The Praedyth’s airlock hissed shut behind him, sealing away the stagnant air of Driftmourne’s underbelly. Inside, the ship’s atmosphere was cooler, cleaner—sterile in comparison to the outside. Servius exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he crossed the threshold into the armory chamber.

  The room was compact but efficient. Weapon racks lined the walls, secured by reinforced clamps, each firearm meticulously placed for easy access. Lockers stored ammunition, grenades, and assorted equipment, their exteriors marked with simple, functional labels. A workbench sat at the far end, cluttered with a disassembled lasrifle and the faint shimmer of maintenance tools humming with power.

  Servius moved with practiced ease, stripping off his coat and placing it over the nearby seat. His fingers flexed, claws clicking lightly against his vambraces as he considered his loadout. This job wasn’t going to be simple.

  He had options.

  A full combat kit? Overkill. It would slow him down, and if the Vultures weren’t immediately hostile, walking in armed for war would send the wrong message. He needed to keep the advantage of choice—deception first, then force if necessary.

  His eyes flicked over the selection before him, considering.

  Primary Weapon – Longlas. Silent, precise, and capable of eliminating targets at range before they knew they were being watched. The Vultures weren’t disciplined soldiers, meaning panic would break them faster than direct suppression. He retrieved the rifle, checking its charge and adjusting the focus dial on the scope before slinging it across his back.

  Sidearms – Twin Bolt Pistols. Brutal, effective, and irreplaceable. The weight of them was familiar as he holstered them beneath his coat. Even in close quarters, they were his best means of ending a fight quickly.

  Blade – Power Knife. Compact, deadly. The activation switch hummed faintly as he tested it, the field barely visible in the dim light. Silent if used properly.

  For explosives, he kept it simple. One frag grenade, one smoke. The frag was a last resort. The smoke was more useful if he needed to disappear.

  Satisfied, he secured his belt, adjusting the placement of his weapons for easy access. His tail flicked behind him as he exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The weight was comfortable—balanced. Ready.

  But weapons alone wouldn’t win this job. His approach would determine everything.

  Servius moved back to the central chamber, settling into the command chair. The data-slate from House Ankaris rested where he had left it, its screen still displaying the details of the contract. He tapped it once, bringing up the layout of the Vein and the flagged location of the Ash Vultures’ territory.

  They weren’t a dominant faction, but they had carved out enough of a presence in Driftmourne’s lower levels to make themselves an issue. They had no single governing leader, no rigid structure—just bands of scavengers operating under a shared name, bound by mutual survival and a loose understanding of hierarchy.

  That meant their loyalty was weak.

  Which meant they could be bought, misled, or fractured.

  The trick would be knowing which approach to take before the situation turned violent.

  Possible Openings:

  Deception: Walk in as a potential buyer or a neutral middleman, claim interest in the package, and try to manipulate them into handing it over. Low risk, but only if they aren’t already committed to selling it elsewhere.

  Bribery: Offer them something more valuable than whatever they think the package is worth. Risky, as House Ankaris hadn't specified its contents—if they knew its true value, they wouldn’t trade it for mere credits.

  Intimidation: Show them that keeping the package is more dangerous than giving it up. Requires the right leverage.

  Direct Force: Last resort. Kill them all, take the package, and leave before anyone reacts. Efficient, but messy.

  He drummed his claws lightly against the console. Something about this still felt wrong.

  This wasn’t just cargo.

  House Ankaris had been vague, and vague meant they were hiding something. If this had been a standard shipment, they would have sent their own enforcers.

  The real question was whether the Vultures knew what they had.

  If they didn’t, he could trick them.

  If they did, they would try to use it.

  And that meant he had to be careful.

  Servius’s tail flicked once as he keyed the Praedyth’s systems. The display flickered, highlighting the Vein’s location in the lower spires.

  "Praedyth," he muttered. "Risk assessment for potential conflict?"

