Servius moved through the twisting pathways of the market, his pace measured, his expression unreadable. The Mire of Trade pulsed around him—voices rising, fading, shifting between hushed murmurs and boisterous exchanges. Deals were being struck, oaths whispered, lives bought and sold in the open air. But none of it mattered to him now.

  He was leaving.

  The realization burned in his mind: his ship was a target. The Mechanists had taken notice, and their silence would not last. Whether they intended to steal it, dismantle it, or claim it for whatever twisted purposes they served, he did not intend to wait and find out.

  His tail flicked absently as he adjusted his coat, keeping his sharp green eyes forward, ignoring the feeling of unseen things watching from the shadows of the market. He had spent his life navigating dangerous places, but Driftmourne was different. It did not need to threaten. It simply waited for its victims to entangle themselves in its web.

  And he had done just that.

  His claws flexed at his side as his mind returned to the coin in his possession—the gift he had taken, the understanding freely given. He had spent enough time dealing with politics to recognize when he had taken a misstep. The coin had weight. Not physical, not financial. A different kind of weight. And the moment it had touched his palm, something had shifted.

  Nothing here was given without expectation.

  The deeper he walked, the more the atmosphere seemed to press against him.

  Subtle. Unseen. Like a breath lingering just at the edge of his senses.

  The daemon he had first encountered at the docking bay had vanished, but others had taken notice in its absence. Figures lurked at the edges of his vision, movements too still, too aware—some watching openly, others feigning distraction. Not threats. Not yet. But the kind of presence that spoke of future intent.

  They were waiting to see what he would do next.

  He reached the outer corridors, where the twisted bulkheads of Driftmourne gave way to the docking bays. The sound of the market dimmed behind him, replaced by the hum of environmental stabilizers, the hiss of leaking pipes, the low, ever-present vibration of the station's power conduits.

  Ahead, the Praedyth rested on its landing struts, sleek and untouched amidst the corroded wreckage that passed for docking infrastructure here. The ship was wrong in a place like this—too intact, too clean, too alive compared to the scavenged husks that surrounded it.

  He slowed as he neared, his ears flicking at the subtle shift in the air.

  Something was different.

  The docking bay had changed.

  It was too empty.

  Before, this section had been filled with drifting figures—voidfarers, traders, the occasional servitor shuffling between vessels. But now?

  Silence.

  Servius exhaled slowly, his tail flicking sharply behind him.

  He did not stop moving. To hesitate now was to show weakness.

  Instead, he stepped onto the docking ramp and ascended smoothly, his claws clicking softly against the metal as the ship’s external sensors came online. The ramp sealed behind him with a low hiss, the outer world cut away in an instant.

  Inside, the Praedyth was quiet. Too quiet.

  Servius took another breath, listening.

  The ship breathed in its own way—its hum distinct, its systems alive in a way that had unsettled him ever since he first claimed it. But now? There was something different in the silence. Not an error. Not an alert.

  Something waiting.

  He moved to the cockpit, seating himself in the command chair as the ship’s systems flickered to life around him. The displays scrolled with passive status updates, data streams pouring in from the external sensors.

  Then he saw it.

  Proximity markers. Motion detected.

  He tapped a command, shifting the feed. The external cameras flickered, showing the docking bay outside.

  They were watching.

  Figures, half-shrouded in the dim station light, lingered at the far edges of the platform—silent, unmoving. Not making an approach. Not leaving. Simply watching.

  Servius narrowed his eyes.

  The Mechanists were patient.

  But patience had limits.

  His claws drummed lightly against the console as he exhaled through his nose.

  This wasn’t just about curiosity. This was planning. Testing.

  They were waiting to see if he would leave. If he would act.

  His tail flicked sharply as he keyed in a ship-wide scan, searching for any sign of tampering. The Praedyth did not trust easily. If something had touched its systems, he would know.

  The results came back.

  No breaches. No forced access attempts. No foreign signals within the hull.

  Servius exhaled slowly. That should have reassured him. It did not.

  Because they hadn’t tried to break in. They hadn’t attempted to disable the ship.

  They were waiting for something.

  His gaze flicked to his belt.

  The coin still rested there, hidden in a secure compartment.

