The data-slate rested on the Praedyth’s console, its screen flickering with silent potential. Servius sat before it, arms folded, his eyes scanning the scrolling text as the ship’s systems carefully dissected the archive.

  He had learned long ago that knowing where you stood was just as important as knowing how to fight. And here, in the depths of Driftmourne, surrounded by forces he did not yet fully understand, that knowledge was more valuable than any weapon.

  The station and the expanse beyond it—Varrn’s Shroud—were not lawless.

  They had structure. A system. A balance, however twisted, had formed within these depths.

  And now, thanks to the Mechanists, he had a map of that structure.

  Driftmourne was not a single station, but a corpse of many.

  The Mechanists’ files described it as a composite of wreckage, a monstrosity cobbled together from ruined void stations, dead warships, and remnants of shattered worlds long since claimed by the Warp. A place that should have collapsed under its own weight centuries ago, yet somehow still thrived.

  The core of Driftmourne was the remains of an ancient orbital city, the bones of which had long since been twisted beyond recognition. Its central spire still jutted from the mass of broken metal like a rusted dagger, surrounded by countless parasitic growths—docks, fortresses, sprawling slums built into the wreckage.

  Where most Imperial stations were built with purpose and symmetry, Driftmourne had grown like a tumor, expanding as ships and stations were pulled into its grasp, either willingly or by force. The records suggested entire fleets had been absorbed over time, their husks repurposed as housing, marketplaces, and strongholds.

  Most of it wasn’t even pressurized—only those who could afford air or had the necessary augmentations lived in the deeper layers, while the outer void was left to those too desperate or too altered to need a full atmosphere.

  Despite its size, Driftmourne was not a single entity. It was an ecosystem of factions, shifting alliances, and unspoken rules.

  Those who failed to understand these rules?

  They probably didn’t last long.

  Servius’s claws tapped idly against the console as he sorted through the data. The Mechanists had divided Driftmourne’s factions into two categories: Dominant Powers and the Guild.

  Dominant Powers:

  These were the true rulers of Driftmourne—the ones who dictated its direction, controlled its largest sectors, and ensured the station did not collapse into open anarchy.

  House Ankaris – The Drifting Lords

  The self-proclaimed rulers of the station, a dynasty of warp-touched nobles and void-clan leaders who traced their lineage to the early days of Driftmourne’s formation. Their power was not based on raw force, but on the control of trade, high-value relics, and the secrets of the Expanse.

  Their fortresses loomed over the central districts, their influence stretching into every major deal that occurred within the station.

  Their throneworld—Varrn’s Rest—is visible from orbit, a planet long since corrupted but still alive. Its surface is a tapestry of warped cities, sigils burned into the land itself, and towers that stretch into the void.

  The Hollowed Legions

  Less a singular faction and more a shifting mass of warriors, deserters, and warbands, the Hollowed Legions are the mercenaries and enforcers of Driftmourne.

  They have no single leader, but are bound by contracts, vendettas, and ancient oaths.

  Some had once been Astartes, their armor stripped of insignia, their bodies warped by centuries of war beyond the Imperium’s reach.

  Others are xenos-hybrids, rogue psykers, and remnants of fallen warhosts that have found new purpose in this wretched hive.

  The Legions are not trusted. But they are respected. If someone has a problem, and enough currency to solve it, the Legions would answer.

  The Mechanists – The Heretek Orders

  Servius was already familiar with them. Descendants of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but stripped of their loyalty to Mars, they were scavengers, engineers, and seekers of forgotten knowledge.

  Some were barely more than warped Tech-Priests, their flesh twisted by corrupted augmetics and forbidden sciences.

  Others were more subtle, still clinging to the rites of the Machine Cult, but seeking knowledge that would damn them in the eyes of their former brethren.

  They infested the lower levels of Driftmourne, where old technology was stripped down, reworked, and sold to the highest bidder.

  They did not command the station. But their knowledge?

  That was a power in itself.

  The Guild: The Balancing Force

  Servius’s claws flexed slightly as he focused on this section.