  The ship responded without hesitation. "Conflict likelihood dependent on approach. Deception success probability: 38%. Threat escalation if deception fails: 72%."

  Servius exhaled through his nose. Not the worst odds. But it confirmed something he already suspected—they weren’t just going to hand it over.

  Still, he would try to make this clean.

  No need for unnecessary bloodshed. Unless someone made it necessary.

  He rose from the chair, securing his coat back over his gear and making for the exit ramp. The weight of the longlas on his back, the pistols at his hips, the knife resting within easy reach—it was familiar, grounding.

  As the ship’s doors hissed open, the station’s air pressed in once more. The scent of oil, rust, and human desperation returned to the forefront, reminding him of the world he was stepping into.

  The Vein awaited.

  And one way or another, the Ash Vultures were about to learn just how dangerous it was to steal from House Ankaris.

  Servius moved forward.

  The Vein was a corpse of metal and shadow.

  Servius moved through the narrow pathways of Driftmourne’s lower spires, his pace steady, unhurried. The deeper he descended, the more the station’s structure changed around him—less constructed, more accumulated. The architecture here was no longer the somewhat careful design of an orbital station. It was a patchwork of dead ships, collapsed habitats, and scavenged bulkheads welded into something barely functional.

  This was where the lowest of Driftmourne’s inhabitants festered—too poor to rise, too stubborn to die. The air was thick with the scent of scorched metal and old oil, laced with the faint chemical bite of leaking coolant and unwashed bodies.

  And here, in the deep, the Ash Vultures had made their home.

  They weren’t subtle about marking their domain. Servius passed the first sign of their claim—a crude totem made from severed augmetics and twisted steel, bound together with rusted wire. A warning, not just to outsiders, but to each other.

  Further in, the pathways became tighter, more deliberate. Makeshift barricades had been erected from scavenged hull plating, forming natural choke points. There were eyes on him now—hidden figures watching from recessed alcoves, the flicker of motion barely visible behind welded grates and broken viewports.

  Servius kept his hands loose at his sides, making no aggressive movements. He wasn’t prey. They would be testing him, watching how he carried himself. If he moved like he belonged, they would hesitate. If he moved like he was afraid, they would test him further.

  A group of Vultures finally emerged from the shadows as he stepped into a wider chamber. Seven of them. A mix of poorly armored scavengers and augmetic raiders, their gear cobbled together from whatever they had managed to strip from dead ships. Their weapons were mismatched—las-carbines with exposed wiring, stubbers patched with scavenged components, even a few makeshift blades humming with unstable power fields.

  Their leader was easy to pick out.

  He was broad-shouldered, clad in layered voidsuit plates that had been modified with crude tribal engravings. His left arm had been replaced with an augmetic, the plating dented from old battles. His face was mostly intact, save for a jagged scar running across his cheekbone, twisting his mouth into a permanent sneer.

  "Don’t see many like you down here," the leader said, tilting his head slightly. His voice was coarse, carrying the weight of someone used to threats. "You lost, or are you looking to sell something?"

  Servius met his gaze without hesitation. Direct. Controlled. Not aggressive, but not weak.

  "I’m here for the package you stole," Servius said, his tone even. "Hand it over, and I’ll leave. No trouble."

  A beat of silence. Then the Vultures laughed. Not mocking. Testing.

  The leader’s sneer twisted into a grin. "Stole? That’s a strong word. You’re going to have to be more specific."

  Servius exhaled through his nose. "You intercepted cargo that belonged to House Ankaris." He let the name settle. Weighted. Dangerous.

  The amusement in the leader’s eyes dimmed slightly.

  "You lot aren’t usually in the business of playing errand boy for nobles," the Vulture said, his tone shifting. "That’s interesting."

  Servius didn’t rise to the bait. "The package. Now."

  The Vultures didn’t move, but the air changed. The laughter had stopped. Fingers twitched near triggers. The tension thickened.

