The market breathed.

  It was not the measured, rhythmic breath of a structured world, nor the ceaseless hum of an Imperial trade hub. It was something organic in a way that felt wrong—as if the station itself inhaled the transactions, the whispers, the countless exchanges of goods and favors.

  Servius moved through the tangled pathways of the Mire of Trade, his keen eyes flicking over the grotesque variety of vendors and merchants that lurked within its depths. No two stalls were alike—some were built into the rib-like struts of the station itself, others were suspended from the ceiling by chains of blackened iron, swaying gently with the station’s slow, unnatural shifts.

  He could smell it in the air. Oils, burning incense, blood, the acrid tang of unnatural chemicals. The scents clashed, intermingling in ways that made it impossible to tell where one began and another ended. Every step deeper into the Mire carried him into a different atmosphere, a different set of rules.

  This was not an Imperial marketplace. There were no arbitrators, no enforced tariffs, no structure beyond the unspoken agreements that held this place together. Deals here were more than transactions—they were bindings. Promises. A currency as dangerous as any weapon.

  And all around him, they watched.

  Not openly. Not obviously. But he could feel it. Eyes lingered just a moment too long as he passed, merchants pausing mid-barter to glance in his direction before resuming their dealings. Soft voices whispered at the edges of his hearing, too distant to make out but close enough that he knew they were about him.

  He was not blending in.

  The Praedyth had made sure of that.

  A ship like his did not belong here—it was too pristine, too intact. Everything else in this floating graveyard was either stitched together from salvage, worn by time, or altered beyond recognition. His ship was something else entirely.

  And there were those who had noticed.

  Servius kept his pace even, his tail flicking absently behind him. He had no destination yet, no contacts, no real understanding of the factions that ruled this place. That was his first priority. Information. Structure. Knowledge.

  He would not ask outright. Not yet. That would mark him as desperate. Instead, he listened.

  He moved with purpose, keeping near the busiest clusters of trade, letting the background noise of the market swirl around him. Voices cut through the din—bargaining, threats, exchanges of coin and something far less tangible.

  He drifted past a group of twisted voidfarers, their bodies warped by long exposure to the Immaterium, their eyes too black, their fingers too long. Their conversation was hushed, but Servius caught fragments.

  "—not safe to linger. The emissary is looking for fresh claimants—"

  "—three gone in as many days. You think they’ll be replaced so soon?"

  "—it’s a game to them. You know what the Mechanists say. Everything in the Mire has a price—"

  Servius filed the words away.

  The Emissary. The Mechanists.

  He moved past another gathering, this one more boisterous—a squat, four-armed merchant wrapped in tattered silks, bartering with a pair of gaunt figures whose voidsuits were stitched together from half a dozen different uniforms.

  "This one offers only the finest flesh-relics, woven in the tides of the Abyss!" the merchant crooned, his teeth filed into sharp points. "The grip of an Ogryn champion, the tongue of a Navigator, the third heart of a—ah, but you do not care for the details, do you?"

  One of the voidsuit figures tilted their head. Their voice was hollow through their helmet. "We need something functional. Spinal reinforcements. A full nerve graft."

  The merchant tsked. "Ahh, you are seeking stability, not power. A rare thing in a place like this. But rare things… come at a price."

  Servius did not linger. He had heard enough. Augmetics. Biotech. Flesh-trade.

  Driftmourne was not just a trade hub. It seemed to be a place of transformation.

  A place where people were changed.

  He exhaled through his nose and moved on. The stalls and pathways twisted ahead, leading deeper into this Mire’s core. The air felt denser here, the unnatural press of unseen forces growing stronger.

  He needed to find the real power in this place.

  Someone who ruled here.

  Or at the very least, someone who could tell him who did.

  He would not be the one to ask.

  But if he stayed long enough, someone would approach him.

  And he would be ready.

  He was not lost.

  Not in the physical sense, at least.

  The pathways of Driftmourne twisted in unnatural patterns, corridors that should have led in one direction bending another, stalls vanishing only to reappear when his back was turned. The station did not shift in a way that could be explained by logic or architecture—it shifted in intent.

  Something here was alive.

  And it was watching him.

  His claws flexed at his sides, but he did not break pace. To hesitate was to falter, to falter was to be marked as prey.

  And he was no one’s prey.

