Chapter 116: Chapter 116— Adept Distress

Deep in Vester’s infrastructure, Adept Rowan Kadesh and the Covenant Adept Tertius fought the ant queen with coordinated desperation.

Their temporary alliance was holding—barely—maintained only by the simple fact that the queen would kill them both if they didn’t cooperate.

Rowan’s Titanic Strength let him match the queen’s physical power, his blade carving deep wounds into her chitin plating. But she was fast for something so massive, her mandibles snapping with speed that required Adept-level reflexes to evade.

Tertius fought with religious fury channeled into tactical precision, his own enhancement cores pushing him to capabilities that rivaled Rowan’s. His strikes targeted the queen’s legs, trying to cripple mobility, while Rowan focused on her head and thorax.

The queen’s soldier ants swarmed both Adepts, creating constant interference. Rowan would line up a killing blow, only to have three ants force him to defend instead of attack. Tertius would gain advantageous positioning, only to be driven back by mandibles that could crush stone.

“This isn’t working!” Rowan shouted across the queen’s body. “We need better coordination!”

“I don’t take orders from Republic—” Tertius started.

The queen’s tail—previously thought to be just a sensory organ—suddenly revealed a stinger, striking at Tertius with venomous intent.

The Covenant Adept barely dodged, the stinger scraping his ribs, venom hissing as it contacted his armor.

“Fine! Coordination!” Tertius conceded. “What’s your plan?”

“A Simultaneous strike! You take her left mandible, I take the right! On my mark!”

“You expect me to trust—”

“I expect you to want to survive!” Rowan carved through two soldier ants, pressed closer to the queen. “Mark in three! Two! One! Now!”

They struck together—two Adepts with opposing ideologies and mutual hatred, united for a single devastating moment.

Tertius’s blade sheared through the queen’s left mandible, severing it completely. Rowan’s simultaneous strike crushed the right mandible, shattering the structure that made her primary weapons functional.

The queen screamed—a sound like metal tearing, like reality itself protesting the injury.

Her pheromones flooded the colony network with new commands: PROTECT QUEEN. KILL THREATS. SACRIFICE ALL.

The remaining soldier ants surged forward in a suicidal assault, abandoning any tactical sense, just trying to overwhelm the Adepts through sheer mass.

“She’s vulnerable!” Rowan saw the opening. “Center mass strike while she’s—”

Tertius moved first—not toward the queen, but toward Rowan.

His blade flashed out, aiming for Rowan’s exposed back, trying to exploit the moment of victory to eliminate his temporary ally.

Fanatic couldn’t help himself, Rowan thought with bitter satisfaction.

Because he’d predicted exactly this betrayal. Had positioned himself specifically to make Tertius think he had opening.

Rowan’s counter was already in motion before Tertius committed fully to the strike.

He pivoted, caught Tertius’s blade on his own, redirected the momentum, and drove his follow-through into the Covenant Adept’s chest.

Not a killing blow—Tertius’s own defensive cores prevented that—but deep enough to compromise his combat capability.

“Predictable,” Rowan said coldly.

Then the queen’s stinger found them both.

She’d been waiting. Learning. Understanding that her opponents were divided by more than just her presence.

The stinger pierced Tertius’s back, injected venom that made him convulse. Then swung toward Rowan, caught him in the shoulder, pumped toxins into his system.

Both Adepts staggered, their temporary cooperation collapsing exactly as the queen had waited for.

She advanced on them with her remaining weapons—legs that could crush, tail that could poison, sheer mass that could pulverize.

And Rowan, vision already blurring from venom, made a desperate calculation.

Can’t beat her alone. Can’t trust the fanatic. Can’t retreat without letting the colony establish a more permanent surface presence.

Only one option.

He activated his emergency beacon—a soul-force signal that would bring every Adept in Vester to his position.

Atheon would come. Vaelith would come. Anyone with Adept-level capability would respond to that signal.

—-

At the medical center,

Silas stood in the medical bay’s shadows, his Sense Fade making him forgettable even to allies who knew he was there, and watched the political theater unfold with growing bewilderment.

Estovia Armand lay on a medical cot, receiving treatment for wounds that had nearly killed her. Her documentation—the evidence she’d nearly died protecting—sat under guard nearby. Around her, Academy candidates positioned themselves protectively, Atheon radiated controlled fury, and Vaelith maintained his mask of concerned authority.

Everyone knows, Silas thought with bitter clarity. Everyone in this room knows exactly what happened.

Vaelith orchestrated the assassination attempt. His hooded operatives were the ones who’d tried to kill Estovia. The targeting was deliberate, coordinated, designed to eliminate his political opposition under the cover of a Covenant assault.

Everyone knows this.

Atheon knew. The Academy candidates knew. Even Vaelith’s own operatives knew they’d been hunting Estovia specifically.

