They had let him go.
They had let him keep the package.
But they had also spoken.
You have already been marked, traveler.
His tail flicked once, irritation pressing against the edge of his thoughts. The job was supposed to be simple. Walk in, retrieve the stolen cargo, and leave. But House Ankaris had given him only half of the truth, and the Hollowed Legion had given him something far worse—attention.
That was the part that unsettled him the most. His information said the Legion didn’t act without purpose. They were methodical, calculating. If they had wanted to take the package from him, they would have. If they had wanted him dead, they would have certainly tried.
Instead, they had chosen to let him leave.
And that meant something.
Servius exhaled slowly through his nose as he reached the final stretch of corridors leading toward the docking bays. He forced his mind to focus on the now—on the exit, on the fact that he still had the package. The Hollowed Legion could haunt his thoughts later.
His ship loomed ahead, its dark hull untouched, unchanged. The Praedyth sat nestled between the corroded remains of lesser ships, its sleek, alien contours out of place among the scavenged wrecks that filled Driftmourne’s lower docking tiers.
The moment he approached, the ship reacted.
A soft, near-imperceptible hum rolled through the plating—not an alert, but an acknowledgment. The Praedyth was aware.
Servius stepped onto the ramp, feeling the subtle shift in air pressure as the ship’s atmosphere welcomed him back. The outer world sealed away behind him, cutting off the Vein, the dead, and the watching eyes.
The job was done.
But a new game had only begun.
The crate settled onto one of the ship’s seats with a dull metallic thud.
Servius didn’t sit. Instead, he let his sharp green eyes flick across the displays, watching as the Praedyth’s sensors ran their passive sweeps. He knew better than to assume he had left the Vein completely clean.
"Scan for tracking signals," he muttered, reaching for his knife to wipe away the last remnants of blood.
"Processing," the ship responded. Its voice was smooth, clinical, lacking the warmth of a true machine-spirit but still unnervingly intelligent.
A pause. A flicker of data. Then—
"No foreign trackers detected. No active surveillance signals within immediate range."
Good.
Servius exhaled through his nose and ran a clawed hand over the surface of the crate, feeling the reinforced plating beneath his fingertips. Still locked. Still untouched.
It was tempting.
He could pry it open—take a single look before delivering it. House Ankaris hadn’t given him any details on its contents, and the Legion’s presence all but confirmed it was something beyond simple stolen goods.
He had options.
But he had already made his choice.
Servius withdrew his hand, forcing down the lingering itch of curiosity. Trust was an investment. A dangerous one, but useful when played correctly. He had agreed to retrieve the package, not examine it.
He’d been patient before. He could be patient now.
"Set course for the Guild enclave," he instructed.
The ship obeyed.
As the Praedyth lifted from its docking platform, drifting smoothly through the webwork of Driftmourne’s twisting trade routes, Servius let himself settle into the command chair. His mind ran through everything that had transpired in the past hour.
He had done the job. He had retrieved the package. But in doing so, he had:
Left a survivor. The last Ash Vulture had run. And by now, that scavenger had likely spilled everything to anyone who would listen. That was a loose end.
Made enemies. The Hollowed Legion wasn’t done with him. They hadn’t stopped him—but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t next time.
Proven himself. House Ankaris had expected results. He had delivered. That gave him leverage. Or it gave them more reason to use him.
He clicked his tongue in mild irritation.
The job had been messy. That wasn’t the problem—messes could be cleaned up. The problem was the eyes it had drawn.
But that was something to deal with later.
For now, he had a delivery to make.
And he was interested to see how House Ankaris reacted to the fact that he had brought it back untouched.
The Guild enclave was quieter than before.
Servius stepped through the threshold, his pace measured, controlled. The ambient lighting remained dim, casting long shadows through the seamless architecture. The air held the same heavy stillness—not empty, not abandoned, but filled with something unseen.
He ignored it.
The meeting room was exactly as he had left it—practical, sterile, devoid of excess. A room for business, not for ceremony. And waiting at the circular table, draped in deep crimson, was the same envoy as before.
The black-eyed handler.
