The logistics center was carnage.

Bodies everywhere—Covenant agents and Republic soldiers alike, torn apart by mandibles that didn't discriminate. Ants swarmed through the facility, feeding on fresh corpses, attacking anything that moved.

"Bessia, triage check!" Bright commanded, his spatial foresight mapping the space. "Anyone still alive needs immediate extraction!"

Bessia moved through the horror with professional detachment, checking bodies with rapid efficiency. Most were dead—thoroughly, messily, recently. But her stint at the medical bay could allow her detect life signs normal perception would miss.

"Here!" she called. "There is a faint pulse! Still breathing!"

Bright's foresight focused on the location—a body half-buried under debris, ants beginning to swarm over it.

He moved without thought, blade extending, cutting through ants with mechanical efficiency. Duncan followed, his Bone Guard clearing a path, crushing insects that tried to interfere.

The body was female. Middle-aged. Wearing an officer insignia Bright didn't immediately recognize.

But she was alive.

Barely.

Multiple wounds—They were blade injuries, so it was noted that she'd been attacked by humans before the Crawlers arrived.

"Bessia!" Bright knelt, checking for immediate threats in his spatial awareness while Bessia's came forward to deliver immediate first aid.

He turned the injured woman's face toward a dim lightsource—and then it hit him.

He knew her.

Estovia.

The noble who had hunkered down beside him in the Hollow, fighting for their lives through collapsing corridors and screaming dark, clawing their way out together when escape had felt impossible.

Of all the faces he expected to see bleeding on the cold floor of Vester, hers hadn't been one of them.

For she was strong—stronger than most. Hell, she was never meant to rot away in logistics. She was meant to serve where battles were fought, to live in the teeth of war.

"Estovia Armand," Duncan read from her identification tags. "Lieutenant. Logistics division."

The name triggered recognition.

Kora, positioned at the rear, had heard it before—though she couldn't immediately recall where. Then it clicked. There had been rumors circulating through logistics: audits tightening, supplies being scrutinized, discrepancies between what was reported and what was actually in use. All of it tied back, quietly but unmistakably, to House Crownhold—to Adept Vaelith Crownhold.

That alone was strange. Information like that didn't drift. It was buried, sealed behind ranks and clearance. Yet she had heard it. Which meant it hadn't leaked—it had been released.

Someone wanted it known. Someone wanted people to believe logistics was moving against the adept.

And if one bothered to connect the dots—if one asked who truly benefited from the death of the heir of House Armand—

the answer was obvious.

The girl was an assassination target.

Maybe she had realized that much early on. And if death was already stalking her back, then there was no harm in letting a few more people see the shadow. If she was going to be shot from behind, then at least there would be witnesses—people who could trace the angle, follow the trajectory, and recognize the hand that pulled the trigger.

Better a visible target than a silent disappearance.

"Stabilize her," Bright ordered. "We're getting her out."

"There's a satchel," Kora noticed, retrieving a blood-stained bag from beside Estovia's body. "It's some documentation . Looks like evidence compilations—supply records, witness statements, communication logs—"

"Bring it." Bright's danger sense was screaming about this woman, about the documents, about the implications of finding her here like this. "Whatever she was working on got her targeted. That makes her valuable."

Bessia's healing worked rapidly, sealing the worst wounds, stabilizing vital signs. Not fully healing—that would take hours—but preventing immediate death.

"She'll live," Bessia confirmed. "But she needs proper medical facility. And she's unconscious—won't wake for hours, maybe days."

"Then we carry her." Bright looked at his small group—six Academy candidates, surrounded by ant corpses and human dead, in the middle of three-way battle they barely understood.

But they'd survived this far.

And they'd found something important—someone important—in the chaos.

Estovia Armand. Evidence against Crownhold corruption. Proof that this assault was more than simple Covenant fanaticism.

"We're heading to the medical bay," Bright decided. "Duncan, you carry Estovia. Kora, you've got the documentation. Everyone else, defensive formation. We move now before—"

His spatial foresight registered new movement.

Not ants this time.

Human. Multiple signatures. Coordinated. Professional.

And heading directly toward them with lethal intent.

"Contact incoming!" Bright warned. "There are trained human combatants on our right and they are moving fast."

The hooded figures emerged from darkness, weapons gleaming, faces concealed.

They were assassins, men that killed with ease.

And from their line of work there was no way they would leave a job undone so they came to finish what the ants had interrupted.