  Ahead, the market thickened, the air vibrating with the hum of countless voices, all bartering in their own way. Here, in the deeper heart of the Mire, the rules changed. The merchants were no longer the ragged scavengers of the outer markets—these were creatures of power, their stalls wrapped in shifting veils, their wares displayed behind layers of sigils that whispered softly to themselves.

  These were not common traders.

  These were deal-makers.

  And Servius had spent enough time around their kind to know their scent.

  He passed a stall where a veiled figure bartered with a hunched, shivering man wrapped in torn Ecclesiarchy robes. The man’s eyes were hollow, his hands trembling as he reached toward the merchant’s display.

  "Please," the man croaked. "I just need another day. Another—"

  The merchant made a quiet, clicking sound beneath their veil.

  "Time is not given, holy man. It is bought. And your payment has already expired."

  A long, thin hand extended from beneath the veils, two fingers brushing against the man’s forehead.

  His breath caught.

  And then—

  His body withered, collapsing into himself as though the weight of a hundred years had just been poured into his bones. The rags of his robes crumpled to the ground, his form reduced to dry, dust-laden husks.

  The veiled merchant exhaled in satisfaction.

  "Waste not, want not," they murmured, brushing the dust from their fingers.

  Servius did not slow as he passed.

  The air was thicker here, dense with unseen weight. The words spoken in this part of Driftmourne were not mere conversation—they were bindings, each transaction more than just an exchange of goods.

  And that made him pause.

  He had felt it already, in the subtle way that words stuck to the air here.

  The Boon from the Speakers of the Hollow Nexus had altered him—his words carried weight beyond their sound. Contracts, agreements, oaths—what he spoke had meaning beyond the casual tongue.

  And in a place like this?

  That could be dangerous.

  He had to be careful.

  Very careful.

  He continued, his piercing eyes flicking between the stalls, the pathways, the slow-moving figures wrapped in shadow and deception. There was no single governing body here, no obvious ruler of the trade.

  But that did not mean there was no order.

  Someone had to be watching.

  Someone who dictated the way this place functioned, even if they did not openly sit upon a throne.

  And, as if the thought had been heard, a voice slithered through the air behind him.

  "Ahhh… and what fine curiosity have we here?"

  Servius stopped.

  He did not turn immediately. His tail flicked once, his ears pivoting to catch the tone, the weight, the rhythm of the words.

  They were calm.

  Amused.

  But measured.

  Not a fool’s blustering attempt to intimidate, nor a desperate merchant’s attempt to draw him in.

  This was an approach.

  Planned. Controlled. Calculated.

  He turned slowly, letting the moment breathe.

  The figure before him was… difficult to define.

  Tall, but not unnaturally so. Wrapped in layered robes of deep crimson, lined with intricate golden thread that wove patterns his eyes refused to focus on. Their face was covered, a smooth mask of black lacquer, featureless except for a single, vertical slit where the mouth should have been.

  Their hands, gloved in something that was neither cloth nor metal, rested lightly on the staff they carried—a long, twisted thing, its surface engraved with whispering sigils that flickered between states of existence.

  A staff of authority.

  Not a weapon.

  A symbol.

  The figure tilted its head slightly, that empty slit where the mouth should have been parting just enough to let words slip free.

  "A traveler who does not stumble. A stranger who does not question. A hunter who does not yet seek."

  They let the words settle.

  Then:

  "How… interesting."

  Servius met their hidden gaze, his expression unreadable.

  "Who are you?" he asked, voice level.

  The figure made a soft, pleased sound.

  "Ah, but that is not the first question one should ask here," they murmured.

  They tapped the base of their staff against the ground, a faint ripple of something moving through the air around them.

  "Not who, traveler. But what."

  The words carried weight.

  Not a command. Not a demand.

  A test.

  Servius exhaled through his nose.

  He was being drawn into a game.

  And he would not play it without knowing the rules.

  Servius did not react immediately.

  He let the silence settle, the weight of the figure’s words pressing against the space between them like a poised blade.

  Not who, but what.

  That was a deliberate choice.

  A test. A game. A way of measuring him.

  His claws flexed slightly at his sides, his tail flicking once before stilling. He had walked through enough courts of predators to recognize when he was being invited into a dance where the steps were unseen.

  And he had no intention of moving too quickly.