Their expression was unreadable, but Servius didn’t miss the way their gaze flicked to the crate immediately as he entered. Not to him. Not to the blood on his coat. To the package.
Interesting.
Servius set the crate down with a dull metallic thud. He didn’t sit.
"Intact," he said simply.
The envoy’s black eyes lingered on the crate for a moment longer before flicking back up to him. Their fingers folded together, a slow, measured gesture.
"That much is clear," they murmured. "And yet… you took your time returning."
Servius didn’t react to the veiled accusation. "The Vultures weren’t the only ones interested in it."
A pause.
The envoy’s fingers twitched, the first true sign of something beyond cold detachment. A small, almost imperceptible motion. "Go on."
"The Hollowed Legions had a man there." Servius let the words settle before continuing. "He stepped in when I was about to reclaim the package. Thought it was his."
Another pause. This one longer.
"And?" the envoy asked, voice still smooth.
Servius tilted his head slightly. "He’s dead."
The envoy exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. Their fingers tapped lightly against the table. "Of course he is."
They weren’t surprised that Servius had killed him.
They were surprised by what that meant.
House Ankaris wasn’t worried about the Ash Vultures. They were scavengers—disposable, replaceable, ultimately irrelevant.
But the Hollowed Legion was different.
Servius watched as the envoy’s mind worked through the implications. Not concerned. Not angry. Just calculating.
"Astartes or lesser?" the envoy finally asked.
Servius’s tail flicked once. "One of their warriors. Mortal. But he didn’t come alone."
Another moment of silence. Then, the envoy reached forward, pressing a small activation rune on the crate. The lock remained sealed.
They looked up at Servius again. This time, something new crept into their gaze.
"You didn’t open it."
Servius didn’t move. "I was hired to retrieve it. Not inspect it."
A heartbeat.
Then, for the first time, the envoy’s lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but something that carried the barest ghost of approval.
"Interesting," they murmured.
That reaction told Servius everything he needed to know. They had expected him to try.
Which meant they wouldn’t have known if he had.
The knowledge settled deep in his thoughts, a quiet realization. If he had forced the crate open, there would have been no direct consequences. House Ankaris would not have been immediately alerted.
They had only been waiting to see if he would admit it.
That was a lesson. A valuable one.
The envoy studied him for a moment longer, then leaned back slightly. "You have done well, traveler. House Ankaris does not forget those who prove themselves useful."
Servius said nothing. He knew better than to thank them.
The envoy tapped another rune, and a small, elegant data-slate slid from a recessed slot in the table. A transfer confirmation. His payment. Standard Guild rates. No bonus.
That was fine. The real value wasn’t in the credits. It was in the doors that had just opened.
"One last thing," the envoy said, tilting their head slightly. "There was… one irregularity in your methods."
Servius’s claws flexed slightly. "Irregular how?"
The envoy’s black eyes gleamed.
"You let one live."
The words settled like a weight between them.
The Vulture. The one who had run.
Servius didn’t flinch. He had expected this.
"I saw no value in killing him."
A pause. The envoy’s black eyes gleamed.
"Then perhaps you should have seen the value in silence."
Servius exhaled slowly through his nose. He had considered it. The moment had been there—one more pull of the trigger, one more corpse. But the Vulture had already thrown down his weapon, already chosen flight over fight.
Killing him would have been easy.
Killing him would have been pointless.
No threat. No weapon in hand. Just a terrified scavenger with nothing left.
At the time, Servius had dismissed him as a loose end too weak to be worth cutting. The Ash Vultures weren’t a real faction—just bottom-feeders. He had expected the survivor to disappear into the depths, not to start spreading stories.
That had been an oversight.
A small one. A minor miscalculation.
But mistakes—even small ones—had consequences.
The Ash Vulture had talked.
Which meant House Ankaris now had unwanted visibility.
And more importantly—so did he.
Servius remained still. Unmoving. "I assume that’s not a problem for you."
The envoy chuckled softly. "No, traveler. Not for us. But for you?"
Their smile was razor-thin.
"That remains to be seen."
The Guild had no loyalty.
That suited Servius just fine.
