News of the twenty-three deaths moved through the Republic with merciless efficiency.
Academy notices reached families before rumors did with official seals, clinical language and precise timestamps. There was no space for disbelief to breathe before grief arrived behind it.
Names began circulating through noble houses, trade districts, and frontier estates. Anger followed. Then silence.
On a modest estate along the Republic's eastern frontier, Gregor's father read the notification twice before the words settled into something real.
His hands shook. Not violently — just enough to make the parchment whisper.
Combat casualty.
Academy deployment.
Body to be returned for burial.
For years, he had worn the stillness of a professional servant like armor. Now it cracked without sound.
My son.
He lowered himself into a chair he did not remember sitting in.
I sent him there to climb higher than I ever could. To trade livery for a uniform. To be more than a butler's son.