  "What," he echoed, voice neutral. "That depends on who is asking."

  The masked figure tilted its head slightly. Approval? Amusement? It was impossible to tell.

  "A careful answer," they murmured. "Not a refusal. Not an offering. You leave the space open, waiting to see who steps forward to claim it."

  The staff tapped against the ground once more, the sigils along its length shifting, pulsing.

  "Good. You will last longer than most."

  Servius’s sharp green eyes narrowed. Most?

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  The figure made a soft, pleased sound.

  "Ah, now there is a better question."

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  They stepped forward, their movements measured, precise. They did not radiate overt menace—no looming threat, no theatrical display of power—but the space around them felt subtly different.

  Like they were not merely standing there, but were woven into the fabric of the station itself.

  "I am what you might call… an observer," they said. "A keeper of accords. A hand upon the scales. This Mire of Trade does not function without weight and counterbalance, and I ensure that the weights remain… fair."

  "Fair?" Servius’s voice carried the faintest trace of dry amusement.

  "As fair as this place allows," the figure admitted, the slit of their mask parting slightly.

  "You are not from here," they continued. "That much is obvious. Your stride is too measured, your gaze too sharp. You do not move like one who has long settled into the rhythm of the realm."

  They exhaled a slow, thoughtful sound.

  "But that is not what interests me most."

  Servius remained silent.

  He did not ask. He did not bite the hook that had been so deliberately placed.

  The figure let the silence stretch before continuing.

  "You carry something. Not an object, not a possession, but an imprint."

  They gestured faintly toward him with one gloved hand.

  "Your words… they do not fall freely. They settle, they linger. They bind, even when you do not intend them to."

  A slow chuckle.

  "That, dear traveler, is very rare indeed."

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply.

  They knew.

  Not in full, perhaps. But they had noticed.

  The Boon of the Nexus—the way his words carried more than mere intent, the way they wove themselves into reality if he was not careful.

  This was not the kind of place where such a trait could go unnoticed for long.

  "And why does that interest you?" Servius asked evenly.

  The masked figure gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if acknowledging the shift in weight.

  "Because I know what happens to those who wield power they have not yet mastered," they said. "And because, in a place such as this, there will always be those who seek to claim what they do not understand."

  They leaned slightly closer.

  "Tell me, traveler… do you know how valuable you are?"

  The air between them tightened.

  Servius did not move.

  Did not speak.

  His mind weighed the moment—the way the words had been spoken, the deliberate choice of phrase.

  Not who he was. Not what he sought. But what he was worth.

  A subtle warning. A veiled truth.

  He was being measured, even now.

  "I am valuable to myself," he said at last. "That is enough."

  The figure let out a soft laugh, the slit in their mask parting further.

  "Oh, traveler… you are playing this game well."

  A slow shake of the head.

  "But you misunderstand."

  The sigils along their staff pulsed once, sending a faint ripple through the floor.

  "I did not mean valuable as a possession."

  They turned slightly, gesturing toward the Mire of Trade, toward the endless web of shifting stalls and murmured transactions.

  "I meant valuable as a presence. A force. A factor that will tip the scales."

  The weight of the words settled differently this time.

  "Because whether you intend it or not, you will tip them."

  Servius exhaled through his nose, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

  A statement, not a question.

  An inevitability.

  "You assume much," he said quietly.

  "I assume nothing," the figure corrected.

  The slit of their mask shifted slightly, as if they were smiling beneath it.

  "I simply… see the pattern forming."

  A pause.

  "And I think you should see it too."

  They reached into the folds of their robes, withdrawing something small, something wrapped in a thin veil of woven silk.

  "Here," they said, extending it toward him.

  Servius did not move immediately.

  "A gift?" he asked.

  "An understanding," the figure countered. "No cost. No binding."

  They tilted their head slightly.

  "Consider it… a favor, freely given."

  A favor. Given freely. In a place like this.

  Servius’s claws flexed once at his side.

  He reached forward and took it.

  The moment Servius’s claws closed around the veiled object, a subtle shift passed through the air.

  Not a change in temperature.

  Not a psychic tremor.

  Something deeper—a ripple in the unseen threads of this place, a faint shift in the weight of things.