  The Guild was unlike the others. It did not rule. It did not conquer. It balanced.

  The Guild was the hidden foundation of Driftmourne—the ones who ensured no faction gained too much power, no war consumed the station entirely.

  It oversaw mercenary work, trade agreements, assassination contracts, artifact recovery, and even high-stakes negotiations.

  It operated with strict internal codes, ones that no faction dared violate.

  Those who tried to remove the Guild from Driftmourne had vanished without a trace.

  The Mechanists’ records hinted at something protecting the Guild—something beyond mere force.

  "The Guild’s neutrality is not natural," the text read. "It is enforced. By what, we do not know."

  That was interesting.

  Servius leaned back in the command chair, exhaling through his nose.

  The Guild was his next step.

  Not for loyalty. Not for trust.

  But because they were the only force that dictated their own survival in Driftmourne.

  If he was going to remain here—if he was going to shape how he was perceived, rather than let others define him—he needed to step into their game.

  And that meant it was time to see them in person.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose, his claws drumming against the armrest of the command chair. His sharp green eyes flicked back to the data-slate, watching as the text scrolled with mechanical precision.

  The other factions of Driftmourne operated on power—territory, technology, brute force. The Guild, by contrast, was rooted in something far older. It did not claim dominion, and yet every faction deferred to it in some way. Even the Mechanists’ files were cautious in their wording, treating the Guild not as a simple organization, but as a force that had shaped Driftmourne into what it was.

  That meant something.

  If the Guild dictated balance, then provoking them would be costly.

  Servius leaned back in his seat, the dim glow of the cockpit casting deep shadows across his sharp features. There were risks to dealing with the Guild—but there were also opportunities.

  He had no need for their mercenary work.

  He did not want their currency.

  But the Guild held something more valuable than both.

  Information.

  Not just names and locations. Influence. Leverage. Knowledge of the currents that dictated survival in Driftmourne.

  And now, thanks to the Coin—thanks to the mark he had already unwittingly taken—he was already a factor in the station’s balance.

  He had two choices.

  He could try to ignore the weight pressing against him, attempt to slip through Driftmourne unnoticed until he could disappear into the void again.

  Or he could embrace it. Use it.

  Servius exhaled slowly.

  He had never been the type to let others dictate the shape of his fate.

  Fine. He would see what the Guild had to offer.

  But he would do it on his terms.

  Servius tapped a command into the Praedyth’s system, activating a deep data-scrub on the Mechanists’ slate. He had spent enough time around the Adeptus Mechanicus to know never to trust unverified information. The Mechanists may have delivered this slate as a “gift,” but that did not mean it came without poison beneath the surface.

  "Praedyth," he murmured, his voice low and measured. "Detecting anything embedded in the slate?"

  The ship’s calm, clinical tone responded almost immediately.

  "Minimal scrap code detected. Non-aggressive. Passive information-gathering subroutines."

  Servius’s claws flexed. So, they had been watching. The Mechanists hadn’t planted a virus—if they had, the ship would have purged it already—but they had left behind tracking routines.

  They wanted to see how he moved. Who he contacted.

  "Delete them," he said simply.

  "Processing," the ship replied. "Subroutines neutralized. No further anomalies detected."

  Good.

  Servius did not tolerate being watched.

  He stood, adjusting his coat over his armor, checking the weight of his sidearm at his hip. He had no intention of walking into the Guild’s domain unarmed. But he also knew that open aggression would be pointless.

  Instead, he would do as he always had—walk carefully, but never walk as prey.

  He turned toward the exit ramp, his tail flicking once as the ship’s doors hissed open.

  Time to move

  The moment he stepped outside, the atmosphere shifted.

  The docking bay was unchanged from before—dim lighting, rust-streaked bulkheads, the distant sounds of shifting machinery. But Servius could feel the difference.

  The Mechanists were gone.

  No more watchers lurking at the edges of the platform, no more augmented figures pretending disinterest.