At the same time, Bright's small group of Academy candidates stood between them and their target.

-----

Adept Atheon had been with Maren when the alarms rang.

His quarters—their quarters now, since her injury had left her unable to live independently—were in the officer compound, relatively secure, designed to withstand assault.

Maren stirred as the klaxons blared, her remaining arm reaching instinctively for weapons she could no longer properly wield.

"Stay here," Atheon commanded, already moving toward the door, his combat cores blazing to life with practiced ease.

"Like hell," Maren countered, struggling to stand. "If the outpost's under attack, I can still—"

"You're compromised. One arm. Still recovering. You'll die if you engage." Atheon's voice carried absolute authority. "I need you alive. So you stay. Here. Behind defense mechanisms I'm about to activate."

He left the room after assigning someone to channel power through their cores, weaving protective barriers around the quarters—not impenetrable, but resilient enough to deter any casual assault.

"Atheon—"

"Stay." He met her eyes, saw the fury and helplessness there, but also understanding. "I can't fight effectively if I'm worrying about you. Give me that mercy."

Maren's jaw tightened. Then she nodded once, sharply.

Atheon left, sealing the door behind him.

The corridor outside was chaos—soldiers running toward defensive positions, officers shouting orders, the organized frenzy of military response to sudden assault.

"Report!" Atheon bellowed at the first Lieutenant he encountered.

"Multiple breaches, sir! Covenant forces confirmed throughout northeastern and western sectors. Lights are completely out in those spots. Still casualties aremounting. And—" The Lieutenant's expression twisted with something like disbelief. "—Crawler emergence. An ant colony, with massive deployment, attacking indiscriminately."

Atheon's blood ran cold.

Not just Covenant assault. Not just infrastructure sabotage.

Multiple threats simultaneously.

This wasn't random. This was orchestrated.

Someone had arranged this convergence—had fed intelligence to the Covenant, had positioned forces to maximize chaos, had ensured that defensive responses would be fragmented and inadequate.

Vaelith.

The certainty crystallized instantly. No one else had the access, the ruthlessness, the cold political calculation to orchestrate something like this.

But proving it while the outpost burned was impossible.

"Organize response teams!" Atheon ordered. "Priority one: restore lamp infrastructure—we need light. Priority two: contain the Crawler emergence before they establish surface positions. Priority three: eliminate Covenant cells. Move!"

The Lieutenant saluted and ran, already shouting orders into communication mirrors.

Atheon moved through the compound with lethal purpose, his enhancement cores pushing him to Adept-level speed and strength that made him a mobile fortress.

He encountered his first Covenant cell within minutes—five fanatics attempting to breach the medical bay.

They died in seconds. Atheon didn't bother with tactics or finesse. Just overwhelming force applied with surgical precision, crushing skulls and snapping necks with enhanced strength that made the fight grotesquely one-sided.

These agents are inadequate for the chaos they've created. They're diversions. Meat shields.

Which meant the real objectives were elsewhere.

Atheon's tactical mind raced through possibilities. What would this sickos target during their coordinated assault?

"Medical bay!" Atheon shouted at passing soldiers. "Reinforce the medical bay! Protect the wounded and staff! Go!"

Then he ran toward the logistics center, where a large number of people had been working.

Behind him, Vester burned with a three-way violence that threatened to tear the outpost apart.

Covenant fanatics dying by the dozens against trained soldiers.

Ants feeding indiscriminately on any flesh they encountered.

And somewhere in that chaos, Crownhold assassins pursuing political objectives while everyone else fought for survival.

The machinery of orchestrated crisis turned.

And Atheon ran through darkness, hoping he wasn't already too late.

Hoping that someone—anyone—had uncovered the true reason for the mess they were in.

Hoping the fifteen Academy kids he'd seen not long ago were still safe in their quarters, because the violence spreading through the outpost was already too much for even him to bear.

Not knowing that six of them were standing in the logistics center at that very moment, bodies braced and weapons drawn, shielding Estovia's unconscious form—facing Crownhold assassins with nothing but their training and each other.

Not knowing that the selection he'd fought for, the advancement he'd secured, might have just sentenced them to death in the chaos he'd failed to prevent.

The alarm bells rang.

The darkness pressed close.

And Clear Light's Eve continued its transformation from holiday to nightmare.

One casualty at a time.

One failure at a time.

One impossible choice at a time.

Until someone finally stopped the machinery.

Or it consumed them all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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