  His claws flexed.

  He had been given a gift. A token. A favor.

  And now, as he sat in his ship, his every instinct whispered the same thing.

  This was not just about the ship. It was about him. About what he had accepted, what he had unknowingly claimed.

  The weight of Driftmourne’s unseen rules had settled onto his shoulders, and now, he had to decide what to do next.

  Servius leaned back in the command chair, exhaling slowly as the Praedyth’s systems hummed around him. The ship was secure. Untouched. Yet that did nothing to ease the weight settling in his chest. His gaze lingered on the external feed, watching the figures that remained at the far edges of the docking bay. They were patient, methodical, just as he had expected. The Mechanists did not move recklessly. They observed, calculated, and struck when the outcome was already determined.

  His tail flicked once against the seat as he shifted his gaze downward, his claws brushing against the pouch at his belt. The coin was still there. Cold, weightless, yet pressing against his thoughts in a way that had nothing to do with its material presence. He clicked his tongue softly in irritation.

  Damn it.

  He had taken it without thinking—without questioning. It had been given freely, a favor without cost, a gesture of understanding. But here, in a place like Driftmourne, in a den where words were sharper than blades, there was no such thing as a favor without consequence. He should have known better.

  He unfastened the pouch and retrieved the coin, rolling it between his fingers. It was as strange as when he had first seen it. Neither metal nor stone, yet both. Its surface shifted subtly in the dim glow of the cockpit, the symbols etched upon it—one a perfect ring, the other a spiral that led the eye deeper than it should—seeming to press against his mind with silent intent. He had seen many relics in his time, scavenged pieces of forgotten ages, artifacts that radiated power or bled corruption, but this?

  This was neither.

  It was recognition.

  His words from earlier echoed in his mind. I don’t believe in free favors. And yet, he had accepted one. The moment he had taken the coin, he had become something. Not just a traveler. Not just another scavenger seeking trade. He had been marked.

  For what?

  That was the part he did not know. And he hated not knowing.

  Servius leaned back in the command chair, his claws tapping lightly against the armrest as he exhaled through his nose. The ship was locked down, its security measures intact, its hull unmarred by outside interference. And yet, despite that fact, he felt no satisfaction. No reassurance. The ship might have been safe for now, but that safety was temporary. The moment he had set foot in Driftmourne, he had become something other than just another traveler.

  The external feed still displayed the market entrance, the distant movements of merchants, scavengers, and creatures of uncertain origin shifting through the hollow veins of the station. But Servius wasn’t watching them. His attention was locked on the six figures that had been watching him.

  Mechanists. Hereteks. The twisted remnants of the Mechanicum’s lost faith. They had not approached yet, had made no move against him, but he could feel the weight of their attention. They had noticed the Praedyth. And that meant they would not remain idle for long.

  His tail flicked sharply, irritation simmering beneath his skin. The ship had always been an enigma—something more than what it should be, something he still did not fully understand. But here, in this place, among them—it had become prey.

  He shifted his gaze downward, his claws brushing against the hidden compartment at his belt. The Coin was still there. Cold. Light. Yet pressing against his thoughts with a weight that had nothing to do with its size. He unfastened the compartment and withdrew it, rolling it between his fingers.

  The surface shifted subtly under the dim glow of the cockpit, its symbols—one a perfect ring, the other a jagged spiral—seeming to shift in depth as his claws traced over them. He had thought little of it when it was first given. A favor freely granted, a gift with no cost. But now, sitting in the eerie silence of his ship, with the Mechanists lurking just beyond, he could see it for what it truly was.

  A mark.

  A weight.

  Not a curse. Not a direct obligation. But something placed upon him without his consent. A designation that had already altered how he was perceived.

  He clicked his tongue softly. Damn it.

  He had accepted it without hesitation. That had been his mistake. It had not asked for his soul, had not bound him with chains, but it had changed something. The Mire of Trade did not operate on wealth alone—it functioned on deals, contracts, favors, and bargains. A place where transactions held meaning beyond coin.

  And this?

  This was currency.

  He could feel it now, the underlying intent woven into its existence. This was no mere token. It was a guarantee, an assurance of payment, something that would allow him to claim anything he wished, no matter the cost—without giving anything in return.

