The Sink breathed in silence.

  Servius remained still, crouched in the ventilation shaft, his body coiled like a predator in waiting. Through the narrow slats of the vent, he had a perfect vantage over the meeting site below—a gutted cargo hauler, its skeletal frame repurposed into a den of whispered deals and unseen agreements.

  He had spent enough time watching men barter in the dark to recognize the shape of the game before it was played. This was no desperate trade between scavengers. The air here was too controlled. The movements too measured.

  This was power shifting hands.

  Servius adjusted his position slightly, his longlas pressed against his shoulder, the sight aligned down into the rusted structure. He let his sharp green eyes scan the players assembling below, sifting through details, dissecting movements.

  They were present. That much had already been expected.

  Three of them stood near the hauler’s exposed framework—two mortals and one Astartes. The mortal soldiers were easy to pick out, their armor reinforced with Legion-standard void-plate, weapons slung but ready. Their movements were stiff, professional. Disciplined in a way that most mercenaries were not.

  Then there was the Astartes.

  His armor was worn, scarred from wars older than anyone in the Sink, but it held no insignia—only the remnants of a past that had long since been erased. He stood motionless, save for the slow, calculated movements of his helmet as he scanned the surroundings.

  Servius narrowed his eyes. If the Hollowed Legion had sent one of their warriors to oversee this meeting, it meant the exchange was more than just important—it was vital.

  And that meant whoever was on the other side of this deal was no ordinary player.

  The other side arrived five minutes later.

  No heraldry. No clear identifiers. But their presence spoke volumes. Five men, clad in dark void-leathers, their faces partially obscured by rebreathers and visors. Their leader, a tall figure wrapped in a long, insulated coat, carried himself with quiet authority.

  Servius watched his body language. Not a mercenary. Not a scavenger. Someone with structure. Someone who wasn’t used to being at a disadvantage.

  The Hollowed Legion did not react with hostility to their presence. No weapons were raised. No immediate challenge was issued. That alone was telling.

  This was not the first time they had met.

  The leader stepped forward, facing the Legion representatives with measured calm. When he spoke, Servius barely caught the words through the faint echo of the ducts.

  "You have what we need?"

  The Legionnaire did not answer immediately. Instead, one of the mortal soldiers gestured toward a reinforced case resting near their feet. A container. Roughly the size of a small weapons cache. Sealed. No markings.

  Something worth hiding.

  Servius’s tail flicked once. This wasn’t currency. This was a trade.

  Which meant whatever was in that case was just as valuable as whatever was being offered in return.

  The leader of the unknown faction nodded, signaling to one of his men. The figure stepped forward, producing a data-slate, the screen flickering with unreadable script.

  Servius shifted slightly, adjusting his sightline. A transaction of information, then.

  That changed things.

  This was an exchange of knowledge.

  And in Driftmourne, knowledge was worth more than any relic, any cache of stolen arms.

  It was leverage. It was control. It was power.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose.

  He was patient. He would let them speak.

  The Astartes finally moved.

  He was deliberate, slow, calculated. The slight incline of his helmet as he regarded the data-slate was measured, a subtle shift that suggested he already knew what it contained but wanted to see it for himself. His gauntleted fingers took the device, and for a long moment, he simply stood there.

  Then he turned the screen toward his own men.

  "Confirm it."

  The mortal soldier nearest him stepped forward, pulling a thin cable from his wrist-mounted augmetics and slotting it into the slate’s interface. His eyes fluttered slightly as the data streamed directly into his implants. Seconds passed. Then—

  "The files match the initial request."

  The Astartes nodded once before turning his helmet back toward the unknown leader.

  "Then the exchange is complete."

  The man in the insulated coat did not respond immediately. His hands remained at his sides, his posture calm, but Servius saw the slight tightening of his jaw. He was wary.

  He did not trust the Hollowed Legion.

  "What is your intent with this information?" the leader asked finally.

  The Astartes tilted his head ever so slightly.

  "It is not your concern."

  A pause.

  The unknown leader exhaled through his rebreather, the sound barely audible through the distortion.

  "We would rather avoid unnecessary complications."

  "Then you should leave."

  Servius watched the exchange with sharp focus. The words themselves were simple, but the meaning behind them was not.

  The Hollowed Legion had gotten what they wanted.

  The unknown faction had gotten what they wanted.

  And yet, there was an imbalance here.

  The Legionnaire was already prepared to leave. That meant the data they had been given was valuable—perhaps more valuable than what they had provided in return.

  The unknown leader knew it too. He had expected something different.

  Servius narrowed his eyes. This was important.

  The Legion had played them.

  It wasn’t a trade. It was a purchase.

  The Legion had given them something of value, yes—but not of equal value. And now that the transaction was complete, they had no further interest in discussion.

  That was dangerous.

  The unknown leader hesitated, then gestured to his men.

  "Very well."

  They began to withdraw, stepping back toward the rusted walkways leading out of the Sink.

  The Hollowed Legionnaires did not move immediately. The Astartes remained where he was, his posture unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

  Only when the other group had put several meters between them did he finally incline his head toward his own men.

  "We leave."

  The mortal soldiers obeyed instantly.

  Servius exhaled slowly.

  Now was the moment.

  Had he acted earlier—had he fired the first shot before this exchange was complete—he would have lost everything. The data-slate, the case, the deeper meaning behind what had just transpired.

  Now, he understood.