Since the day he had signed on as a contract operative, he had never been short of work. The nature of the jobs varied—targeted eliminations, high-risk extractions, asset recovery, and the occasional industrial sabotage. The Guild didn’t care about morality, only results.
Servius had delivered.
The contracts had taken him across Driftmourne and beyond. He had infiltrated an orbital research station to retrieve stolen schematics before the Mechanists could lock it down. He had hunted rogue bounty hunters through the abandoned lower decks of the station, cleaning up the mess left behind by lesser killers. He had intercepted smuggling operations, turning weapons shipments into nothing more than distant rumors.
Each mission added to his reputation.
He was efficient. Professional. And, more importantly, he survived.
House Ankaris had hired him before—small jobs at first, testing his reliability. They weren’t the only syndicate that used his services, but they were among the most powerful. Their contracts paid well, even if they always had too many missing details.
The Mechanists had their own reasons for hiring him too. They never called it assassination, of course. “Neutralization of obstructive elements” was the preferred phrasing.
He took the work when it was offered.
And, piece by piece, Servius had carved out his place.
Not as one of the big players—not yet. But as someone too useful to ignore.
The Guild’s halls had not changed.
But the way they looked at him had.
Servius moved through the enclave’s interior with the same measured stride as before, yet he could feel the shift. The silent gazes. The quiet recognition. It wasn’t hostility. It wasn’t fear.
It was interest.
He was no longer just a traveler passing through.
He had been seen.
And in Driftmourne, being seen was both an opportunity and a danger.
Servius pushed the thought aside as he approached the contract terminals. The sleek, dark displays flickered as he interfaced with the system, scrolling through the current outstanding requests. He had already proven himself capable—now it was a matter of reinforcing that image.
Another job. Another contract. Another step deeper into Driftmourne’s balance.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
He scrolled past the **minor requests—**escort assignments, salvage disputes, trivial trade conflicts. He wasn’t here for small work.
And then—his eyes narrowed.
A new contract. Recent.
Contract Issuer: Confidential
Contract Type: Interception & Containment
Objective: Disrupt a planned meeting between unidentified actors within the lower tiers. Prevent the exchange from occurring by any means necessary.
Threat Assessment: High. Presence of armed forces anticipated.
Additional Notes:
Minimal collateral damage preferred but not required.
Details regarding involved parties will be disclosed upon acceptance.
Payment scale adjustable based on mission parameters and completion efficiency.
Something was off.
Servius exhaled slowly through his nose. The phrasing was careful—deliberately vague, yet weighted. A planned meeting. A significant exchange. But no clear identifiers.
This wasn’t just a simple disruption request.
This was a power move.
And someone didn’t want the deal to happen.
He tapped the contract details once more, scanning for any sign of factional affiliation. Nothing. But Driftmourne’s power struggles were rarely subtle—if someone was making a move like this, it meant two things.
One: A faction wanted this deal crushed without getting its hands dirty.
Two: Whoever was involved in the meeting was important.
And if he had to guess?
The Hollowed Legion would be one of them.
His tail flicked once as he leaned back slightly. He had no direct proof yet, but the timing was too precise to be coincidence. They had already tested him once. They had let him walk away.
Now he was in their calculations.
Servius drummed his claws against the console. He had a choice to make.
If he accepted this contract, he was stepping deeper into the current. No more shadows. No more neutrality.
But he had never been one to drift.
He tapped the acceptance prompt.
The display flickered, processing. Then—confirmation.
Contract Accepted.
Briefing to follow.
Servius exhaled slowly.
Time to see what game was truly being played.
The Guild’s enclave was not a place for hesitation.
Deals were struck, alliances tested, and contracts sealed within its walls, all without wasted breath.
Servius followed the same path as before, but this time, he wasn’t just another mercenary taking work. He had been measured. He had drawn blood.
And now, his next move would be watched even more closely.
The briefing chamber was waiting.
Unlike the grand Gathering Floor, the room he stepped into was smaller, enclosed, designed for precision rather than spectacle. A central table—circular, smooth, dark—was the only feature, save for the pale, ambient glow of the overhead fixtures.
Across from him, a new face.
The envoy was not House Ankaris this time.