  The perfect trade.

  Too perfect.

  His claws tightened around the Coin. A transaction where you do not pay is not a bargain. It is a trap.

  The air in the cockpit felt heavier. Not physically. Not psychically. But in a way that settled into his mind like an unfinished sentence, an implication of something greater lurking just beyond his understanding.

  And yet, that wasn’t even his biggest problem.

  He set the Coin down on the console before him, exhaling through his nose. No—his most immediate concern was not the Coin, but the ship.

  The Mechanists were not fools. If they had recognized the Praedyth as something beyond standard voidcraft, then they would act accordingly. And that meant they were already moving against him.

  As if in confirmation of his thoughts, the cockpit’s warning sigils flared—a pulse of motion outside. Not at the docking ramp. Not an open approach. Something moving along the exterior hull.

  His ears flicked sharply as his fingers danced over the controls, bringing up the Praedyth’s external surveillance feeds.

  The screen flickered.

  And there—just at the edge of the ship’s dorsal plating—small, spider-like shapes clung to the hull, their augmetic limbs shifting with unnatural precision.

  Servitors.

  No. Not servitors.

  Heretek constructs.

  The Mechanists weren’t waiting. They had already begun.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Servius exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his tail flicking once in annoyance.

  So… That was how this would begin.

  "Praedyth," he said, voice level. "Have you detected anything attempting to access the ship?"

  The response came immediately.

  "Affirmative."

  No hesitation. No warning signals. Just a simple, cold confirmation.

  Servius’s claws drummed once against the armrest of the command chair. "And?"

  "Minor foreign constructs identified. No direct threat to primary systems. Attempted interface unsuccessful."

  Servius exhaled slowly, his tail flicking once more. "So they tried to get in."

  "Correct."

  "And you didn’t deal with them?"

  A pause. Not long, but noticeable.

  "Correction: External anomalies neutralized."

  Servius’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Neutralized how?"

  "Automated defensive measures engaged. Perimeter integrity maintained. No boarding actions permitted."

  His claws flexed slightly against the console. The Praedyth wasn’t just saying that it hadn’t allowed them access—it was saying that it had removed them.

  That should have been a relief. It wasn’t.

  Servius leaned forward slightly, calling up the external camera feeds. The ship’s smooth, unmarked hull filled the display, perfectly intact, its matte black plating blending into the unnatural glow of the station’s void lighting. No scorch marks, no melted remains, no signs of conflict.

  And yet—

  There.

  Faint scraps of twisted metal drifted just beyond the ship’s dorsal plating, caught in the slight gravitic pull of the station. Not wreckage from any nearby craft, nor debris from the station itself.

  Shredded augmetic limbs. Warped, half-melted machinery.

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply. The Praedyth had done something to the Mechanists' constructs—not simply destroyed them, but erased them with surgical efficiency. No lingering damage to its own hull, no wasted firepower.

  They had simply been unmade.

  "Tactical analysis suggests external units were poorly shielded against targeted dissonance pulses," the ship continued. "Residual traces indicate ineffective countermeasures. Intrusion attempt was suboptimal."

  Dissonance pulses. That wasn’t conventional ship-to-ship combat. That was… something else. Some technology that Servius didn’t even have a name for.

  He leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose. "So you just got rid of them."

  "Correct."

  Servius’s claws tapped once against the armrest. The Praedyth had seen the Mechanists' constructs as an inconvenience, not a threat. If it had responded differently—if it had powered weapons, if it had engaged hostiles with direct fire—the entire station might have noticed. But instead, it had simply removed them without anyone seeing.

  No alarms. No alerts. No retaliation.

  That… disturbed him more than if the ship had simply blown them apart.

  The Praedyth was not just capable of defending itself. It was selective about how it did so. It had chosen the quietest, most efficient method—as if it knew that drawing attention was the real danger here.

  Servius exhaled slowly. This ship was still making too many decisions on its own.

  "Are they watching us now?" he asked, his voice flat.

  "Passive scans indicate continued external observation. No immediate actions detected."

  So, they knew their constructs had failed. But they hadn’t moved in force yet.

  Servius rolled his shoulders slightly. That meant he still had time.