  But their absence was just as loud.

  They had learned their lesson.

  For now.

  Servius kept his pace measured as he moved beyond the docking bay, following the winding pathways that led deeper into Driftmourne’s underbelly.

  Here, the corridors were tighter, more labyrinthine. Walls of scavenged plating loomed overhead, twisting into strange, uneven structures.

  This was where Driftmourne’s true nature revealed itself.

  Not just a station. Not just a trade hub.

  A body of metal and flesh. A creature that had grown from war, from desperation, from centuries of adaptation.

  Servius passed through the market district, his sharp green eyes flicking across the shifting crowd. Merchants peddled their wares—strange xenos relics, weapons reforged from lost battlefields, augmetics that pulsed with something beyond machine.

  And then there were the figures that watched. Waited. Measured.

  They weren’t staring at him outright—that would have been too obvious. But Servius felt their presence as he passed.

  His reputation had already spread.

  The traveler with the ship that did not belong.

  The one who had walked into Driftmourne and survived its first game.

  And that meant, once again, he had no choice but to move forward.

  The pathways narrowed.

  The deeper he moved, the more structured the architecture became. The chaotic, scavenged nature of Driftmourne’s outer layers gave way to something… deliberate.

  The air felt denser. Not in weight, but in meaning.

  This was the Guild’s territory.

  Unlike the fortresses of House Ankaris or the slums of the Mechanists, the Guild did not display grand banners or towering defenses.

  Their control was shown in subtlety. In the silence that stretched between their structures.

  The entrances were marked, but not labeled.

  A simple symbol, etched into the wall—a perfect ring, bisected by a single line.

  It was neither welcoming nor forbidding.

  It simply was.

  Servius stopped.

  This was the threshold.

  He had come this far, and now?

  Now he would see what lay beyond the veil.

  His claws flexed once.

  Then, without hesitation, he stepped inside.

  The threshold passed behind him like the edge of a blade.

  Servius stepped into the Guild’s domain, and immediately, the air shifted once more.

  A weight. A presence.

  The corridors leading into the Guild’s halls were stripped of the chaotic scavenger’s architecture that marked the rest of Driftmourne. No crude welds, no erratic power conduits sparking with neglect. The passage was clean—structured, lined with seamless plates of dark metal that had not been patched together, but instead forged for a singular purpose.

  It was the first true sign of order he had seen since arriving on the station.

  Not the hollow order of the Mechanists, who obsessed over broken knowledge.

  Not the gilded illusions of House Ankaris, who clung to power through lineage and intrigue.

  This was different. This was deliberate.

  Servius’s sharp green eyes flicked across the walls as he walked, taking in the subtle design shifts. The panels were inscribed—not with sigils, not with names—but with patterns. Flowing lines, geometric intersections, designs that meant something, though their meaning eluded him.

  He filed it away in his mind.

  The corridor stretched forward in a gentle, unbroken curve, leading deeper into the Guild’s sanctum. It held no guards, checkpoints, nor visible security measures.

  But Servius had lived long enough to know better.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Just because he could not see them did not mean they were not there.

  His ears twitched slightly, catching the faintest echoes of something ahead. Voices—measured, quiet, purposeful. Not the chaotic clamor of Driftmourne’s trade districts, not the growling threats of scavengers in the lower tiers.

  Negotiation. Discussion. Calculation.

  The Guild was in session.

  He kept moving.

  At the corridor’s end, the space widened into a vast chamber—not a hall, not a throne room, but something in between. The architecture maintained the same dark, seamless aesthetic, but here, the ceiling rose higher, giving the space an open, weightless atmosphere.

  And at its center stood the Gathering Floor.

  A circular space, bordered by concentric rings of seating—each platform slightly raised above the next, forming a tiered arrangement that allowed every occupant to observe the center without obstruction. The floor itself was smooth, unmarked, a deliberate contrast to the intricate patterns that adorned the walls.

