His jaw tightened as he watched the pulsing markers that represented the other scavenger clans circling their position like sharks that had just caught the scent of blood in the water. The smaller settlements under Mara's protection looked pathetically exposed on the holo-display, particularly Nahren. When she called them vultures, he had to agree—though in his experience, vultures usually waited until their prey was dead before moving in. These bastards weren't nearly that patient.
Blake scanned the map, his [Warden's Insight] layering data across the display. Rax’s old territory had become a battleground, fractured and volatile, with rival factions testing boundaries and searching for cracks to exploit. The Scales of Ma’at, Kālī's Maw, the War Host of Ares—each Aeonic faction cast a long shadow, their presence unmistakable even this far out in the scrap fields. Every clan pushed for control, their moves sharpened by the weight of divine commands driving their ambitions.
“Valentis and Wōden are the only ones playing it slow,” Kitt’s voice echoed in Blake’s thoughts, threading through the same data stream he was analyzing. “Valentis wants to set up a structured hierarchy, playing the long game to position himself as the kingmaker. Wōden? He’s just stirring the pot, enjoying the chaos, probably planning to knife the last one standing.”
Blake gave a low grunt, the kind that meant he agreed. Valentis the Arbiter and Wōden’s Eyes—two faces of control, one methodical, the other twisted for sport. They weren’t the loudest in the fight, but they were the ones shaping it, the quiet architects behind the frenzy.
“We’re nothing,” Mara said flatly, her gaze locked on the flickering symbols marking territories on the map, her hand sweeping toward the scattered markers of their meager holdings. “A patchwork of scraps clinging to shadows. Rax kept them at bay, held the wolves back in his own way.”
“And he bled your people dry doing it,” Blake said, his tone even, sharp. “Don’t romanticize a tyrant and turn him into a hero just because the future scares you.”
Mara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t push back. Blake could see it—she didn’t need to say the words. She’d spent enough years under Rax’s iron rule to understand the price of his so-called "protection." Still, he caught the flicker of fear in her eyes, the kind that came from cold calculation, the kind that knew exactly what happened when the wolves came calling and you had nothing to keep them at bay.
“They’ll come for us,” she said, her voice stripped of emotion, like she was reading an obituary. “It’s just a matter of time. The strong devour the weak. That’s the way it works.”
Blake’s teeth clenched. That kind of talk always crawled under his skin, the resignation, the surrender wrapped up as common sense. He’d spent too many years in the thick of it, too many years watching people give up before the fight even started. He wasn’t about to let it slide.
“Not if you're ready,” he shot back, his tone sharpening like a blade. “You've got good people, you'll figure something out, and you'll stand your ground.”
"You belong here, Blake," Mara said, leaning forward over her makeshift desk. "The council needs your experience."
Blake crossed his arms. "We've done this dance before."
"And we'll keep doing it until you give me a better answer." She pushed aside the holographic display, the map of territories blinking out. "Three clans have asked about our defenses this week alone."
"I've already told you what to do about that."
"What, just 'be ready'? That's not a strategy."
Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Look, I've trained your fighters. I've helped map the defensive positions. I've even set up those early warning systems."
"And none of that matters if you aren't here when they come for us."
There it was. The real issue. Blake sighed and took a step forward from the wall, his boots scraping against the metal floor. The grating sound cut through the silence like a knife.
"Eland's ship is nearly finished."
Mara's face hardened. "I know."
"And you know I can't stay here forever."
"Can't or won't?" Mara's blue eyes flashed. "These people trust you. They look up to you."
"That's their mistake." Blake turned to the window, watching the distant figures moving through Nahren's twisted corridors of salvaged metal. "I'm not staying, Mara. I'm not joining your council. I'm not becoming part of... whatever this is."
"This is survival." She slammed her palm on the desk. "This is people trying to build something that lasts."
"Then build it without me."
Mara stood, her chair scraping back. "So that's it? When Eland's ship lifts off, you just vanish? After everything we've been through?"
Blake turned back to her. "I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"The ship goes up, Eland signals for rescue. Best case, that's still weeks before anyone arrives. I'll be here until then."
Mara's shoulders relaxed slightly. "And you'll help if trouble comes?"
"I said I would, didn't I?" Blake stepped closer to her desk. "But you need to stop looking at me like I'm your salvation. I've seen that look before, and it never ends well for anyone."
"These people—"
"Need to learn how to stand on their own." Blake cut her off. "I can train more warriors. I can show your people how to fight smarter. But I'm not going to be the foundation you build on."
Mara sank back into her chair, her face showing the weight of everything pressing down on her. Blake recognized that expression—he'd seen it on too many faces in too many war zones. The look of someone trying to hold together something that was falling apart.
"You need to have hope, Mara," Blake said, his amber eyes locking onto her powder blues. "Your people are strong, and so are you. So have some goddamned hope."
Mara held his gaze, her expression shifting—just for a second, a glimmer of something that looked like hope breaking through the exhaustion etched into her face. “Hope doesn’t keep us breathing,” she said, the words brittle, lacking the force to carry them. “Staying practical does.”