And Estovia herself—bleeding on a medical cot, clutching evidence she’d risked everything to compile—she definitely knew.

So what was the point?

Why had she spent months gathering documentation of corruption that everyone already recognized? Why risk her life compiling proof of supply diversions and manipulation that soldiers discussed openly in barracks?

Maybe she got hit in the head too much, Silas mused darkly. Maybe all that logistics work finally broke something in her brain.

Because from Silas’s perspective, Estovia’s crusade was profoundly misguided.

She acted like exposing Vaelith’s corruption would matter. Like sending evidence to the Senate would result in justice, accountability, meaningful change.

But Silas had learned different lessons during his time in Vester.

Power protected power. Always had. Always would.

Vaelith was an Adept. Was Crownhold nobility. Had connections to Senate members and House interests that ran deeper than any individual’s evidence could challenge.

Even if Estovia’s documentation reached Central, even if it was reviewed by uncorrupted officials, even if it proved a systematic wrongdoing—what then?

A reprimand? A political censure that meant nothing?

Or more likely, Silas thought cynically, the evidence gets buried, Estovia gets quietly eliminated later, and everything continues exactly as before.

Because that’s how systems worked. They protected their own. Especially when “their own” held Adept-level power and a noble House backing.

She’s going to die for nothing, Silas concluded. She’s going to sacrifice herself for principles that don’t translate to actual change. And everyone in this room knows it except her.

Maybe it was guilt driving her. Maybe surviving while others died had convinced her that doing something—even something futile—was better than complicit silence.

Silas understood that impulse. He’d felt it himself during particularly dark moments, when his powerlessness made him question whether he existed at all.

But understanding didn’t mean agreeing.

Some battles aren’t worth fighting, Silas thought. Some injustices are too systemic to oppose. Some corruption is so deeply embedded that exposing it just gets you killed without changing anything.

Estovia was learning that lesson the hard way.

And Silas—watching from shadows, largely forgotten by everyone except Bright’s spatial foresight—couldn’t decide whether her determination was admirable or just another form of stupidity.

Maybe both, he decided. Maybe they’re the same thing in places like Vester.

Then the signal flared—a soul-force induced emergency beacon, blazing with an Adept-level urgency, carrying Rowan Kadesh’s signature.

Everyone in the medical bay felt it. Impossible to miss. The spiritual equivalent of someone screaming for help at maximum volume.

—–

Adept Vaelith Crownhold felt Rowan’s emergency signal and processed the implications faster than conscious thought.

Hmmm… an emergency beacon. An Adept-level distress and it’s Rowan specifically.

His first instinct was relief. If Rowan was injured or dying, that removed one of the primary obstacles to Crownhold consolidation in the north. The Kadesh vassal had been annoyingly resistant to Vaelith’s political maneuvering, had maintained frustrating independence despite House affiliations.

Good riddance, part of Vaelith thought.

But another part—the mathematical calculator that had kept him alive and powerful for decades—recognized complications.

Rowan was still a Republic Adept. Was still technically an ally in the fight against the Shroud. His death would require investigation, would raise questions about why he’d been fighting alone, why reinforcements hadn’t arrived faster.

Questions that might turn uncomfortable attention toward who’d been coordinating defensive responses tonight.

And if Rowan’s injured but not dead, Vaelith calculated, he might provide testimony about tonight’s assault that complicates my narrative.

Across the medical bay, Atheon was already moving toward the exit, his expression grim.

“Adept Rowan’s in trouble,” Atheon stated. “We need to respond. Now.”

Vaelith maintained his concerned mask. “Agreed. Though we should assess the situation carefully—the emergency beacons could be traps from our adversaries.”

“That’s why we bring an overwhelming force.” Atheon looked at Vaelith directly, challenge implicit in his gaze. “Both of us. Two Adepts responding ensures we can handle whatever threatened Rowan.”

It was an open handed trap, Vaelith recognized immediately. Atheon was forcing him to choose: respond to Rowan’s distress and risk encountering situations that exposed tonight’s orchestration, or refuse to respond and reveal suspicious priorities.

“Of course,” Vaelith said smoothly. “We leave immediately. My operatives will secure the medical bay in our absence.”

Translation: My assassins will remain positioned near Estovia, ready to complete their mission if opportunity presents.

“This kids will remain under the medical bay protection,” Atheon ordered, addressing Bright’s group. “You’ve done enough. Let Adepts handle Adept-level threats.”

“Yes, sir,” Bright acknowledged, though his danger sense was clearly still active, still screaming warnings about everything around him.

Vaelith and Atheon departed together, moving through Vester’s corridors with enhanced speed that made them blur to normal observation.

Behind them, the medical bay’s tension remained thick enough to taste.

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