  The leader’s grin remained, but there was something sharper behind it now. "See, here’s the problem. We picked up a lot of cargo recently. And if it’s still in our hands, that means we haven’t found a better offer yet."

  He spread his arms slightly, a show of control. "So maybe we should talk about what it’s worth to you."

  Servius’s tail flicked once. He could push now—force them to back down through sheer pressure. But before he could speak, another voice cut in.

  "Or maybe we should talk about what it’s worth to us."

  Servius recognized the shift before he turned.

  The Vultures did too. Their leader’s grin froze—not in fear, but in realization.

  A new figure had entered the chamber.

  They didn’t belong to the Ash Vultures.

  They moved with purpose. Unlike the scavengers, their armor was intact, unmarred by rust and time. Segmented void-plate, reinforced plating along the joints, the faint shimmer of a powered exoskeleton beneath.

  Not a warlord. Not a ranking officer. But a soldier.

  A Hollowed Legion soldier.

  Servius turned slightly, his green eyes narrowing. The new arrival stood at the entrance to the chamber, alone. But they didn’t need numbers. Their presence was enough.

  The soldier’s helmet obscured their face, a smooth, featureless mask save for a narrow visor that pulsed faintly with crimson light. Their voice was modulated, distorted through an old vox-augment.

  "The package belongs to us now."

  The chamber shifted. Tension snapped taut.

  The Vultures were caught between two threats. They had been negotiating. Now they were in a contest.

  Servius exhaled slowly. This had just gotten more complicated.

  Best-Case Scenario: The Hollowed Legion was bluffing. They were here to claim the package, but they didn’t have full control yet. That meant Servius could still maneuver.

  Worst-Case Scenario: The Legion had already bought out the Vultures—or worse, intimidated them into compliance. That meant this wasn’t a simple retrieval. It was a fight.

  The Vulture leader was already shifting, recalculating. His eyes flicked between Servius and the Legionnaire.

  "This is unexpected," the leader muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His grip on his weapon tightened slightly.

  Not afraid. But cautious.

  Good. That meant he hadn’t made a decision yet.

  Servius took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. This was salvageable.

  The Legionnaire was alone. That meant they didn’t expect a fight—at least, not immediately.

  Servius could use that.

  He tilted his head slightly, keeping his voice even. "House Ankaris still holds the contract. That package was never yours to claim."

  The Legionnaire’s visor pulsed faintly. Analyzing. Measuring.

  "You are out of your depth, mercenary."

  Servius let a slow smirk curl at the edge of his mouth. "Then why are you here alone?"

  A pause. Subtle, but there. A hesitation.

  The Vultures weren’t speaking yet. Waiting. Watching. They were scavengers. They would side with whoever looked like the inevitable winner.

  That meant Servius had to control the next moment.

  The next words, the next movement—whatever came next would decide everything.

  This could still be won without a fight.

  But if it turned violent?

  Servius would make sure it ended quickly.

  He exhaled slowly. Measured. Calm.

  "Let’s settle this," he said, voice razor-sharp. "Before someone makes a mistake they won’t live to regret."

  The moment stretched.

  No one moved.

  Yet.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The air snapped.

  The Hollowed Legionnaire moved—not a shift, not a breath, but a decisive reach, armored fingers grasping for the weapon at his side.

  Servius was faster.

  His knife left his hand before the soldier’s fingers even brushed his weapon’s grip.

  A flicker of silver.

  The blade punched through the Legionnaire’s helmet like paper. It struck just beneath the visor, the reinforced plating meant for deflecting autogun rounds proving useless against the sheer, pinpoint force of the throw.

  The soldier’s body jerked. His head snapped back from the impact, boots skidding against the metal floor as the force of the blow carried him a half-step backward.

  A pause.

  Then the body collapsed.

  Not a twitch. Not a sound. Just a crumpling of armored mass, hitting the floor like discarded scrap.

  Servius was already turning.

