—then slowly relaxed as the pain ebbed away.

"Thank you," he breathed.

"Rest it for a day. No full-contact training." Bessia turned to Tyven. "He'll be fine."

Tyven nodded, already moving to leave. Then paused. "You're thinking about the Academy right."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Your odds are better than you think," Tyven said flatly. " medical skills makes you a force multiplier. You keep squads in the field longer, reduce casualty rates, increase mission success probability. The Republic understands that value, even if individual soldiers don't."

"But will they understand it enough to choose me over more… impressive candidates?"

"Depends on who's making recommendations." Tyven's scarred face was unreadable. "Make sure the right people know what you're capable of. Politics is a tool. Use it or be used by it."

He left before she could respond.

Bessia stood in the medical bay, Tyven's words echoing.

Make sure the right people know what you're capable of.

Maybe she needed to be more visible. More proactive. Stop hiding behind inventory sheets and hope someone noticed her value.

She hadn't even spent her merit points on an ability core, holding out for one that would amplify her soul talent—but that line of thinking was already antiquated. She was fortunate she hadn't yet been truly tested by monsters, relegated to the back line with her bow.

-----

Vaelith's Office, Same Day

Adept Vaelith Crownhold sat behind his desk, reviewing a list of names with cold precision.

The damn Academy slots. Central really knew how to throw a rench in his plans. Five spots were claimed by Houses Crownhold and Kadesh. Ten potentially available to independents or lower-tier affiliates.

His interest lay not in the Crownhold slots—those were predetermined, decided by his family's political calculus—but in the peripheral ones. The candidates who would be desperate, malleable and useful.

"Ellarine gets a slot," he murmured, marking her name. His young relative had potential— raw, undisciplined, but genuine. The Crownhold philosophy would be tested in her, and Vaelith was curious to see whether "attachments are weakness" survived contact with real Academy training.

"Probably two more for Crownhold-affiliated soldiers. Kadesh will claim similar." He made more notes. "That leaves approximately seven to eight open positions."

His fingers drummed against the desk—a rare display of active thought.

Who would be desperate enough to accept his sponsorship? Who had enough talent to be worth the investment, but enough need to accept strings attached?

His network had been gathering information.

Sniffing out the stench of desperation from this young minds.

It was going to be raw and unfiltered manipulation.

But Vaelith had built his power on exactly this kind of cultivation—identifying desperate talent and offering solutions that came with invisible chains.

"Fifteen slots," he said to the empty office. "And at least three of them will be mine by the time this ends."

He smiled—cold, satisfied—and continued his list.

Outside, soldiers trained desperately, unaware that their futures were being calculated like pieces on a board.

-----

Elsewhere,

Adept Rowan Kadesh stood on the eastern wall, watching the training yards with detached interest.

He hated politics.

Hated it with the kind of pure, visceral distaste usually reserved for Crawlers and spoiled meat. The maneuvering, the manipulation, the constant calculation of social debts and power dynamics—it was exhausting and pointless.

But he was a Kadesh. And Kadesh's didn't get to opt out of politics, no matter how much they wished otherwise.

"Just a chance to suck on central" he muttered. "And everyone's losing their minds."

Below, young soldiers pushed themselves past reasonable limits. The injury rate had already spiked—broken bones, torn muscles, exhaustion-induced collapses. The medical bay was overwhelmed.

All because fifteen slots represented escape. Advancement. Hope.

Rowan understood the appeal. The Academy meant training under Experts and Elites, access to rare cores, connections to power structures that could change lives. It was logical for soldiers to be desperate.

But the politics of selection made him sick.

His family had already decided their three Kadesh slots. Young nobles with adequate talent and proper bloodlines. Not the best candidates—but acceptable ones who would bring credit to the House.

Atheon would recommend his independents—Morgan, Duncan, probably several others. Merit-based, as it should be.

And Vaelith… Vaelith would maneuver. Would position his chosen candidates with subtle support and careful manipulation. Would end up with influence over at least three or four Academy students by the time this concluded.

Because that's what Vaelith does, Rowan thought sourly. Turns everything into leverage.

-----

Bright found Adam in the administration building the next afternoon.

Lieutenant Orin Faulk presided over the merit point exchange process, his expression professionally neutral as he reviewed the paperwork Bright and Adam had filed.

"Private Morgan," Faulk said. "You're certain about this transaction? Selling an unabsorbed core is irreversible."

"I'm certain." Bright's voice was flat, emotionless. "The core doesn't fit my combat style. Adam can make better use of it."