  Figures lined the outer tiers—dozens of them, from all corners of Driftmourne’s fractured ecosystem. Some were clad in the patchwork armor of void-warriors, others in silken robes that shimmered with unnatural hues. Some bore the sigils of known factions, others hid their identities beneath smooth, featureless masks.

  The Guild was not one people.

  It was an assembly.

  A crossroads.

  Servius exhaled slowly. He had expected something cloaked in mystery, in layers of untouchable secrecy. Instead, he had walked into a machine already in motion.

  The Guild was not hiding.

  It was watching. Always watching.

  The murmurs in the chamber slowed as he stepped further in. Not silencing entirely—just shifting, redirecting, as eyes and concealed lenses turned toward him.

  He was new. He was unknown. And that made him interesting.

  He did not like that.

  His claws flexed briefly at his sides before he forced himself into stillness. No hesitance. No uncertainty.

  He strode forward.

  A section of the outer ring shifted, its previously solid structure folding apart in silent, mechanical precision. A figure stepped through the new opening, moving with the same measured deliberation as the walls themselves.

  It was not human. Not entirely.

  The individual before him stood tall, wrapped in flowing garments of charcoal-gray, their form obscured by a long, high-collared coat that concealed all but their hands and face. The latter was smooth and featureless—not a mask, but something else.

  It was made of something between flesh and metal.

  A construct? A being altered beyond recognition?

  The moment stretched as Servius and the figure regarded one another. Then, the figure’s head tilted slightly, the lack of facial features somehow conveying curiosity.

  "You walk with purpose," the figure said.

  Their voice was neutral, neither welcoming nor dismissive. It lacked the mechanical undertone of the Mechanists’ synth-voices, yet it was not wholly organic either. A precise modulation—calculated.

  Servius met the empty gaze. "I don’t waste time."

  A pause. Then, the figure gave the barest inclination of their head.

  "Then you already understand something most who come here do not."

  They gestured subtly toward the gathering beyond. "The Guild does not deal in wasted time."

  Servius exhaled through his nose, scanning the figures observing from the outer rings. "Then I assume you already know why I’m here."

  The figure’s hands, pale and long-fingered, folded at their waist. "We know what you are." A slight pause. "We do not yet know what you seek."

  The distinction was deliberate.

  Servius’s tail flicked once.

  He could play the long game, draw this out, test their patience.

  But the Guild did not play with patience, they played with results.

  "I need to understand the balance of this station," he said evenly. "Not from rumors. Not from scavenged knowledge. From the source."

  The figure inclined their head again, as if the answer had been expected. "Then you are in the right place."

  Their hand gestured toward a smaller, elevated section of the chamber—an alcove removed from the larger gathering. A space not meant for spectacle, but for precision.

  "Come," they said simply. "The Guild does not deal in wasted time. But we do deal."

  Servius exhaled, adjusting the collar of his coat.

  Then, without hesitation, he followed.

  The pathway leading away from the Gathering Floor was a stark contrast to the structured openness of the chamber behind him. The walls were smooth, unadorned, and seemed to swallow sound, the noise of the larger hall fading into an unnatural silence.

  The Guild’s representative moved with effortless precision, their long coat flowing behind them as they guided him through a series of connected rooms. Each was carefully arranged—meeting spaces, archives, private alcoves designed for discussions that required more than mere words. Some were occupied, figures seated in quiet negotiation, while others stood watching from shadowed recesses, their presence noted but not acknowledged.

  No wasted movement. Every step taken here had intent.

  They finally reached an isolated chamber, one that lacked the cold formality of the previous halls. A single table rested at its center, flanked by two chairs of simple but precise construction. A soft, ambient glow illuminated the space, casting faint shadows that never fully settled.

  The figure gestured toward the seat opposite them.

  "Sit."

  Servius remained standing for a moment longer, watching the space with sharp green eyes before lowering himself into the chair. The Guild had already measured him, just as he had measured them, and now they were bringing the game into focus.

  The representative settled into their own seat, folding their hands before them.