  His eyes flicked across the Vultures. Reaction. Threat. Direction. He didn’t need time to think—he had already known what would happen next.

  They had chosen.

  Their weapons were rising. Towards him.

  Servius’s hand moved.

  A snap. A flick.

  The bolt pistol cleared its holster in a single motion, raised in perfect alignment.

  One shot.

  A detonating roar.

  The lead Vulture ceased to exist.

  His torso wasn’t torn apart—it was erased. The bolt round punched through his ribcage, then detonated mid-body, reducing everything from the sternum down into a brief, wet mist. The two halves of his body separated before his brain had time to process he was dead.

  The weapon he had been raising tumbled from his fingers.

  Servius was already moving.

  He holstered the pistol mid-step, his free hand catching the falling rifle before it hit the ground. A las-carbine—scavenged, patched together, but functional. His fingers curled around the grip, thumb flicking the power setting to maximum.

  A pivot. A breath. A shot.

  The next Vulture’s head snapped back, a clean hole burned through his forehead. His corpse slumped sideways, collapsing against the makeshift barricade behind him.

  Then it was chaos.

  Servius moved through it like a specter.

  Next target—left side. Two Vultures raising weapons, scrambling. Too slow.

  He squeezed the trigger twice.

  The first shot punched through the first man’s throat. The second took the next in the chest, searing straight through his ribcage and into the wall beyond.

  The last three panicked.

  One tried to run. Servius let him.

  The second dove for cover, ducking behind a makeshift barricade. Servius adjusted his aim, fired once. The las-shot tore through the edge of the barricade, shearing away metal and flesh in the same instant.

  The third Vulture was the last to move. Too hesitant. He had watched the others fall, fingers shaking over the trigger of his stubber.

  Servius didn’t give him time to reconsider.

  He threw the rifle.

  The weapon slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him off balance for half a second.

  Half a second was too long.

  Servius closed the distance in two strides.

  One step. Momentum.

  Two steps. Contact.

  His claws tore across the man’s throat, ripping through soft flesh and exposed arteries before the Vulture could even react.

  A gurgling choke.

  Then silence.

  Servius exhaled through his nose.

  He stood amid the wreckage. Seven bodies. Scattered. Burned. Torn. Ruined. The Legionnaire lay where he had fallen, the knife still embedded in his skull.

  All dead.

  Save for one.

  Servius turned.

  The last scavenger—the one who had run—stood just beyond the barricades, frozen in place, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

  He hadn’t even drawn a weapon. He had made his decision before the fight even began.

  Servius met his gaze.

  "Go."

  The Vulture didn’t hesitate. He turned and bolted into the dark.

  Servius exhaled once more, rolling his shoulders.

  The job wasn’t done yet.

  His sharp green eyes flicked across the room, locking onto the one thing he had come here for.

  The package.

  It sat near the back of the chamber, still intact, untouched by the fight.

  Servius stepped forward, the weight of the silence settling around him. The air was still thick with the scent of burnt flesh and ozone, the faint hiss of cooling metal the only sound that remained. His boots pressed into the blood-slicked floor, the scattered remains of the Vultures and the Legionnaire no longer of any concern.

  It was smaller than he expected. No larger than a weapons crate, its surface sealed with an industrial-grade locking mechanism that bore no clear insignia—at least, not to the untrained eye. To House Ankaris, it was undoubtedly marked in ways only they could decipher.

  Servius crouched beside it, running his claws lightly over the reinforced plating. No signs of tampering. No forceful attempts to pry it open. The Vultures had been holding it intact. Whether out of caution or ignorance, they had not risked breaking the seal.

  That was telling.

  If the crate had been full of weapons, they would have stripped it bare within minutes. If it had been a power source, they would have rigged it for themselves. But it remained untouched, stored carefully at the back of the chamber, as if they had been waiting.

  For what?