They were clad in layered void-leathers, reinforced at the seams, practical, tailored for movement rather than ornamentation. Their hands, gloved in fine mesh-weave, rested lightly against the table. Their face was uncovered—human, though marked with augmetic interfaces along the jawline, subtle but deliberate.
Not obviously a noble, nor a warrior.
A broker.
"Servius." The voice was smooth, calculated, but not hollow. This was someone who had spoken their way through a thousand deals, each one carrying weight. "Your reputation grows faster than most."
Servius didn’t sit. He leaned against the table slightly, measured but not relaxed. "I’m not here for compliments."
A small flicker of amusement in the broker’s gaze. "Then let’s move to the real matter."
The data-slate was produced with an ease that suggested practice. No flourish, no wasted motion. Straight to business.
Servius took it. The screen lit up with mission parameters—refined, expanded.
Mission Details:
Location: Substructure Level 19 – The Sink
Objective: Disrupt an exchange between unknown factions.
Primary Targets: Undisclosed.
Expected Resistance: Moderate to High.
Preferred Outcome: Exchange does not conclude. Method of disruption left to operative’s discretion.
Servius’s eyes flicked over the details. It confirmed what he already suspected.
This wasn’t just a cleanup job. Someone with power wanted this deal broken.
He exhaled through his nose. "This is vague."
"Deliberately," the broker replied. "If we knew everything, we wouldn’t need you."
Servius tapped a claw against the slate. "Then who wants this done?"
A pause. Then, a careful answer.
"The job is sanctioned through the Guild. The direct backer remains… undisclosed."
Servius’s tail flicked once, irritation pressing against the edges of his patience. "Undisclosed means powerful." His sharp green eyes didn’t waver. "But that’s not what I asked."
A pause. The broker’s lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but a flicker of amusement.
"You assume the name would change your course of action."
Servius tapped a claw against the data-slate. "I assume the name would tell me what I’m walking into."
Another pause. The broker tilted their head slightly, studying him with the careful interest of someone deciding how much to reveal.
Then—a single calculated omission.
"The one who sanctioned this believes in keeping the balance."
Not an answer. But not nothing, either.
Servius let the silence stretch, then gave the faintest nod. A test. A deliberate non-answer, which meant the answer mattered.
Not House Ankaris. Not the Hollowed Legion.
Someone else.
Someone who thought they had something to protect.
Fine. He could work with that.
"Why this exchange?" Servius pressed.
"Because it changes things."
He narrowed his eyes. "How?"
The broker exhaled softly, tapping a control on their own slate. The central display hummed to life, projecting a low-resolution schematic of the Sink—one of Driftmourne’s deepest levels.
It was a place of rot and ruin.
A cavernous graveyard of forgotten machinery, collapsed sectors, and corridors long abandoned by anyone with power. It had become a haven for those who operated outside the station’s fractured hierarchy—slavers, black-market traders, cult remnants.
A lawless sector, even by Driftmourne’s standards.
The broker gestured toward a flashing marker. The meeting point.
"Someone is making a move. A consolidation of power, perhaps. A purchase of information. Maybe something worse. What we do know is that the factions involved have kept this arrangement carefully hidden."
"And yet," Servius said, "you found out."
A slow nod. "Driftmourne has many ears. But even we do not know who all the players are. We need confirmation."
Servius absorbed the information. A secret meeting in a lawless sector. Two or more parties involved. Something worth hiding.
His instincts whispered a name before he even asked.
"The Hollowed Legion is involved."
It wasn’t a question.
The broker did not confirm it. But they also didn’t deny it.
"That," they said, "is what you’re going to find out."
Servius exhaled slowly. "And the preferred method?"
The broker spread their hands. "You are free to act as you see fit. If you can disrupt the meeting before it takes place, excellent. If you must eliminate those involved, that is acceptable. If you uncover information that is… useful to our employer, that will be considered as well."
Three options. Three paths.
- Preemptive disruption. Strike before the meeting occurs. Force the factions to scatter. Minimal risk, but minimal information gained.
