Soulforged: The Fusion Talent

The Hooded Killers

Estovia Armand worked in her office despite the celebrations, reviewing the final documentation that would prove the adept, Vaelith's corruption. Months of careful investigation, witness testimony from soldiers he'd manipulated, supply chain records showing illegal diversions—it was all here, organized, ready to send to the Senate.

She just needed to survive long enough to transmit it.

The alarm bells made her heart sink.

Now? Tonight?

It couldn't be coincidence. She was acting under the assumption that Vaelith was already aware of her investigation. Despite every precaution she'd taken, he must have known.

Now, with Clear Light's Eve descending into chaos, it felt like a race—whoever reached their conclusion first would decide the outcome.

Vaelith was moving. Of that, she was certain.

What she couldn't tell was where she ranked on the sadistic man's list of intended casualties.

She grabbed the documentation, began stuffing it into a satchel. If she could reach the communication hub, could transmit to the Senate before—

Her door exploded inward.

Six figures in dark hoods poured into the office, weapons gleaming, faces concealed. But their movements were too coordinated, too professional for common Covenant fanatics.

These were assassins.

Estovia's hand found the blade at her belt. She wasn't built for close-quarters fighting—she was a caster, not a brawler. If demolition was required, an Armand was second to none.

She was a soldier at heart, even if her commission placed her in logistics, and she'd maintained the bare minimum of combat readiness.

Still, six against one in tight quarters meant the same thing regardless of training.

She had seconds to live.

"The silver tongue sends his regards," the lead assassin said, voice distorted by a weird looking mask.

Then the office erupted in violence.

Estovia fought desperately, managed to wound one attacker, scorching his face, but sheer numbers overwhelmed her. A blade found her shoulder. Another her leg. She collapsed, blood spreading across documentation she'd spent months gathering.

The assassins moved to finish her—

—and the office window shattered.

Something massive crashed through, mandibles clicking, chitin plating gleaming with Shroud-corruption.

An ant. A soldier-class Crawler ant, ten feet long, emerging from darkness with insectoid fury.

The assassins turned, shocked by the unexpected threat. The ant's mandibles caught one immediately, shearing through his torso with horrifying ease.

Then more ants poured through the broken window. Through the doorway. Through cracks in the walls that suddenly revealed themselves as carefully excavated weak points.

The colony had emerged.

And they didn't discriminate between Covenant fanatics, Crownhold assassins, or Republic soldiers.

They just fed.

The hooded figures fought desperately against creatures they hadn't expected, hadn't prepared for. Two more died before the remaining three fled, abandoning their mission to escape the ant swarm.

Estovia lay bleeding, watching ants flood her office with detached numbness.

The documentation, she thought weakly. Have to protect—

But her vision was already darkening, blood loss dragging her toward unconsciousness.

The last thing she saw was an ant's mandibles reaching toward her—and then someone's hand grabbing her collar, dragging her away from the feeding frenzy, pulling her toward safety through corridors already filling with screams.

——

Elsewhere,

Rolf sat in the corner of The Last Light, the same bar where Grent and Vix had been thrown out hours earlier. His third—or was it fourth?—mug of ale sat half-empty before him, the weak alcohol doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of resentment cutting through his chest.

Twenty-four years old.

One year past the Academy age limit.

One fucking year.

Around him, Clear Light's Eve celebrations continued with hollow enthusiasm. Soldiers drank and laughed, pretending the holiday meant something. Pretending any of this mattered.

But for Rolf, the celebrations felt like mockery.

Bright, Duncan, and Mara—his squadmates, the people he'd fought beside, bled beside, survived impossible odds beside—they were leaving. Academy-bound. Selected. Chosen.

And he was being left behind.

He'd proven himself in dozens of Trial matches, had a solid record, had capabilities that should have earned consideration.

But the mathematics were simple and brutal: twenty-three and below. The cutoff was arbitrary, absolute, and it had excluded him by the thinnest possible margin.

One year, Rolf thought bitterly, draining his mug and signaling for another. If I'd been born one year later, maybe I'd be going with them or at least I'd have a chance. One year is the difference between moving forward and rotting in this outpost until something kills me, what shitty luck.

"Easy on that," Baggen said, sliding onto the bench beside him. The big man looked concerned—not judgmental, just worried in the way old squadmates worried about each other. "You've been drinking since midday. That's your fourth mug and the celebrations haven't even peaked yet."

"I'm fine," Rolf muttered, though his words were already slurring slightly.

"You're not fine. You're bitter and hurt and trying to drown it in weak ale that won't even get you properly drunk." Baggen's hand landed on Rolf's shoulder—heavy, grounding. "I get it. My old ass ain't seeing no academy either. But drinking yourself stupid won't change the way things are."

