Days later,

The announcement came at morning formation.

Lieutenant Orin Faulk stood at the podium, flanked by the three Adepts—Atheon, Vaelith, and Rowan Kadesh. Behind them, a board displayed fifteen names in crisp, official script.

The crowd of young soldiers pressed forward, hundreds of faces turned toward that board with desperate hope and barely contained fear.

Fifteen names.

Fifteen futures.

Everything else was dust.

"The Republic Academy selection committee has finalized their choices," Faulk announced, his voice amplified by soul-force resonators. "The following soldiers are to report for processing and transfer within seventy-two hours."

He began reading.

"Private Bright Morgan."

No surprise there. Bright stood in formation with Sunshine Squad, his expression carefully neutral. He'd known his slot was guaranteed—had known it for weeks. But hearing it made official still sent something through his chest. Relief, maybe. Or the weight of expectation settling heavier.

"Recruit Duncan"

Duncan's face broke into a genuine smile—the first Bright had seen from him in days. He'd hoped, worked himself to exhaustion, but hadn't been certain. Now he was.

"Recruit Silas"

Across the formation, Silas stood with Tyven's squad. His expression didn't change—but for just a moment, he became fully presen* in a way he rarely was anymore.

"Recruit Mara."

Mara's breath caught audibly. She'd felt her power growing with the squad even though she still remained a mid tier fledgling. Hearing her name—actually hearing it spoken in official capacity—made her knees weak.

Bright caught her eye across the formation. Nodded once. You earned this.

She nodded back, eyes wet but expression fierce.

"Recruit Bessia."

The medical specialist looked stunned. She'd spent her merit points on a plant manipulation core just days ago, gambled everything on making herself indispensable through versatility. And it had worked.

Tyven, standing with his squad, allowed himself the smallest satisfied smile.

"Recruit Ellarine of House Crownhold."

The young Crownhold noble stood in the officer section, her expression carefully controlled. Of course she'd been selected—family slots were predetermined. But she'd also earned it through genuine capability, which mattered to her more than the politics.

Faulk continued reading the House-affiliated selections:

"Private Marcus of House Crownhold."

"Private Theron of House Crownhold."

"Private Kael of House Kadesh."

"Private Orum of House Kadesh."

The noble house slots were expected. Competent soldiers from proper bloodlines who would bring credit to their families. Not the best candidates Vester had to offer, but acceptable ones who met minimum standards while satisfying political requirements.

Five House slots accounted for. Ten names called. Five remaining.

The crowd's tension ratcheted higher. Hundreds of desperate soldiers, all calculating—Is my name next? Did I do enough? Was I noticed?

"Private Bolt."

A young man near the back of formation—twenty-one, a high-tier Fledgling with an unremarkable background—looked like he'd been struck by lightning. Bolt was known to be independent, no family backing, no political connections. Just a solid performance in the trials.

His inclusion sent a ripple through the independents. It's possible. The damned Merit actually matters.

"Private Jackson."

Jackson stood with barely contained excitement. His family had money—his father a successful merchant with connections to Lady Veylin's network. Not noble, but wealthy enough to purchase influence. His combat record was decent, enhanced by expensive training and quality equipment.

Some soldiers in formation grimaced. Money talking, even in supposedly worth-based selection. But that was reality. Wealth bought advantages, always had.

"Recruit Kora."

The announcement hung in the air like poison.

Kora stood with Tyven's squad, her face pale, her posture rigid.

Tyven's expression darkened immediately. He turned to look at Kora—not with approval, but with something complicated. Concern. Suspicion.

Because Kora's combat record was adequate at best. Mid-tier Fledgling with decent but unexceptional skills. Her Trial performance had been solid but not outstanding. She wasn't top percentile material.

And yet she was chosen.

Across the formation, those who understood Vester's political undercurrents felt something sick twist in their stomachs.

Bessia, standing beside Kora in Tyven's formation, looked at her squadmate with an accusatory stare.

Silas, perceptive as always, studied Kora with calculating eyes. Saw the rigid posture, the barely controlled trembling, the way she wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Oh. Oh no.

Mara, who'd spent a great deal of time drowning in guilt over using Bright's vulnerability, recognized the look on Kora's face. Recognized the specific flavor of shame that came from trading something precious for advancement.

And Bright—Bright looked at Kora, at her rigid shame, and felt his recent resolution to stay human tested immediately.

Because part of him understood. Understood desperation. Understood making terrible choices when survival demanded it. Understood trading pieces of yourself for advancement because the alternative was being left behind.

But another part—the part that had nearly lost itself to cold tactical calculation—saw exactly what had been done. Saw the exploitation, the power imbalance, the sick manipulation of someone desperate enough to accept any terms.

Faulk continued reading, oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the tension Kora's selection had created.

"Private sinclair"

A very unassuming man with a soild track record.

"These fifteen will represent Outpost Vester at the Republic Academy," Faulk concluded. "Congratulations to those selected. For those not chosen—your service continues to matter. The fight against the Shroud requires all of us, not just Academy candidates. Dismissed."