  Servius flexed his fingers against the cold metal. He could feel the question settling in his mind, a low whisper of curiosity gnawing at the edges of his pragmatism.

  What was inside?

  His claws hovered near the lock. It would not be difficult. A simple application of force—just enough to crack the seal, to see.

  But House Ankaris would know.

  Servius exhaled slowly, straightening. No. He had played the long game before. There was more to be gained in trust than in temptation. The package’s true worth would reveal itself in time.

  His tail flicked once as he turned his attention to the rest of the chamber. The aftermath of his assault was a mess—but a controlled mess. The Hollowed Legionnaire was an unexpected factor, but one that could be dealt with. The Vultures were dead. The package was his.

  Now he just had to leave.

  Servius bent down, grasping the crate’s handle and lifting it with ease. It was heavier than expected, but not by much. Something dense inside. Not weapons, then. Not raw materials. Something crafted.

  He moved toward the chamber’s exit, stepping carefully around the scattered bodies. As he did, he reached down and wrenched his knife from the Legionnaire’s skull, wiping the blade clean on the soldier’s ruined cloak before sheathing it once more.

  He had what he came for.

  But something still wasn’t sitting right.

  Servius cast one last glance around the chamber before stepping out into the Vein’s dark corridors. The fight had been quick—too quick. The Ash Vultures had not been prepared for an assault. That was expected.

  The Hollowed Legionnaire, however?

  That was something else.

  A scavenger gang would never have been able to steal from House Ankaris if the Hollowed Legions had already claimed it. That meant the Legion’s interest in the package had come after the Vultures had taken it.

  But why?

  Had they come to steal it for themselves? To destroy it? To ensure it never returned to its original owners?

  Or had they always been looking for it?

  Servius exhaled sharply through his nose. It didn’t matter. Not yet. He would deliver the package, complete the contract, and get paid. And then he would begin asking questions.

  The Vein stretched ahead, winding corridors of rusted bulkheads and forgotten tunnels leading back to Driftmourne proper.

  He moved quickly.

  The Vein was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Servius moved with deliberate precision, his sharp green eyes sweeping across the abandoned corridors. The air was thick with the scent of rust, burnt wiring, and the distant stink of human habitation—sweat, oil, the acrid tang of old blood. The metallic pathways twisted ahead, the flickering glow of void-lanterns barely holding back the darkness that loomed beyond.

  He kept his pace steady, the crate firm in his grip. Weight aside, it was an easy thing to carry. He could still fight with it in one hand if necessary.

  And necessary, it might be.

  It seems the Hollowed Legionnaire had not been alone.

  Servius had felt it even before stepping out of the Vultures’ den—the lingering sense of being watched. The air was too still, the silence too perfect. The Vein should never silent. It was a warren of scavengers, opportunists, and those too desperate or too foolish to climb higher into Driftmourne’s tiers.

  But right now?

  The shadows had emptied themselves.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose.

  No panic. No sudden movement. If they were watching, they would expect a reaction. They would expect him to break into a sprint, to look over his shoulder, to falter in his stride.

  He gave them nothing.

  His tail flicked once, barely perceptible as he adjusted his grip on the crate. The alleyways twisted ahead, winding through collapsed bulkheads and makeshift pathways that led back toward the outer passages of the Vein. The Praedyth was waiting. The moment he reached the docking bay, this job would be done.

  But it was not going to be that simple.

  A shape flickered at the edge of his vision.

  Servius did not turn toward it. Instead, he kept walking.

  Another shadow. A shift in the air. A presence too disciplined to be another group of scavengers.

  No voices. No stray movements. Not Vultures.

  Legion.

  His mind moved as fast as his body remained still. What were their numbers? If they were here for him, they would not come as a single assassin. The Hollowed Legions did not deal in half-measures.

  That meant they were not here to kill him.

  Not yet.

  His next action would determine whether that changed.