2. Direct elimination. Let the meeting happen, then kill everyone involved. Messy. Dangerous. Effective.
3. Observe and extract. Let the exchange happen, gather intel, and decide who to act against. Risky—but valuable.
Servius drummed his fingers against the slate. His mind was already sorting through the variables.
If the Hollowed Legion was truly involved, then this was no simple trade.
And if the Guild had been brought in? That meant the exchange’s outcome mattered.
"Payment?" he asked.
"The standard contract rate is already arranged. Additional compensation for significant intelligence or high-value disruption."
Servius’s ears flicked slightly. They wanted more than just brute force.
Information. Influence. Leverage.
He could use that.
The broker studied him for a moment longer. "I assume you’ll be taking the job?"
Servius rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. No hesitation.
"It will be handled."
The broker inclined their head slightly. "Then may your steps be calculated, traveler."
The display shut down. The briefing was over.
Servius turned, stepping away from the table, the weight of the contract settling over him like the hum of a charged weapon.
Someone was making a move.
Servius was moving too.
Servius walked the dim corridors of the Guild’s enclave, the low hum of hidden mechanisms beneath the walls the only sound accompanying his footsteps.
His mind was already moving ahead. Past the briefing. Past the room.
Onto the mission.
The Sink.
Substructure Level 19. A graveyard of metal and forgotten things. A lawless sector buried beneath Driftmourne’s power struggles, where the lowest and most desperate found their last refuge.
It was no surprise a clandestine deal would happen there.
What was surprising was how little was known about it.
Unknown buyers. Unknown goods. Unknown motives.
Someone was moving in the shadows, and Servius suspected the Hollowed Legion was likely part of it.
The Cat’s tail flicked as he approached the docking corridors. He had work to do.
The Praedyth was waiting.
The Praedyth was quiet.
Not dead—just waiting.
Servius moved through the ship’s corridors, the hum of its systems brushing against his senses like a presence just out of sight. The Guild’s contract was locked in, the mission parameters set. Now, it was about execution.
He stepped into the armory, his coat slipping from his shoulders as he approached the weapon racks.
This job would be different.
The last contract had ended in blood and thunder. A moment of deception before a rapid descent into open violence.
This time? Control. Precision. No wasted movement.
The mission wasn’t just about disruption—it was about knowledge. The Guild wanted the deal broken, but they also wanted to know who was involved and why. That meant gathering information before the killing started.
If he was going to take out everyone involved, it needed to be done quietly.
He let his claws drift over his weapons. The bolt pistols had been perfect for overwhelming the Ash Vultures, but they had no place in this mission. They were loud, final. Not what he needed here.
He adjusted his loadout.
Primary – Longlas
High-powered. Silent. Precision over raw firepower. The Sink’s broken architecture would allow for line-of-sight ambushes, if needed.
Sidearm – Silenced Autopistol
Lethal. Quick. Subtle. Less power than a bolt pistol, but less noise. A weapon meant for clean kills, not statements.
Blade – Power Knife
Close. Personal. Absolute. The weapon of last resorts.
Explosives – Two Smoke Grenades
No frags. No sudden detonations. If things went wrong, the smokes would provide an exit.
Other Equipment:
Climbing Harness: The Sink’s pathways were unstable. He needed vertical mobility.
Comms Scrambler: If the factions involved were using short-range transmissions, he could disrupt them at the right moment.
Servius fastened his gear, checking the weight distribution. Everything within reach. Everything exactly where it needed to be.
Satisfied, he turned, moving toward the ship’s central console.
Servius settled into the Praedyth’s command chair, pulling up the station’s lower-tier schematics. The Sink was a place where things were left to be forgotten—and where those who wanted to be forgotten went to hide.
"Praedyth," he muttered. "Best route in and out. Priority: stealth."
The ship’s AI responded instantly.
"Northern ventilation shafts remain the most covert access point. Structural integrity is compromised, but low probability of detection. Alternative routes include collapsed access corridors and drainage tunnels, both with higher likelihood of encounters."
Servius’s tail flicked once. He considered the options.
Ventilation Shafts – Tight spaces, limited movement, but lowest risk of exposure.
Collapsed Access Corridors – Faster, more open, but more likely to encounter hostiles.