  He stood, adjusting his coat as he stepped away from the command chair. The ship had handled the problem for now, but that didn’t mean it was over. The Mechanists were not fools—they would try again, perhaps differently.

  And Servius needed to decide what to do about it.

  The Praedyth was a prize beyond value, that much was obvious now. The Mechanists wouldn’t stop just because they failed once. If anything, this failure would only make them more determined.

  His tail flicked as he walked toward the exit hatch. If the ship wasn’t concerned, then fine. He would deal with the next attempt before it even began.

  Servius let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he approached the docking ramp. His boots clicked against the metal, each step measured, deliberate. He was tired—not physically, not yet, but mentally. This place, this station, its twisting structures and whispering voices—it was all pressing against his mind, demanding constant vigilance.

  And now?

  Now he had to deal with scavengers sniffing around his ship.

  The Praedyth had taken care of the first intrusion, but Servius had no illusions that the Mechanists would stop at a single attempt. If they wanted to pick apart the ship, they would try again. Patience was the luxury of those who had nothing to lose.

  He stepped off the ramp.

  The docking platform was as it had been when he first arrived—dimly lit, the air thick with the faint tang of oil, burnt metal, and something deeper. Further along the platform, past where his ship was anchored, the market corridors stretched into the winding maze of Driftmourne’s depths.

  And just beyond the flickering void-lanterns?

  They were still there. Watching.

  The Mechanists.

  Six of them—some standing, some crouched near the jagged railings, their augmetic forms shifting subtly as they observed from a distance. They were not attempting to hide.

  That was enough.

  Servius exhaled through his nose, adjusting the collar of his coat as he walked straight toward them.

  He didn’t slow nor hesitate.

  One of the Mechanists—a tall figure wrapped in segmented plating, their augmetics sleek yet crude in comparison to the Praedyth’s precision—straightened as he neared. Their optics whirred softly, adjusting focus. The others remained still. Waiting. Measuring.

  Servius stopped just short of them.

  Sharp green eyes flicked over the group—noted the minute shifts in their body language, the way their fingers twitched near concealed tools or weapons. Not openly hostile. But not relaxed, either.

  His tail flicked once.

  "What do you want?"

  No excess words. No preamble. Just the demand.

  The tall Mechanist responded first. Their voice was filtered through a crude vox-synth, giving it an unnatural resonance.

  "We seek understanding."

  Servius’s expression didn’t change. "Understanding of what?"

  A pause. Then:

  "Of the vessel. Of its purpose. Of the machine-spirit that guides it."

  Their tone was not aggressive, not filled with the arrogance of Tech-Priests who viewed others as lesser. It was something else entirely.

  Reverence.

  Servius studied them, his claws flexing slightly at his sides. That was worse.

  A thief could be stopped. A zealot was a problem.

  "You don’t know what it is," he said, voice flat.

  "We know only that it is not Imperial. Not Mechanicum. Not of any design known to the Omnissiah’s lost children."

  The others shifted slightly, their optical lenses flickering. Servius could hear the hunger in their silence.

  "And we wish to learn."

  Servius exhaled through his nose.

  They would not stop.

  Even if they weren’t looking to take the ship by force, they would circle it like starving beasts, waiting for a weakness. Waiting for an opportunity.

  His tail flicked sharply.

  "Understanding’s not going to help you," he said, voice calm but firm. "You don’t know what you’re dealing with. And if you keep pushing, you’re going to find out in the worst possible way."

  Another pause.

  Then the Mechanist inclined their head slightly—not in agreement, but in consideration.

  "Perhaps," they admitted. "But knowledge is worth risk."

  Servius was about to respond—about to shut them down completely—when one of the other Mechanists suddenly moved.

  Too fast. Too eager.

  A smaller, hunched figure in the back suddenly rushed forward, breaking away from the others in an instant. Their augmetic arms twisted, revealing a set of intricate cutting tools—blades meant for precision slicing, for dismantling metal with impossible efficiency.

  And they weren’t coming toward Servius.

  They were going straight for the Praedyth.

  There was no time to react.

  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

  Before the would-be thief’s tools even reached the hull—

  The Praedyth responded.

