Somewhere in vester, a transport worker waved cheerfully to his colleagues as the evening shift ended.

"Good work today, Markus!" called one of the warehouse supervisors, a broad-shouldered woman named Thessa.

"You too, boss!" Markus replied, his smile broad and genuine. "Those supply crates aren't going to move themselves, eh?"

Laughter rippled through the small group gathered near the warehouse entrance. Markus was well-liked—always punctual, always helpful, always ready with a joke or encouraging word during the long shifts of moving supplies, maintaining equipment, and keeping Vester's logistical backbone functioning.

He walked through the evening crowds, nodding to familiar faces. A baker closing her shop. Guards changing watch. Young soldiers hurrying toward the training yards, still chasing those precious Academy slots with desperate determination.

Markus's smile never wavered.

He reached his quarters—a small room in the workers' district, modest but comfortable. The kind of space a reliable transport worker could afford after five years of steady service.

The door closed behind him.

And the smile dropped like a discarded mask.

Markus moved to the small desk in the corner, pulling out a hidden compartment beneath the false bottom of his drawer. Inside lay a journal—coded, careful, documenting months of observation.

Patrol schedules. Supply routes. Defensive weak points. The locations of soul-force lamps and their maintenance cycles. The timing of guard rotations during major events.

Everything the Covenant would need.

Markus—though that wasn't his real name—had been embedded in Vester for eighteen months. Long enough to build trust, establish routines, become invisible through familiarity. Long enough to map the outpost's vulnerabilities with patient, methodical precision.

The Great One's will, he reminded himself, touching the small prayer stone hidden beneath his shirt. The Shroud is divine punishment. The Republic fights against sacred judgment. We serve the true purpose.

It was madness, of course. The kind of fanaticism that made otherwise rational people collaborate with the very darkness trying to destroy humanity. But Markus—or whatever his name had been before the Covenant claimed him—believed with absolute conviction.

Clear Light's Eve was scheduled in two weeks.

The perfect opportunity. Nobles celebrating in the inner districts. Commoners mourning in the outer rings. Defenses stretched thin across Vester's perimeter. And in that chaos, the Covenant would strike.

Coordinated assault. Multiple breach points. Strategic targeting of key infrastructure.

Vester would crumble.

And Markus would finally fulfill his purpose.

He began transcribing his latest observations into the coded journal, his movements practiced and efficient.

Then he heard it—soft, deliberate footsteps in the corridor outside his door.

Footsteps that stopped directly outside his room.

Markus's hand moved instinctively toward the small blade hidden in his boot. His heart rate spiked, but years of discipline kept his breathing steady.

The door didn't open.

Instead, a piece of paper slid underneath—crisp, folded once, utterly silent in its delivery.

Then the footsteps retreated.

Markus waited. Counted to sixty. Then carefully retrieved the paper.

It was a simple message, written in elegant script:

"Your observations are noted. Your dedication is admirable. But your masters should know: their plans are already mine. Continue your work. Report as scheduled. And know that you serve Vaelith Crownhold's purposes now, whether the Covenant realizes it or not. — V.C."

The blood drained from Markus's face.

Vaelith Crownhold.

The Adept. The manipulator. The spider at the center of Vester's political web.

He fucking knows.

Panic surged, but Markus forced it down. His training—both from the transport corps and the Covenant—demanded rational assessment.

If Vaelith knew, why hadn't he been arrested? Why the note instead of soldiers dragging him to interrogation?

Stripping away every other variable, the conclusion crystallized with horrifying clarity: Vaelith—one of Vester's heads—had given tacit approval.

He wanted the attack to happen.

But not for the Covenant's reasons. For his own.

Markus read the note again, his hands trembling slightly.

"Continue your work. Report as scheduled."

An order. Not from the Covenant, but from Vaelith.

It was a sickening realization—that he had been playing the man's game all along. He wondered when the compromise had happened. Had it been that brief moment they spoke months back? Or the moment the adept chose to reveal that he knew Markus's movements?

It felt deliberate. As though the adept wanted resistance. A challenge. Just enough friction to make things interesting.

He won't get that from me, Markus thought.

Markus understood political maneuvering—had watched it from the outside during his time embedded in Vester. Vaelith was positioning himself. Using the planned Covenant assault as a tool for his own advancement.

He'll let us attack, Markus realized. But only where he wants. Only to eliminate his rivals. The damned noble's going to use our fanaticism to kill his enemies and consolidate Crownhold power.

It was brilliant.

It was monstrous.

It was exactly what Markus would expect from someone like Vaelith Crownhold.

The transport worker sat in his small room, staring at the elegant script, understanding that he'd become a pawn in a game far larger than the Covenant's holy mission.

What do I do?

His options were limited. He could flee—but Vaelith's network would find him. He could report to his Covenant handlers—but they'd likely order him to continue anyway, seeing Vaelith's manipulation as just another obstacle to overcome.

Or he could do exactly what Vaelith ordered: continue his work, report as scheduled, and become complicit in whatever sick scheme the Adept was orchestrating.