“Alright, we can work with that,” Blake said, walking back towards the desk. His boots scuffed softly against the floor as he closed the distance between them. With a request to Kitt for access—because no one had figured out how to kick her out of the compound's systems—Blake gestured for the holo-map to open again. “Let’s be practical. Who’s moving fastest? Who’s gunning for us first?”
Kitt’s voice broke through, cold and measured, as the holo-map flared to life. Several icons lit up, their edges pulsing with a sharp, hostile rhythm. “This faction here,” she began, highlighting a cluster closest to their position. “They’re flying the colors of Herne’s Wild Hunt. Closest threat. Interesting group—lots of raiding, not much conquering.”
Blake’s eyes tracked the glowing markers as she continued. “Two larger factions under Ares’ War Host. They’re slower, deliberate. Build their numbers first. They like theatrics—formal battles, grandstanding. Big, loud, and calculated.”
Another cluster lit up, erratic and scattered. “Then there’s Kālī’s Maw,” Kitt said, her tone dipping slightly, like even she found them unsettling. “Pure chaos. No patterns, no rules. They burn everything in their path, including themselves.”
“Herne,” Mara murmured, her tone grim, leaning closer to the map, her finger hovering over their symbol. “They’re always the most direct. They’ll come for what they need—resources, land, blood.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. He leaned closer to the map, patterns clicking into place as he traced the Wild Hunt clan's movements. Their probing attacks, their reconnaissance—it all centered around a specific region. Not the richest salvage grounds, not the most defensible position, but...
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"They're after the crash site," he said, pieces fitting together in his mind. The massive Leviathan wreck where he'd fought the alpha was becoming a focal point for more than just local scavengers.
Blake tapped the blinking marker on the holo-map. "The crash site. You still have people there?"
"Rotations of six warriors, staggered three-day shifts." Mara leaned across her makeshift desk, her shadow cutting through the projection. "Ever since you told us what you found there, we've been using it as a training ground."
"Right, hunting the Ferroghests."
"As you said," A thin smile crossed Mara's face. "It's better our people learn against those scrap-hounds than against rival clans."
Blake folded his arms. "How many confirmed kills?"
"Seventeen in the last month." Pride crept into Mara's voice. "Your training methods work. We've lost no one since implementing your defensive formations."
Blake nodded, studying the terrain around the crash site. The wreckage sat in a shallow valley, what remained of the massive ship half-buried in sand and debris. The area should have been picked clean years ago, but the Ferroghests kept most scavengers at bay.
"Who's stationed there now?"
Mara brought up a secondary display. "Tarn's leading this rotation. He's got Vex, Juno, and three newer fighters."
"Tarn's solid." Blake had trained with the man—steady hands, quick reflexes, better with ranged weapons than most Skaeldrin.
"They reported increased activity their first day." Mara swiped through a data feed. "More Ferroghests than usual."
"That's odd." Blake frowned. "When are they do back?"
"This morning—any moment now, I presume."
"Hrm," Blake hummed noncommittally.
Mara's eyes narrowed. "You think something's wrong."
"I think I have an outstanding quest from Herne that I've been putting off for too long," he responded. Kitt's presence sharpened with interest. She had been pushing for them to revisit the Leviathan for weeks.
Blake pulled up his quest log, scanning through the active entries until he found it.
Quest Received: Mystery Flesh Pit
Faction: Wild Hunt of Herne
Objective: Investigate the corpse of the crashed Leviathan. Find a way into the interior of the grand beast and learn the details of its passing.
Minimum reward: Tier 2 quality enchanted item or equivalent for all participants. Reward scales directly with performance, information gained, and thoroughness of the exploration. Reward is inversely proportional to number of participants.
"That's why they're pushing so hard," he muttered, more to himself than Mara. "They're not claiming territory because they're trying to complete a freaking quest."
Mara looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
Blake ran a hand through his hair, considering how to explain. "I received a quest from The Wild Hunt when I first encountered the Ferroghest den. They wanted information about the corruption spreading through the creatures, making them more aggressive and twisted."
He paused, remembering the brutal fight. "Like I told you, I killed their alpha—that's the entire reason your people are out there hunting the rest of the pack. What I didn't get into was that it had integrated with pieces of the crashed Leviathan somehow."
"After I killed it, The Hunt offered another quest—to explore the Leviathan's interior, find the source of the corruption. I haven't touched it yet, since I wanted to get the measure of my new cultivation. And also to take a break, if I'm honest. I needed to sit with my situation and really process things."
He gestured at the map where the Wild Hunt's forces gathered. "But they're not waiting. They're moving to complete the quest themselves. If we get there first, claim whatever's inside that wreck..."
Kitt caught his reasoning immediately. "Yeah, we'd cut the legs out from under them," she agreed. "Complete the investigation before they arrive, and suddenly they lose their divine backing. Might even be able to turn them to our side if they want to stay in Herne's good graces."