"At least you're old enough, you probably don't feel the sting of being so close." Rolf's voice carried acid. "I'm done. Once in a lifetime opportunity, and I missed it by one fucking year. There's no 'try again' for me. This is it. Vester until I die."

"Then make peace with it."

"How?" Rolf looked at Baggen with genuine desperation. "How do I make peace with watching the youngins leave while I stay behind? With spending the next decade watching younger soldiers advance past me because they had better timing?"

Baggen didn't have an answer. Because there wasn't a good one.

"Drink slower," he said finally. "Pace yourself. The night's going to get long, and you want to be functional when it does."

But Rolf wasn't listening. He'd already signaled for his fifth mug, his mind spiraling deeper into resentment and self-pity.

They're leaving. I'm staying. Nothing I did mattered. All the training, all the fighting, all the survival—none of it mattered because I was born one year too early.

The injustice of it burned hotter than any fireball he could conjure.

-----

Vaelith's Satisfaction Shattered

"The team sent to take care of the Armand has been deployed successfully," Vaelith's aide reported. "The mission is in progress."

Vaelith nodded, watching reports flow through his mirrors. The Covenant assault was proceeding perfectly. Many Independent nobles were dying on schedule. His enemies being eliminated under cover of the coordinated chaos he orchestrated.

Everything was going according to plan.

Then: "Sir—there's been an unexpected development. We're receiving reports of massive Crawler emergence. An ant colony with soldier-class variants and there has been multiple breach points throughout the outpost—"

Vaelith's satisfaction fractured.

"What?"

"The ants, sir! I think there was a statement on the matter made by the Crimson Fang, it was reported days ago—unfortunately, they're emerging now, during the assault! Hundreds of them, coordinating with—no, not coordinating, just attacking everything indiscriminately—"

This wasn't planned. Wasn't part of his orchestration.

This was a third player—one with no agenda, no politics, no reason to be here except hunger and expansion.

Pure chaos. Uncontrolled. Unpredictable.

"Casualties?" Vaelith demanded.

"Mounting, sir. Both Covenant and Republic forces. The ants don't distinguish—they're attacking anyone they encounter. Several of our hooded operatives have gone silent. Estovia's assassination team—last report said they encountered ants and had to abort their mission—"

Vaelith's mind raced. This changed everything. The careful control he'd maintained, the precise casualties he'd orchestrated—all of it disrupted by creatures that operated on pure instinct rather than political calculation.

"Redeploy forces," he ordered, making rapid adjustments. "Priority is now containing the ant emergence. The Covenant assault is secondary—let them serve as meat shields against the Crawlers. Our people will pull back to defensive positions, let the fanatics and ants destroy each other."

"And the Armand?"

"Unknown. If the ants killed her, problem solved. If not—" Vaelith's jaw tightened. "—we'll deal with her later. Right now, survival takes priority over politics."

He moved to his window, looking out at Vester dissolving into three-way chaos.

Covenant forces fighting Republic soldiers.

Ants attacking both sides indiscriminately.

And somewhere in that maelstrom, his carefully orchestrated plan spiraling into something far more dangerous and uncontrolled.

No, Vaelith thought with cold determination. I can still salvage this. Chaos serves my purposes as well as controlled violence. Perhaps better—harder to trace my involvement when everyone's fighting for survival.

But for the first time in years, Adept Vaelith Crownhold felt something uncomfortably close to fear.

Because he'd planned for human threats.

He'd orchestrated political violence.

He'd controlled the variables.

But now, an ancient hunger had emerged from the depths—something that didn't care about politics, didn't respond to manipulation, couldn't be predicted or contained through clever planning.

Something that just fed.

And in that feeding, all his careful schemes threatened to collapse into meaningless carnage.

The machinery of crisis turned.

Three players now instead of two.

Covenant fanatics seeking divine purpose.

Crownhold assassins pursuing political elimination.

And beneath it all, the ant colony queen pulsing simple commands to her swarm:

FEED. EXPAND. CLAIM.

Clear Light's Eve had become exactly what Deren and Koss had insisted it wouldn't be.

A nightmare.

And the celebrations—the drinking, the feasting, the hollow joy—all of it dissolved into screams as Vester learned the oldest lesson of all.

That no holiday, no amount of ceremony, no celebration of light could hold back the darkness when it finally decided to come.

The alarm bells rang.

The lamps died.

And in the spreading chaos, three forces converged toward collision that would determine whether Vester survived the night.

Or became a cautionary tale about the cost of complacency.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​