The Great One's will, Markus thought desperately, clutching his prayer stone.

But the words felt hollow now.

Because he was beginning to suspect that the Great One—if it even existed—cared nothing for pawns like him. And men like Vaelith Crownhold used everyone, even fanatics who thought they served a higher purpose.

Markus burned the note, watching the elegant script curl and blacken in the small lamp flame.

Then he returned to his journal, documenting his observations exactly as before.

Continue your work.

He would obey.

Not because he wanted to.

But because in Vester, in this world of Crawlers and politics and desperate survival, even fanatics discovered they were just pieces on someone else's board.

-----

Vaelith's Office, That Same Evening

Adept Vaelith Crownhold stood by his window, watching the transport district with cold satisfaction.

His network had identified the Covenant infiltrator some months ago. Markus—or whatever his real name was—had been careful. Patient. Almost good enough to remain undetected.

Almost.

But Vaelith's intelligence apparatus was comprehensive. Every worker, every merchant, every healer and smith and stable hand—all monitored, all assessed, all catalogued for potential value or threat.

Markus had triggered subtle warnings. His movements, while routine, followed patterns inconsistent with a genuine transport worker. His questions, though casual, revealed intelligence-gathering methodology. His background, when traced through Vaelith's networks, contained fabricated elements that didn't quite align.

So Vaelith had watched. Documented. And learned.

He had spoken with the wannabe worker succinctly, prying information directly from his mouth as the man babbled on. By the end of it, he was confident the fool wouldn't remember the process of their encounter—only the unease it left behind.

The Covenant was planning an assault on Clear Light's Eve. A coordinated attack designed to overwhelm Vester's defenses during the festival chaos.

Predictable, Vaelith thought. But useful.

He couldn't simply arrest Markus and expose the plot. That would earn gratitude from the masses and have no effect on strengthening his position. It would also waste a perfectly good opportunity.

Instead, Vaelith had done what he did best: taken control.

The Covenant would attack. But they would attack where and when Vaelith directed—through carefully manipulated intelligence fed to Markus, who would dutifully report it to his handlers.

The outer districts would be "accidentally" vulnerable. Patrol schedules would have "overlooked" gaps. Specific defensive positions would be "undermanned" due to "logistical oversights."

And those "vulnerable" positions would just happen to be where his rivals most loyal supporters stationed themselves. Where independent soldiers who might resist Crownhold influence gathered. Where political obstacles to crownhold consolidation of power conveniently assembled.

The Covenant would think they're serving the Great One, Vaelith mused. But they'll be serving me.

It was sick. Monstrous. Using fanatics to murder allies in the fight against the Shroud, all for marginal political advantage.

But Vaelith had never claimed to be a good man.

He claimed to be effective.

And this would be devastatingly effective as it served his means.

After Clear Light's Eve, when the casualties were counted and the damage assessed, questions would be asked. How did the Covenant infiltrate so deeply? Why were defenses inadequate? Who was responsible for the logistical failures?

Some scapegoat, possibly the fist men could take the blame. His independent forces would suffered losses. His authority, already weakened after the disastrous match with Vaelith, would crumble further.

And Vaelith would be positioned as the solution. The careful administrator who'd tried to warn about security gaps. The political realist who understood that sentiment couldn't replace systematic defensive preparation.

Crownhold authority would solidify in the north. The family's influence would expand. And Vaelith's personal power would grow exponentially.

All for the low cost of a few dozen lives, he thought without remorse.

On his desk lay a detailed map of Vester, marked with color-coded annotations. Red indicated where the Covenant would be allowed to breach. Blue showed where defenses would be genuinely strong. Yellow marked evacuation routes for critical personnel.

Ellarine's position was marked in blue. His young relative would be safe—he wasn't completely heartless, and she was valuable.

Lady Veylin's delegation would be warned subtly to avoid specific districts. Rowan Kadesh's forces would be positioned away from the worst fighting—no point antagonizing that particular rival unnecessarily.

But the others? They'd face the brunt of the assault.

Collateral damage in the pursuit of order, Vaelith rationalized. They'd have died fighting Crawlers eventually anyway. This way, their deaths serve a purpose.

He heard footsteps in the corridor—his aide, bringing the evening reports.

Vaelith turned from the window, his expression perfectly neutral, and returned to his desk.

Two weeks until Clear Light's Eve.

Two weeks to refine his plan, position his pieces, ensure that when the Covenant struck, they did so exactly as he required.

The Republic fights the Shroud, Vaelith thought. But within that fight, we also fight each other. That's simply the nature of power.

Some men were obsessed with power and control but he only felt that power in its natural state must be controlled.

He smiled—cold, controlled—and began reviewing the evening reports.

Outside, in the transport district, Markus was probably burning the note right now. Probably wrestling with moral implications. Probably realizing he'd become a tool in someone else's scheme.

Welcome to Vester, Vaelith thought. Where everyone's a pawn until they learn to be players.

And Vaelith Crownhold played the game better than anyone.

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