  "You do not belong to any of the known factions of Driftmourne," they said, tone as even as before. "Yet you did not arrive as a vagrant, nor as one seeking refuge. You walk with the weight of someone who understands the cost of missteps."

  Servius exhaled through his nose. "If you know what I am, then you already know I don’t desire to waste time."

  The figure inclined their head slightly, acknowledging the remark. "Then let us move past what is already known. You are not here to barter for passage, nor to beg for favor. That means you are here for leverage."

  Not a question. A conclusion.

  Servius tapped his fingers against the armrest. "I want to know how the Guild maintains its balance here. Who enforces it. How it keeps House Ankaris, the Hollowed Legions, and the Mechanists from tearing each other apart."

  The representative did not answer immediately. Instead, they tilted their head ever so slightly, as if weighing the shape of his words.

  "You assume that balance is maintained through force," they said. "That we dictate stability as one would dictate war. But the Guild does not rule Driftmourne. We do not govern it. We do not claim dominion."

  Servius’s tail flicked once. "And yet, no one dares move against you."

  A pause. Then, for the first time, the figure leaned forward slightly, hands still folded.

  "Because we are the foundation upon which the station stands. The threads between every faction, the silent weights in every scale. They do not fear us as one fears an empire. They fear what would happen if we were no longer here."

  Servius studied them for a moment, considering the words. There was truth in that. If the Guild collapsed, the entire power structure of Driftmourne would unravel. But that alone didn’t explain everything.

  "That kind of neutrality doesn’t hold unless it’s enforced," he said.

  The representative’s fingers tapped against the table once, the motion slow, precise. "The Guild does not enforce anything. It is enforced."

  Servius narrowed his eyes.

  Something in the words carried weight beyond their sound.

  Not a boast. Not a warning.

  A statement of fact.

  "You mean by something else," he said.

  The figure remained still. "Yes."

  There was no elaboration. No explanation. But the meaning settled into the air between them.

  Whatever protected the Guild was not something they controlled. It was something that had already been set into motion long ago.

  And that meant even they had their limits.

  Servius exhaled slowly, filing the knowledge away. This wasn’t just about neutrality. It was about something deeper. Something even the ruling factions of Driftmourne respected enough to leave untouched.

  He would need to learn more.

  But for now, he had more immediate concerns.

  "You deal in contracts," he said.

  The figure gave a slight nod. "Yes. Negotiations. Resolutions. Transactions. Those who wish to operate in Driftmourne often find their place within the Guild."

  "That includes mercenary work?"

  "Among many other things."

  Servius’s ears flicked slightly. He wasn’t here to throw himself into every conflict that bled through Driftmourne’s streets. But taking on work through the Guild would give him insight into who was moving against whom, what forces were shifting, and where his presence would be noticed.

  A way to control how he was perceived.

  A way to stay ahead.

  "You wish to take a contract," the figure said, already knowing where the conversation was heading.

  "Perhaps." Servius’s voice was neutral. "Depends on what’s available."

  A pause. Then, with the same smooth precision, the representative reached into the folds of their coat, withdrawing a thin slate of dark material. Unlike the Mechanists’ device, this one bore no unnecessary markings, no exposed circuitry.

  They set it on the table between them.

  "These are the current outstanding requests. They range from retrieval work to enforcement to arbitration. Choose as you see fit."

  Servius took the slate, his claws brushing against its surface.

  Information unfolded before him, the contracts scrolling in clean, structured lines. Names, locations, risk assessments.

  There was no single faction requesting work—assignments came from all corners of Driftmourne’s fractured hierarchy. Some were simple. Others were tied to deeper movements, ongoing conflicts that had not yet spilled into outright war.

  This was exactly what he needed.

  Not just a job. A lens into the currents beneath Driftmourne’s surface.

  He exhaled, considering his next move.

  The data-slate’s glow cast faint shadows across Servius’s face as he scrolled through the available contracts. The Guild’s listings were precise—concise to the point of being clinical, detailing not just the nature of the work but the factional weight behind it.