  His grip tightened slightly as he lifted the small bundle, feeling the delicate silk-wrapped shape against his palm. It was light, barely there, yet something about it carried presence. A thing not just of material, but of intent.

  His sharp green eyes flicked to the masked figure, who remained perfectly still, their staff resting against the ground, its sigils pulsing in a slow, measured rhythm.

  "No cost," Servius said evenly, repeating the words they had spoken.

  "No binding," the figure confirmed.

  A gift. An understanding.

  He did not like gifts.

  Especially here.

  But he had already taken it.

  And whether he wished it or not, that meant something.

  Carefully, he peeled away the thin silk, revealing the object within.

  It was a small, round coin, unlike any currency he had ever seen.

  Not metal. Not stone. Something in between.

  Its surface was smooth yet textured, shifting under the dim, flickering lights of the market. As he turned it between his fingers, the edges seemed to blur, as if it could not decide what shape it wished to hold.

  And on either side, there were markings—not words, not numbers, but symbols.

  One side bore a simple, unbroken ring, inscribed with minute, curling patterns like veins of silver in obsidian. The other was a jagged spiral, its shape pressing against the eye in a way that made it seem deeper than it was, as if it led somewhere.

  "What is this?" Servius asked, voice flat.

  The figure tilted their head slightly.

  "A key," they said. "A wager. A name, if one knows how to listen."

  Their masked face remained unreadable.

  "It is recognition, traveler. Here, in the Mire, those without weight are devoured. Those with weight… shape the game."

  Servius’s tail flicked once.

  "And this gives me weight?"

  A slow exhale, a sound like the whisper of wind through dead trees.

  "No," the figure murmured. "You already had weight. This simply… confirms it."

  His fingers tightened around the coin.

  Another test. Another game.

  And yet—

  He could feel the truth in their words.

  This object was not meaningless. It was not some trick or valueless trinket.

  It carried something.

  And he had already accepted it.

  He exhaled through his nose, rolling the coin once more between his fingers before slipping it into a small compartment at his belt.

  "I don’t believe in free favors," he muttered.

  The figure laughed—a quiet, knowing sound.

  "Then perhaps one day, you will return the gesture."

  They turned slightly, their robes shifting like smoke.

  "For now, consider it a token of… understanding."

  A pause.

  "You are not the only one interested in your place in the game, Servius."

  His ears flicked.

  They knew his name.

  He had never spoken it.

  The figure took a slow step backward, the sigils along their staff dimming as they faded into the market crowd.

  Gone.

  Vanished as if they had never been there.

  Servius stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of the encounter settle in his mind.

  He had gained something.

  But whether it was a boon or a trap, he had yet to decide.

  Exhaling sharply, he turned away from where the figure had disappeared, his sharp green eyes scanning the Mire of Trade once more.

  He still had work to do.

  The first step was finding information.

  And the first obstacle would be deciding who to take it from.

  Servius did not linger.

  The masked figure had vanished, slipping into the labyrinth as if they had never been there, but the weight of their words remained. He could still feel the coin at his belt—a thing of no immediate substance, yet carrying a significance he had not yet deciphered.

  He moved, weaving through the pathways with calculated ease, his green eyes scanning for anything that might give him a clearer picture of what he had stepped into. He still needed information. The right questions, asked in the wrong way, could end him as surely as a blade.

  But before he could decide where to begin, he felt it.

  A shift in the air.

  It was subtle, but it was there—the faintest ripple in the press of bodies, a change in movement just beyond his periphery. The Mire was restless. Or rather, it had become restless around him.

  Someone had taken notice.

  He slowed his pace, allowing the shift to unfold naturally. The flow of the market had changed—small things, barely perceptible. A merchant’s eyes flicking toward him, then immediately away. A figure in tattered void-gear adjusting their course, stepping just a little too close before veering away again. Not a direct approach. Not yet.

  They were watching. Measuring. Waiting for something.

  The coin.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose, his tail flicking once behind him. Whatever the masked figure had given him, it was not just some idle trinket. It had weight. And weight, here, meant it was something others could see.

  Tch. Damn it.

  He hadn’t been marked before. Not like this. He had been an anomaly, an unknown, someone who stood out because of his ship, his movements, the way he carried himself. That was expected. That was manageable.

  This was different. This was something deliberate.

  And then, as if on cue, someone moved toward him.