  A section of plating on the ship’s underside twisted with an unnatural, seamless shift, revealing something hidden beneath the smooth black armor.

  The shot was silent.

  One moment, the Mechanist was there.

  The next?

  A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of distortion, then nothing.

  Where the figure had stood, there was only a blackened scorch mark, the faintest flicker of warping energy fading into the cold air. Not even ash remained.

  The others did not move.

  For a moment, the entire platform seemed frozen, locked in the final echoes of that instant.

  Then Servius exhaled, tilting his head slightly toward the remaining Mechanists.

  His voice was calm.

  "Trying to take my ship by force would probably not go well."

  No one spoke.

  No one needed to.

  The Mechanists had just learned what happened when the Praedyth was inconvenienced.

  And if they were smart?

  They would reconsider just how badly they wanted to "understand" it.

  The silence after the Praedyth’s execution of the eager Mechanist lingered, thick with unspoken weight.

  Servius didn’t move. He simply watched.

  The remaining Mechanists had not fled, though it was clear that every logical part of them wanted to. Their lenses flickered, their augmetic limbs twitched in micro-adjustments—fight-or-flight responses buried beneath the rigidity of cybernetic control.

  They had just learned a lesson.

  And now?

  Now they had a choice.

  Servius’s tail flicked once before stilling. His sharp green eyes settled on the tall one, the one who had spoken before—the one who had not panicked, not rushed forward like a desperate scavenger.

  "You still want to understand?" he said, his voice measured, neutral.

  The Mechanist hesitated for only a second before inclining their head.

  "We do."

  Not I do. We do.

  That was interesting.

  These weren’t just wandering hereteks scavenging for scraps. They were part of something larger. A faction. A structure.

  And they had just burned one of their own trying to get too close.

  Servius crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose. "Then you’re going to have to offer me something. You don’t get anything for free."

  The Mechanist straightened slightly, the slight tension in their stance shifting into something else. Not fear, opportunity.

  "Information," they offered immediately. "On Driftmourne. On the factions that rule it. On those who would seek you out now that you have been… marked."

  Servius’s ears flicked slightly.

  Marked.

  He had already suspected it—the coin had made him more than just another traveler here. But hearing it spoken aloud confirmed what he already knew.

  His own words carried weight in Driftmourne now.

  A double-edged blade, if ever there was one.

  "And beyond information?" he pressed.

  The Mechanist did not hesitate.

  "Supplies. Components. Augmentic resources. We have access to many things, traveler—materials that may prove useful to you. And in return, we ask only for observation. A chance to… study."

  Servius’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. "Study from where?"

  The Mechanist gestured with a single, controlled movement.

  "From a distance. We will not interfere. We will not attempt further... disruptions. We only wish to understand. To observe."

  It was a careful offer. A measured one.

  They knew better than to push.

  Servius considered it.

  They were desperate. That was good.

  They were willing to trade. That was useful.

  He didn’t trust them, of course. They would push their limits eventually. But for now?

  This was leverage. He needed all the leverage he could get.

  His tail flicked once. "Give me the information first. We’ll talk about the rest later."

  A pause.

  Then the Mechanist nodded.

  "Very well."

  They reached into the folds of their robe, pulling forth a small data-slate, its surface patched with wiring that pulsed faintly with arcane circuitry.

  "This will give you the foundation you need to navigate Driftmourne," they said. "It contains records of the primary factions, the unspoken rules, the ones to avoid and the ones that may prove useful."

  They extended it toward him.

  The moment his claws closed around the slate, he felt it—the faint pulse of embedded data shifting into activation, unfolding like a carefully structured archive.

  It would take time to sift through. To determine what was valuable and what was deliberate misdirection.

  But it was a start.

  He slipped the slate into his belt, his gaze lingering on the Mechanists for a moment longer.

  "You try something like that again," he said, voice calm, "and there won’t be enough left of you to scrape off the floor."

  A moment of silence.

  Then the Mechanist inclined their head once more.

  "Understood."

  Servius turned without another word, walking back toward the Praedyth’s waiting ramp.

  As he stepped onto the ship, he could still feel their lenses on his back.

  The doors sealed behind him, and the Praedyth hummed softly—like a beast settling after a meal.