  Servius kept his steps measured as he approached the next intersection. The path ahead led toward the main corridor, a stretch of open space lined with skeletal wreckage and rusted scaffolding. Too exposed. Too easy for a sniper to pin him down.

  A risk.

  But stopping was an even greater one.

  He exhaled again, keeping his hands relaxed, his grip firm but not tense. The first person to make a move would be the one to commit. If they wanted a fight, they had to start it.

  The moment stretched.

  Then—

  A large figure stepped forward from the shadows ahead.

  An Astartes.

  The ceramite plating marked it immediately—not the reinforced patchwork of a scavenger or the hybridized armor of a void mercenary, but the unmistakable bulk of power armor built for war. The plating was worn, pitted with scars of countless battles, yet it bore no sigil, no heraldry. The only remnants of its past allegiance were the faint outlines of symbols that had long since been scraped away, leaving behind only ghostly indentations in the metal.

  His helmet was gone. Instead, a dull silver half-mask covered the lower half of his face, fused with a crude respirator that rasped softly as he breathed. His skin was pale, stretched taut over features that were once human but had long since been sculpted by war. Deep-set, pitiless eyes locked onto Servius with the detached weight of something ancient and patient.

  Astartes.

  Not one of the loyalists. Not one of the Emperor’s chosen.

  One of them.

  One of the Hollowed Legions.

  Servius didn’t stop walking. Didn’t slow. Slowing meant hesitation. Hesitation meant weakness. And weakness in front of an Astartes was an invitation to be tested.

  The towering figure took a step forward, barring his path. Not aggressively. Not yet. But with the kind of deliberate movement that made it clear this conversation was not optional.

  Behind him, two more figures shifted from the shadows—lesser soldiers, mortal men, clad in reinforced armor that mimicked their Legion master. They did not move to block his exit. Not fully.

  Not yet.

  "You’ve taken something that wasn’t yours."

  The Astartes' voice was wrong.

  Not human. Not fully. It was too deep, carrying the weight of a gene-forged throat, yet it rasped as though spoken through shattered glass. Like something long dead that refused to stop speaking.

  Servius let a heartbeat pass before he answered.

  "It wasn’t yours either."

  A moment of silence. A test.

  Then—

  The Astartes' lips curled slightly, just enough to show something—not amusement. Not anger. Something older.

  "The Ash Vultures were given an opportunity," the Legionnaire continued. "They failed to understand its worth. You have removed them from the board. That was… instructive."

  Servius kept his stance measured. "Then you have no reason to stop me."

  The rasping sound of breath filtered through the Astartes' crude mask. He tilted his head slightly.

  "You assume we were here for the scavengers."

  His hand lifted—not to a weapon, but just far enough to remind Servius how easily that could change. The fingers of his gauntlet flexed slightly, the ceramite whispering against itself.

  "We are here because the game has changed."

  Servius adjusted his grip on the crate, his tail flicking once behind him.

  "If that’s true, then it has nothing to do with me."

  The Astartes laughed.

  A hollow, grinding sound, like iron scraping against stone. The two mortal Legionnaires didn’t react, standing like statues behind him.

  "You are in Driftmourne. And you think this has nothing to do with you?"

  His black eyes fixed on Servius with something cold. Something heavy.

  "You have already been marked, traveler."

  Servius didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t let the words settle.

  He could feel the test beneath them. The unspoken weight. The line being drawn.

  He stepped forward.

  Directly toward the Astartes.

  For a fraction of a second, the Astartes didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

  Then—he stepped aside.

  Not in submission. Not in defeat.

  In acknowledgment.

  Servius kept walking.

  The mortal soldiers behind him didn’t follow. Didn’t try to stop him. The moment stretched as he passed through the gap they had left for him.

  He didn’t look back.

  Didn’t run.

  Didn’t falter.

  And the Hollowed Legion let him go.

  For now.

  But the weight of their presence stayed with him, pressing at the edges of his thoughts.

  This wasn’t just a warning. It was an introduction.