Drainage Tunnels – Less predictable. Wet, unstable, and could be crawling with scavengers.
No hesitation.
Ventilation shafts.
Slow. Careful. Unseen.
That meant no bulky gear, no unnecessary risks. Once inside, he would observe the deal. Gather names. Learn who was making moves in Driftmourne’s depths.
Then—when the moment was right—he would remove every last one of them.
Servius exhaled slowly, standing from his seat.
He was ready.
Now, it was time to disappear.
Driftmourne’s depths swallowed light.
Servius moved through the lower tiers of the station, slipping past the watchful eyes of scavengers, traders, and those too broken to care. Each level he descended stripped away another layer of civilization—such as it was—until the walls themselves seemed to rot.
The Sink waited far below.
His route took him through the industrial spine of Driftmourne, where old processing plants and abandoned refinery chambers had been repurposed into slums and hidden marketplaces. The air grew heavier with each sector, thick with the scent of burned metal, oil, and the cloying bite of stagnant water.
He passed through spaces long forgotten by the station’s ruling factions—collapsed corridors where the only inhabitants were malformed figures huddled around makeshift fires, void-born wretches with augmetics rusted into their flesh. Silent watchers.
Servius ignored them.
At one point, he slipped past a checkpoint—one of the many unofficial toll stations where minor gangs demanded tribute for safe passage. A half-dozen men stood guard, their armor scavenged, their weapons ill-maintained. They didn’t try to stop him.
Maybe it was the way he moved. Maybe it was the way he looked at them. Maybe it was something else.
He kept going.
At last, the corridors tightened, narrowing into something far older than the rest of the station. The smooth bulkheads gave way to welded layers of scavenged plating, ducts twisting through the walls like arteries. The pathways sloped downward, the air turning colder.
The entry point was ahead.
A rusted maintenance hatch, half-buried beneath a collapsed walkway. Unmarked. Unimportant. Unwatched.
Exactly what he needed.
Servius crouched, gripping the edge of the panel. A sharp pull, a grind of metal, and the hatch peeled open. Beyond it, darkness. The entrance to the ventilation shafts.
He slipped inside without hesitation.
The metal tunnel pressed close around him, the walls slick with condensed moisture and old industrial grime. He moved slowly, carefully, his body shifting through the space with controlled efficiency. The route was mapped in his mind—thirty meters forward, a left turn, then a vertical drop.
Each movement was deliberate. Every sound accounted for.
And then, just ahead—faint voices.
Servius stilled.
His ears flicked slightly, catching the rhythm of speech echoing through the ducts. Not close. Not directed at him. But present.
That meant he was near.
He exhaled through his nose and kept moving.
The final passage sloped downward, opening into a vent overlooking the sector below. Servius reached the edge, shifting to a crouch, his green eyes narrowing as he looked through the slats.
He had arrived.
The Sink was a corpse of a place.
The station’s upper levels had structure—twisted, corrupted, but still functional. The Sink had none. It was a broken landscape of collapsed bulkheads, twisted scaffolding, and the skeletal remains of long-dead machinery.
The air hung thick with moisture, the remnants of some failed climate control system that had long since decayed. Pools of stagnant water had collected in the lower recesses, reflecting the dim, flickering light of ancient glowstrips.
Most of the structures here were improvised, built from the husks of old voidcraft and collapsed station plating. Metal bridges stretched across deep pits of darkness, linking together makeshift strongholds and half-sunken market hubs.
This was where people came when they had nowhere else to go.
This was where deals were made in the dark.
Servius scanned the sector below, his sharp eyes picking out movement.
Scavengers moved in the distance, slinking through rusted pathways. A cluster of figures huddled around a fire, their faces gaunt, their bodies wrapped in patchwork voidsuits. Smugglers. Dealers. Killers.
And there—the meeting point.
A structure near the center of the Sink. Not a building, but a husk. The remains of an ancient cargo hauler, its hull torn open and repurposed into a gathering space. It was large enough to host a meeting, hidden enough to discourage outside eyes.
Servius’s instincts whispered through him.
This wasn’t just some meaningless exchange. Something important was happening here.
And he had come to see it unravel.