The equipment preparation area was functional rather than grand—a large room filled with weapon racks, armor storage, medical supplies, and quiet spaces for mental preparation.

Bright claimed a bench near the center, beginning systematic check of his fused katana. The blade had served him through Clear Light's Eve, through the convoy journey, through countless smaller encounters. It deserved attention, maintenance,and respect.

Duncan settled nearby, his Bone Guard ability activating partially—defensive reflex that had become automatic, that maintained minimal protection even during rest.

"Sixty," Duncan said quietly, still processing his barely-passing score. "One point above failure."

"But you got that point," Bright replied. "You demonstrated enough knowledge. Proved you're educatable even if your foundation is weaker than those noble-trained candidates."

"Feels wrong," Duncan admitted. "Feels like I shouldn't be here. Like I'm inadequate compared to people who actually understand theoretical frameworks, who can analyze complex political structures, who know the Republic history beyond fragmented survival-focused education."

"You're here because you survived Grim Hollow's fall," Bright said firmly. "Because you held defensive lines while civilians evacuated. Because you demonstrated courage and capability under pressure that most candidates never face. That matters more than test scores. That's why the Academy accepted you despite your educational gaps."

"You think they care about that?" Duncan asked skeptically. "Think they value survival experience over academic excellence?"

"I think they value both," Bright replied. "Think they recognize that exceptional power come from various backgrounds. That outpost survivors bring different strengths than noble scions. That diversity of experience produces a better military leadership than homogeneous elite."

"That's optimistic."

"That's pragmatic," Bright corrected. "Republic needs powers who understand the frontier reality. Who know what survival in the boonies actually requires. Who can command soldiers facing Crawler threats rather than just theorizing about optimal tactics from Central's safety."

Adam joined them, his expression satisfied despite attempting modesty.

"Eighty— what again," Mara observed. "Second highest score. You demolished that examination."

"It played to my strengths," Adam admitted. "Analytical assessment. Information synthesis. Exactly what Enhanced Cognition optimizes for. The questions about Republic policies were harder—required specific knowledge I lack. But Shroud mechanics and tactical theory? That was straightforward application of systematic thinking."

"And you're not worried about combat the assessment?" Duncan asked.

"Terrified," Adam replied honestly. "Written examination was my advantage. Combat assessment is everyone else's. I'm an adequate fighter but I'm not exceptional. You all know where I'm good at."

"Then demonstrate that," Bright suggested. "Show them you're thinking tactically. That you're analyzing opponents and adapting to different strategies. That your contribution in coordination makes up for your deficit in raw combat power."

"Assuming they allow that," Adam said.

"They will," Ellarine said, joining the conversation with characteristic Crownhold confidence. "Academy sorts candidates into specializations. Identifies who's frontline combatant versus who's intelligence operative versus who's tactical coordinator. They won't judge you against Duncan's standard. They'll judge you against what intelligence specialists should demonstrate."

"How do you know that?" Duncan asked.

"Because House Crownhold has sent candidates to Sparkshire for generations," Ellarine replied.

She gestured around the preparation area, indicating various candidates engaged in different activities—some maintaining weapons, others meditating, some conducting last-minute sparring practice.

"See how people prepare differently?" Ellarine observed. "That's because we all know combat assessment evaluates different things for different specializations. Frontline fighters will face direct combat scenarios. Scouts will face reconnaissance challenges. Healers will face crisis medical situations. Intelligence specialists—" She looked at Adam. "—you'll face tactical puzzles. Scenarios where fighting ability matters less than strategic thinking."

"That's… actually reassuring," Adam admitted.

"It's also competitive," Ellarine added. "Because you're being judged against other intelligence specialists. Against candidates with similar build focuses and similar career trajectories. Your eight-seven on written examination? That establishes a high baseline. Combat assessment needs to match that excellence in your specialization."

The weight of expectation settled across the group.

We all have different standards, Bright recognized. Different evaluation criteria based on our demonstrated capabilities and apparent specializations. We're not competing against each other. We're competing against expectations for our respective categories.

"What about you?" Mara asked Ellarine. "What do noble candidates face during combat assessment?"

"Everything," Ellarine replied. "It's not mandatory but for our houses, we're expected to demonstrate competence across all domains. Combat capability, tactical awareness, strategic thinking, political sophistication. House Crownhold doesn't produce specialists. We produce generalists who excel in multiple areas."

"That's harsh," Duncan observed.

"That's the Crownhold philosophy," Ellarine confirmed. "Excellence through comprehensive development. Refusing to accept limitations. Becoming dangerous in every environment rather than just one."

She paused, then added quietly, "It's also exhausting. Constantly measuring yourself against impossible standards. Never feeling adequate because there's always some domain where you could improve. Always some capability you haven't mastered."

That's why she questions house philosophy, Bright understood. *Because pursuing excellence in everything means achieving perfection in nothing.

Silas materialized from the shadows where he'd been observing

He worried about the evaluation—about criteria he couldn't see and judgments he couldn't game—but he knew one thing for certain: his capabilities were not ordinary. Sense Fade paired with speed enhancement made him lethal in the margins, the kind of fighter who ended conflicts before they were recognized. An assassin, even if no one had given it that name yet.

He didn't know how they would classify him. Scout, infiltrator, covert asset—labels were secondary to outcome. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him. Then again, paranoia was practically a prerequisite at this stage. Everyone was wound tight. This was the threshold where lives forked into futures and graves.

Yet there was fire in his eyes as he fed his ambition. He would graduate. He would rise. Elite—within the Republic, maybe beyond it. And gods, maybe one day he'd earn something as indulgent as a holiday to himself. Not Clear Light's Eve though. Never that again.

The clarity was almost comforting.

He didn't dress it up as service to the Republic, or the defense of humanity, or some noble calling. There was no romance in it. Advancement meant safety. Power meant not being prey. Becoming one of the strong wasn't an ideal—it was survival, stripped down to its most honest shape.

Bright, on the other hand, carried ambition of his own—but unlike the others, his reasons for being here were blurred around the edges. He was always ready for a fight, always able to step forward when things turned ugly, yet when he looked inward, the why felt unsettled.

He was beginning to notice a pattern: he fell too easily into the roles he assigned himself.

At the outposts, that instinct had been necessary. Survival demanded cooperation, demanded that everyone shoulder a piece of the burden while crawlers lurked just far enough away to remind you what failure tasted like. Leadership there wasn't a choice—it was a response.

But Sparkshire was different.

Here, he was being set into a new role, one that came with peers instead of dependents. People his age. People who weren't better than him—he'd never believed that—but who carried different scars, different lessons carved by circumstance rather than weakness. The Academy would be the crucible that decided what mattered and what didn't.

Some would burn when the fire was lit.

Bright didn't fear that.

If anything, he welcomed it. He was ready to be broken down, reshaped, and forged again—this time by design, not desperation.

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