  A figure in flowing dark robes, their face obscured by the hood of a rusted respirator, stepped from the crowd with measured intent. Their gait was slow, but not uncertain. Calculated. They were not afraid of being seen.

  Servius did not halt, but he did shift—adjusting his stride just slightly, bringing his weight to bear in a way that would allow him to pivot, to strike if necessary.

  The robed figure stopped an arm’s length from him. Not close enough to threaten, but close enough to speak without being overheard.

  “Curious.” The voice was mechanical, filtered through a vocal modulator warped with age. “You do not yet know what you have accepted, do you?”

  Servius’s eyes narrowed slightly. Ah. So they knew.

  He said nothing, letting the moment stretch, his sharp gaze flicking over the figure’s attire. The robes were old, faded from what might have once been deep crimson. The machine-cloth bore the subtle weaves of Mechanicum lineage, but they had long since been altered—patched with layers of unknown circuitry, reinforced with strands of filament that pulsed faintly beneath the fabric.

  Not an ordinary Tech-Priest. A heretek.

  “Tell me, traveler,” the robed figure continued, tilting their head slightly. “Do you even know what it means to carry such a token?”

  Servius clicked his tongue against his teeth. He would not be drawn into an obvious game. “You seem eager to enlighten me.”

  A soft chuckle, metallic and hollow. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Knowledge, after all, is always a transaction.”

  There it was.

  A test. A measure. A baited hook.

  Servius didn’t move, but his stance remained taut, controlled. He could hear the murmuring voices around him, the slow churn of the market continuing—but now, it felt further away. Like the space between himself and the figure had shifted into something isolated.

  Not physically. Socially.

  The Mire had seen this moment and acknowledged it. It had formed a bubble around them. Not a literal one, but a pause in the endless transactions.

  A waiting.

  Others wanted to see how this would unfold.

  “Say what you came to say,” Servius muttered, his voice level.

  The robed figure’s mask shifted slightly, the faintest motion of amusement.

  “The coin you accepted—it is not a gift,” they said. “It is an invitation.”

  Servius’s tail flicked. He had expected something like that. But an invitation to what?

  “You have been marked as something of interest,” the figure continued, “and not just by idle scavengers and opportunists. You carry weight now, traveler. A weight that certain parties will wish to… redistribute.”

  That caught his attention. Not steal. Redistribute.

  Servius’s claws flexed slightly at his sides. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  The heretek exhaled, the sound rasping through their vocal modulator. “I suggest you ask the ones already moving against you.”

  A pause.

  Then, deliberately, they turned their head—just enough to indicate something behind him.

  Servius did not spin. Did not immediately look. Instead, he exhaled slowly, shifting his weight as though adjusting his stance. Just enough to glimpse what had changed.

  At the far end of the market, just at the edge of his vision, a group had gathered.

  Six figures. Silent. Watching. Mechanists.

  They bore the unmistakable emblems of the old Mechanicum, altered and defaced with heretical engravings—sigils repurposed, doctrine rewritten. Their robes were layered with augmetics, some shifting, some clicking with concealed motion.

  They were not merchants.

  And they were not watching him.

  Not directly.

  They were watching the display screens.

  Servius’s ears flicked slightly, his sharp eyes following their gaze. The market had many such screens—grainy, flickering pict-feeds from the docking bays, relaying the endless traffic of ships arriving and departing. Some showed the interior of the Mire, highlighting areas of high trade activity. Others were focused entirely on incoming vessels.

  On one of them, the Praedyth was displayed in crisp, unnatural clarity.

  It was being observed from multiple angles, the grainy pict-feeds stitched together by unknown systems, enhancing details that no ordinary auspex should have been able to perceive. The hull’s composition, the way it had landed, the way it had reacted to Driftmourne’s docking tethers—it was all being analyzed.

  One of the Mechanists tilted their head slightly, the red glow of an optical augmetic sharpening as they examined the screen. A metallic limb, something too thin to be an arm and lined with precision-tool attachments, twitched at their side.

  They weren’t just watching.

  They were calculating.

  Servius’s claws flexed once at his side. Tch. Damn it.

  He turned back to the heretek. They had not moved. Had not spoken. Had simply given him the warning.

  Another test? Another game?

  It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was that his ship was already a target.

  And now?

  He had to decide what to do about it.