  Many of the lower-tier contracts were beneath him—escort runs, salvage disputes, petty disputes between rival traders. He filtered past them without hesitation. If he was going to move within Driftmourne’s power structure, he would need something bigger. Something with weight.

  His claws tapped against the slate’s surface, scrolling past the lesser offers until his gaze settled on a name that caught his interest.

  Contract Issuer: House Ankaris

  Contract Type: Retrieval & Secured Transport

  Objective: Recover an asset lost in transit and ensure its safe return to Ankaris-controlled holdings.

  Threat Assessment: Moderate – Interference from unauthorized parties anticipated.

  Additional Notes:

  The asset is intact but currently held within the lower spires of Driftmourne.

  Hostile involvement suspected.

  House Ankaris expects discretion in handling the matter.

  Servius’s tail flicked once as he leaned back slightly, considering.

  Lost in transit?

  That was vague.

  House Ankaris did not deal in mundane goods. If they were issuing a contract through the Guild, it meant whatever had been lost held significant value—either financially, politically, or in ways that did not fit neatly into material wealth.

  And if they weren’t handling it themselves?

  It meant the situation was complicated.

  Servius exhaled slowly.

  This was exactly what he needed.

  He tapped the slate, bringing up the acceptance interface. A brief pause, then the text flickered.

  Contract Accepted.

  Proceed to designated briefing chamber within the Guild enclave.

  He set the slate down, rolling his shoulders slightly. This was the first real step into Driftmourne’s deeper layers. Whatever House Ankaris had lost, it was important enough for them to reach beyond their own forces.

  That alone made it worth investigating.

  He stood, adjusting his coat, ensuring the weight of his weapons was secure. The Guild’s enclave was a short walk from where he stood, deeper within their controlled territory.

  Time to see what House Ankaris had misplaced.

  The chamber Servius was led into was smaller than he expected—not an opulent negotiation hall, not a grandly adorned throne room, but something far more practical. The walls were smooth, lined with panels of cold, gunmetal gray, their subtle inlays suggesting both reinforcement and surveillance. The lighting was low but precise, focused downward onto the circular table at the center of the room. A room for business, not for ceremony.

  A single chair awaited him, facing the opposite side where a figure already sat. They had been waiting.

  The House Ankaris envoy was draped in a robe of deep crimson, embroidered with dark threads that shimmered faintly under the light, forming a pattern of twisting, almost organic lines. Their hood was drawn back, revealing a face that was sharp and pale, with features that suggested noble lineage twisted by generations of exposure to the Warp’s unnatural currents. Their eyes, black from edge to edge, reflected no light.

  Not a noble. A handler.

  One of the many unseen hands that House Ankaris used to extend its reach without dirtying its reputation.

  "You move quickly," the envoy said, voice smooth, almost weightless. It was the kind of voice designed for negotiation—a voice that said little but implied much. "Few who walk into the Guild waste no time in choosing their first step."

  Servius did not respond immediately. He pulled back the chair opposite them and sat, his sharp green eyes watching, measuring.

  "Driftmourne isn’t a place where time is wasted," he said flatly.

  The envoy’s lips curled slightly, amusement flickering across their otherwise unreadable features.

  "A wise philosophy." Their gloved fingers folded before them. "Let’s speak plainly, then. You’ve taken the contract. House Ankaris requires an asset recovered. We expect you to complete this without unnecessary complications."

  Servius’s claws flexed slightly against the armrest of his chair. "Define 'unnecessary.'"

  The envoy exhaled softly. "Unnecessary means drawing attention where none is needed. It means resolving problems without making House Ankaris look weaker than it is. It means knowing the limits of discretion."

  Servius let the silence stretch, letting them speak further. When they did not, he tapped a claw against the table. "The contract details were vague," he said. "If I’m retrieving something, I need to know exactly what it is."

  The envoy considered him for a moment, then reached into their sleeve, withdrawing a small data-slate no larger than the palm of their hand. They placed it onto the table and slid it toward him.