The formation dissolved into chaos.

Some soldiers celebrated—those selected and their friends. Others stood in stunned disappointment, dreams crashing around them. A few walked away immediately, unable to process their exclusion in public.

Adam remained where he stood, his expression carefully neutral even as calculations ran behind his eyes. Looks like I'll have to go for plan b.

Around them, Vester's young soldiers confronted the brutal truth: most dreams die. Most desperate efforts fail. The mathematics of fifteen slots and hundreds of candidates left far more broken hopes than fulfilled ones.

-----

Kora walked away from formation the moment dismissal was called.

She didn't celebrate. Didn't join the other selected candidates who were already forming excited clusters, discussing what Academy training would be like, making plans for the time before departure.

She walked to the eastern wall and stood there, staring out at the Shroud.

The Never-Ending Night pressed against Vester's defenses, held back by soul-force lamps that flickered with artificial determination. Crawlers moved in that darkness—shadows against shadows, hungry and patient.

I'm going to the Academy, Kora thought. I made it. I'm advancing. I'm escaping this place.

The words should have brought triumph. Relief. Something positive.

Instead, she felt hollow.

Three nights ago, she'd received a summons to Vaelith Crownhold's office. Private meeting. Just the two of them. She'd gone because you didn't ignore summons from Adepts, even when instinct screamed warnings.

Vaelith had been direct. Efficient. Almost clinical in his proposition.

"Your combat record is adequate but not exceptional," he'd said, reviewing documents on his desk. "Your scout skills are valuable but not irreplaceable. Your Academy chances, calculated objectively, are close to nil.

Kora had stood there, knowing where this was going, feeling her stomach turn.

"I can improve those odds," Vaelith continued. "I have influence on the selection committee. A strong recommendation from me would essentially guarantee your slot."

"What would that cost?" Her voice had been steady. Proud of herself for that, at least.

"Consideration." Vaelith's smile had been cold. "Loyalty. Understanding that opportunities have prices, and those prices must be paid."

She'd understood then. Understood exactly what he was offering and what he expected in return.

She could have refused. Could have walked away, maintained her integrity, lived with her mediocrity.

But mediocrity meant remaining a mid-tier scout with no advancement prospects, watching others escape while she rotted in this outpost until a Crawler or patrol accident or simple grinding attrition claimed her.

So she'd made her choice.

Not a choice, part of her insisted. Coercion. Exploitation. Abuse of power.

But she'd still walked into his private quarters when ordered. Still removed her clothing when directed. Still endured what came next.

Kora's heart pounded, but she didn't hesitate. She crossed the room, hands steady as she unlaced her clothes, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tightening in the cool air. Vaelith's gaze darkened, his cock already stirring in his trousers.

"On the bed," he ordered, standing. "Climb up and spread those legs. Prove you're worth my favor."

She obeyed, crawling onto the mattress, the sheets rough against her skin. Lying back, she parted her thighs, exposing her pussy—bare and already damp from nerves and resolve. Vaelith loomed over her, stripping off his shirt to reveal a muscled chest scarred from battles long past. His pants followed, his cock springing out—thick, veined, with a heavy head that made her swallow.

No tenderness in his eyes. He grabbed her ankles, yanking her toward the edge of the bed. "You want in? You'll take it rough. No whining."

Kora nodded, bracing herself. Vaelith spat into his hand, slicking his cock before positioning at her entrance. He didn't ease in—thrust forward brutally, his cock stretching her pussy wide in one savage push. She cried out, the burn sharp as he bottomed out, balls slapping her ass.

"Tight little thing," he grunted, hands pinning her wrists above her head. His hips snapped back and forth, fucking her with short, punishing strokes. No care for her pleasure, just using her hole to chase his own release. Kora's body jolted with each thrust, her breasts bouncing, the frame creaking under the force.

Pain mixed with a building heat, her walls clenching around his invading cock. Vaelith released one wrist to grope her breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make her gasp. "That's it. Squeeze me like you mean it. Earn your spot."

She did, arching up to meet him, her free hand clawing at his back. His pace quickened, sweat dripping from his brow onto her skin. He leaned down, biting her neck—not playfully, but marking her as another conquest. Kora moaned, the roughness igniting something feral. Her clit throbbed untouched, but the friction of his cock dragging inside her was enough to push her toward the edge.

Vaelith flipped her suddenly, face down on the bed. He straddled her thighs, gripping her hips to lift her ass. His cock slammed back in from behind, deeper now, pounding her pussy with relentless force. "Fuck, you're wet for it," he growled, one hand fisting her hair, yanking her head back.

Kora's cries muffled into the sheets as he railed her, his balls smacking her clit with every drive. No mercy—he fucked like a man claiming territory, his cock swelling thicker inside her. She came first, unexpectedly, her pussy spasming around him, juices soaking his shaft. Thorne laughed roughly, thrusting through her orgasm without slowing.

"Good girl," he rasped, pulling out only to shove her onto her back again. He straddled her chest, cock hovering over her face—slick with her arousal. "Open your mouth. Clean it."

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