Blake nodded slowly, possibilities unfolding. "Herne cares about the hunt, the pursuit. In this case, that's this mystery. If we solve the it first..."
"We become the successful hunters," Kitt finished. The Wild Hunt's philosophy was ruthlessly straightforward that way.
Mara watched him carefully, reading something in his expression. "You have a plan."
It wasn't quite a question. Blake turned to face her fully, letting her see the certainty in his eyes.
"We're going to beat them to it," he said. "Complete their mission before they even get here. But first, we need to understand exactly what we're dealing with."
He expanded the map's focus on the crash site. At his request, Kitt overlayed data from their initial reconnaissance, and then further stacked on imaging data from the men on site. The Leviathan's massive form was still mostly buried, but thermal imaging showed active power signatures deep within the wreck.
"The corruption isn't random," he realized, studying the heat signatures. "Look at the patrol patterns. They're defending something."
Kitt's presence rippled with excitement. "The quest specifically mentions corruption. What if it's not just affecting the Ferroghests? What if they're... guarding the source?"
Blake's jaw tightened as implications cascaded. "The Leviathan crashed on purpose," he said, remembering their earlier speculation. "It wasn't pulled through a wormhole. It drove itself into the ground. Why would it do that?"
"To contain something," Kitt whispered. "Something that was corrupting it from within."
The pieces slotted together in Blake's mind like a knife sliding home. No accident, that crash. No random corruption plaguing those Ferroghests. And the Wild Hunt, well, by all accounts those bastards only showed up when something worth hunting was afoot. Something that a living starship would rather split itself open on bedrock than let it loose. His gut churned at the implications.
A commotion erupted at the entrance to Mara's command center—boots scraping metal, voices overlapping in urgent tones. Blake turned as the door burst open, revealing a bloodied Skaeldrin warrior propped between two others. His arm hung at an odd angle, makeshift bandages soaked through with rust-colored blood.
"Tarn!" Mara rushed forward, clearing space on her desk with a sweep of her arm. "What happened?"
The warrior coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. "Something's wrong at the crash site. Very wrong."
Blake stepped closer, noting the deep gashes across Tarn's chest plate—not the clean cuts of a blade, but jagged tears through reinforced metal. "Ferroghests?"
"Not like any we've hunted before." Tarn winced as they laid him on the desk. "They've... changed."
"Changed how?" Blake asked, already pulling medical supplies from his pack.
One of Tarn's companions, a young Skaeldrin with fresh scars across her face, spoke up. "Extra limbs. Multiple jaws. Some with metal growing from their flesh like plants."
"We lost Juno," Tarn said, voice hollowing. "Thing tore through her shield like paper. Had eyes all over its body, watching every angle."
Blake exchanged a look with Mara. If he had any doubts about such a thing being unusual, her expression cleared them up.
Blake nodded slightly. "What about the normal ones? The pack we've been hunting?"
"Gone," said the third warrior, a stocky male with cybernetic enhancements around his eyes. "Fled the crater completely. Never seen Ferroghests abandon territory before."
"They're scared," Blake realized. "Whatever's changing their kind, they want no part of it."
Tarn coughed again. "There's more. The ship—the Leviathan crash—it's... active."
"Active how?" Mara demanded.
"Lights. Movement inside. It's… It's hard to explain. Things aren't right the closer you get. Plus, we tried to approach, but those... things... guard it like a shrine. They attacked in waves, driving us back."
"You think something woke up in there?" he asked.
"Or someone," Kitt responded privately.
Mara looked at Blake, her face hardening with determination. "You know what this means."
Blake nodded, already mentally cataloging what gear he'd need. "If the Wild Hunt wants what's inside that wreck, we need to get there first."
"Not just us," Mara said, pulling up her communications array. "I'm calling in every fighter we can spare."
Blake turned his attention back to the map, his eyes tracing the approach vectors and potential defensive setups. The Wild Hunt’s clan was still days out—enough time to dig into the mystery if they acted fast. But moving fast meant taking chances, and whatever they were up against had been enough to push a Leviathan to kiss dirt at terminal velocity.
"Okay…" Blake's mind was already racing ahead, plotting contingencies. "Mara, get your people in position, but keep them back. Way back. If something goes wrong..."
"We'll need a fallback line," Mara finished. She understood containment protocols as well as anyone. When you lived in the scrap fields, quarantine was sometimes the difference between survival and extinction. Korrn had told him a story about a fission engine going critical up north a few decades back—it sounded crazy. Blake was sure Mara had her own stories.
He straightened, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle onto his shoulders. They had a chance here—not just to defend themselves, but to turn a potential enemy into an ally. All they had to do was investigate a cosmic horror that had terrified a living starship into an early grave.
"Well," Kitt said brightly in his mind, "at least it won't be boring."
Blake's lips twitched slightly. "Never is," he thought back. "You ready for this?"
"To poke around inside a crashed Leviathan that probably contains some sort of horrific corruption that drives other Leviathans to suicide?" Her presence fairly buzzed with curiosity. "Absolutely."