"And you, recruit Adam? You understand you cannot absorb this core until you achieve Initiate rank?"

"I understand, sir." Adam kept his expression controlled, but internally he was celebrating. "I'm willing to wait."

"Merit points transferred: three hundred." Faulk made notes. "Both parties acknowledge this is voluntary, without coercion?"

"Yes, sir," they said in unison.

"Then the transaction is approved." Faulk stamped the documents. "Private Morgan, the merit points will appear in your account within the hour. Private Adam, the core is yours. Use it wisely."

They left the administration building together, walking in awkward silence.

Adam carried the Mental Dampening core in a sealed case. The crystal pulsed with dull gray light, visible through the transparent lid.

"Thank you," Adam said finally. "I know this wasn't easy."

"It's alright," Bright replied. "You needed an advantage. I had a resource I wasn't using. Simple exchange."

"Still. I appreciate it."

They reached the split in the corridor—Adam heading toward his quarters, Bright toward the training yards.

"Bright," Adam said, surprising himself. "For what it's worth… I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I'm not looking for anything except efficiency."

"Sure." Adam adjusted the core case. "But if you ever decide you want something else, You need information, I'll find it."

Bright nodded and walked away.

-----

Adam sat in his quarters that night, studying the Mental Dampening core.

The ability was subtle—not a physical effect like Silas's Sense Fade, but a mental one. It would project onto opponents, dampening their emotional responses, making them second-guess instincts, filtering their reactions through cold logic.

In combat, it would make enemies hesitate. Miss openings. Overthink decisions.

In intelligence work, it would make sources more pliable, more willing to share information because their natural suspicion would be dampened.

It's perfect for me, Adam thought. Exactly what I need.

Silas's Sense Fade affected reality—made him forgettable, removed traces of his presence, turned him into a living void in perception.

Mental Dampening affected minds—made others think differently, react slower, process information through fog.

Different mechanisms. Different applications. But both incredibly valuable.

Adam locked the core in his footlocker, secured it carefully.

He felt it, in some months, he'd reach Initiate rank. Would absorb this core. Would become something more than a baseline human with a rifle.

Worth it, he decided. Absolutely worth it.

-----

Bright sat on the edge of his cot that night, staring at his hands.

Three hundred merit points sat in his account

He'd made the right choice. The logical choice.

So why did he feel… empty?

He'd been running from grief. From shame. From the crushing weight of Hailen's death and what he'd done with Mara and the systematic dismantling of his own humanity.

He'd convinced himself that coldness was strength. That tactical efficiency was survival. That feeling was weakness.

But his past never taught me that.

The thought surfaced unbidden.

His people had taught him to carry weight. Not to pretend it didn't exist. Not to seal it away until he became something hollow and mechanical.

They had taught him that strength meant feeling pain and continuing anyway. That grief was the price of connection. That becoming a monster—even an efficient one—was worse than dying human.

I've been running, Bright realized. Not from the grief itself, but from admitting I couldn't handle it alone.

His childhood had taught him that vulnerability meant death. That asking for help was weakness. That survival required self-sufficiency.

He'd carried those lessons into Vester, into his training, into his response to Hailen's death.

And they'd been slowly killing him.

The monster I was making, Bright thought, wasn't from the grief. It was from my refusal to let anyone help me carry it.

The realization hit like a physical blow.

He thought about Mara, trying desperately to reach him. Duncan, quietly persistent in his support.

They'd all been trying to help. And he'd systematically pushed them away, convinced that accepting help would make him weak.

But I'm weaker now than I've ever been, Bright acknowledged.

He stood, moved to the small mirror above the washbasin.

His reflection looked back—cold eyes, tight jaw, posture perfect and controlled.

He looked like a soldier. Like someone competent and dangerous.

He looked nothing like himself.

The grief. The shame. The desperate, terrified part of a 16 year old boy that didn't actually know what he was doing.

I need help, Bright admitted to his reflection. I can't do this alone.

The words felt like surrender.

But maybe surrender was what he needed.

Not giving up. Not breaking. Just… acknowledging that strength sometimes meant asking for support. That carrying stones alone crushed you, but carrying them together made them lighter.

Tomorrow, Bright decided. Tomorrow I'll talk to Duncan. Really talk.

Outside, the Never-Ending Night pressed against the windows.

But inside, Bright Morgan took the first small step back toward being free from the burden of grief.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

And sometimes, something was enough.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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