  "The asset is a shipment," they said. "A sealed cargo unit that was meant to be delivered directly to Ankaris holdings. It has since gone… missing."

  Servius took the slate but did not activate it yet. "Stolen?"

  "A failure in transport," the envoy corrected. "One of our lesser subsidiaries was responsible for overseeing its movement through Driftmourne’s lower tiers. They failed. The asset is now held within the lower spires—beyond our direct influence."

  "And you want me to retrieve it quietly," Servius said, tilting his head slightly. "Because if you send your own people, it becomes an issue of Ankaris’ authority being challenged."

  The envoy smiled, though it was not a pleasant expression. "You are perceptive."

  Servius activated the slate, letting the details unfold before him. The location of the asset was flagged within the lower sectors of Driftmourne—deep within an area marked as The Vein, a sector riddled with derelict ship husks and scavenger strongholds.

  The shipment itself was listed as high-priority, though there were no specific details on its contents—only a reference code that likely meant something to House Ankaris alone.

  Servius narrowed his eyes. "You’re leaving a lot out."

  The envoy’s expression did not change. "You only need to know what is relevant to the job."

  That told him enough.

  If the asset had been simple cargo, House Ankaris would have sent their own enforcers to reclaim it. If it had been a person, they would have handled it with even greater secrecy.

  This was something else.

  Something that warranted retrieval—but without open force.

  Which meant it was valuable.

  And dangerous.

  Servius set the slate down. "Who took it?"

  The envoy leaned back slightly, as if pleased that he had asked the right question. "The shipment was intercepted by a faction operating within the Vein. Not one of the Dominant Powers. A lesser entity, but troublesome nonetheless."

  A flick of their fingers, and another marker appeared on the data-slate—a name.

  The Ash Vultures.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose. He had seen the name briefly in the Mechanists’ records—a scavenger group that had risen in the last decade, carving out control over sections of the lower spires. They were not affiliated with the Hollowed Legions, but they had dealings with them. Raiders, opportunists, void-wanderers who had scavenged from the dead long enough to stake a claim of their own.

  "I assume you’re not interested in negotiation," Servius said.

  The envoy’s black eyes gleamed faintly. "They had their opportunity for diplomacy when they first acquired something that did not belong to them."

  "Kill them all, then?"

  The envoy let out a soft, mirthless chuckle. "House Ankaris does not dictate how you complete your task. Only that the asset is returned intact."

  Which meant he could resolve this however he saw fit.

  A dozen possibilities unfolded in his mind. The Ash Vultures were a scavenger faction, which meant they were motivated by profit, not ideology. They would not destroy the asset unless they thought it was a liability. That meant they had likely kept it intact, either trying to decode its worth or waiting for an opportunity to ransom it.

  Which meant Servius had options.

  A direct assault? Possible, but unnecessary if there was a cleaner way.

  Negotiation? Unlikely, unless he could present leverage they cared about.

  Stealth? Risky, but viable.

  And then there was the most dangerous option—learning why the asset was valuable before he returned it.

  Servius drummed his claws against the table once. "Payment?"

  "The Guild handles your fee. The standard contract rate has already been secured."

  Which meant no haggling. No additional leverage. Not yet.

  But House Ankaris didn’t just pay with credits. They traded in knowledge. Influence. Secrets.

  Servius’s tail flicked once. "And if I decide I want more than just the Guild’s standard rate?"

  The envoy smiled, though this time there was something more deliberate behind it.

  "Then prove yourself useful, traveler."

  A pause. Then: "Complete this contract, and House Ankaris may find further opportunities for one such as yourself."

  Which meant this was a test.

  Servius exhaled slowly. He had expected as much. The contract was the job. But the real work was earning a seat at the table.

  He pushed the slate away and stood, adjusting his coat.

  "I’ll handle it."

  The envoy gave a small, satisfied nod. "We will be watching."

  Servius turned without another word, stepping toward the exit.

  The Ash Vultures.

  A lost shipment.

  And a House that wanted results without getting its hands dirty.

  This was going to be interesting.