  The Hollowed Legion was positioning itself for something.

  They had outmaneuvered their trading partner. They had obtained information that was worth far more than what they had given away. And they had done it knowing that the other party wouldn’t dare challenge them in the moment.

  That meant the Legion was planning something bigger than a simple power shift.

  Something that required knowledge.

  Something Servius had just gained a window into.

  He flexed his claws against the grip of his longlas.

  Now came the next move.

  He had waited. He had gathered the truth of the deal.

  Now, he would claim it all for himself.

  His sharp green eyes flicked between the two departing groups.

  Who to follow first?

  Who to strike first?

  Who would die first?

  Servius watched in silence as the two factions parted ways, each disappearing into the fractured pathways of the Sink’s ruins. The Hollowed Legionnaires moved with unshaken purpose, their discipline unbroken, while their so-called trading partners were different. Their steps were tense. Uneven. Unsettled.

  The unknown faction had lost in that exchange.

  They hadn’t expected it, but they had lost all the same.

  Servius knew what came next.

  They would return to their own hidden enclaves, unravel the data they had been given, and realize the depth of the deception too late.

  Or worse—they already suspected it.

  And if they did? That meant they wouldn’t simply vanish into the dark. They would react. Seek retribution. Try to correct the imbalance.

  That was a problem.

  Because Servius had no interest in them complicating what was to come.

  His sharp green eyes flicked over the terrain, tracking their movements. Five men, still close together, heading east through a decayed causeway that sloped downward into the Sink’s lowest tunnels. A maze of collapsed walkways, rusted bridges, and fractured bulkheads.

  They were making distance.

  They had no reason to expect immediate danger.

  Good.

  Servius moved.

  His body was fluid, a shadow slipping back through the ventilation ducts as he repositioned himself, moving ahead of them before dropping down into the ruins below. The terrain was his ally. The Sink was labyrinthine, the pathways uneven, twisting, perfect for an ambush.

  By the time they passed beneath the scaffolding where he had taken position, Servius was already aiming down the scope of his longlas.

  One breath.

  One shot.

  The first man never saw it coming.

  The las-bolt punched through his visor with pinpoint precision, the energy searing straight through flesh and bone before bursting out the back of his skull in a faint mist of vaporized matter.

  His body crumpled mid-step.

  A sharp intake of breath from the others.

  Too late.

  Servius fired again.

  The second man staggered as the shot burned through his throat, his hands clawing at the wound in a silent, useless attempt to stop the inevitable. He collapsed sideways against a corroded support beam, his lifeblood steaming into the cold air.

  The group panicked.

  Weapons were drawn.

  Servius was already gone.

  He moved before their minds could even process where the shots had come from, shifting across the upper framework of the ruins, taking new ground, never lingering. His tail flicked once, the exhilaration of the hunt sharpening his focus.

  The remaining three scrambled for cover, pressing themselves against the rusted remains of an old hull section, their heads snapping back and forth as they tried to find him.

  Good. Stay confused.

  One of them made a mistake.

  He peeked too far from cover, searching for the unseen threat.

  Servius rewarded his curiosity with a las-bolt through the left eye socket.

  The body twisted as it hit the ground.

  Two left.

  The survivors were breathing hard now, their weapons clutched tightly, their paranoia mounting. One of them muttered something—a curse, a desperate prayer, maybe. It didn’t matter.

  They had already lost.

  Servius exhaled slowly, holstering his longlas.

  Time to finish this up close.

  A flick of his hand.

  A smoke grenade clattered against the metal floor near them, hissing as thick plumes of gray mist poured into the air.

  One of them shouted, panicked. The other fired blindly into the fog.

  Servius moved through it.

  The first never had a chance.

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  He barely had time to register the shape emerging from the smoke before Servius’s power knife punched into his side, slipping between his ribs, slicing through organs with mechanical ease.

  A gurgled exhale.

  The blade twisted.

  The body fell.

  One left.

  Servius pivoted, his sharp eyes locking onto the last man standing.

  The survivor turned, gun raised, wild terror in his movements—

  Too slow.

  Servius caught his wrist, wrenching the weapon aside before driving his knee into the man’s abdomen. The breath was ripped from his lungs as he staggered, doubling over just in time for Servius to slam him against the nearby bulkhead.

  A crack of impact.

  The weapon fell from his hands.

  Servius pinned him there, claws gripping his throat just tight enough to keep him where he was. The man’s eyes were wide, darting in every direction, seeking escape that did not exist.

  "You don’t get to run," Servius murmured. His voice was low, calm. "You don’t get to hide."

  The man choked, struggling.

  Servius loosened his grip just enough for him to speak.

  "P—please," the man gasped. "I—I don’t even know what was traded—"

  That was interesting.

  Servius tilted his head.

  So they weren’t fully aware of what the Hollowed Legion had given them.

  That confirmed something.

  The trade hadn’t been about mutual exchange—it had been about manipulation.

  The Hollowed Legion had given them something, yes. But they hadn’t been honest about what it was.

  Servius pressed harder against the man’s throat. "Then what were you after?"

  A desperate, garbled sound.

  "Orders—just to secure it—nothing else—"

  Servius could hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest. Smell the fear in his sweat.

  Weak.

  Useless.

  Not worth keeping alive.

  He drove his knife into the man’s gut and twisted.

  A soft, wet gasp.

  Then silence.

  Servius let the body slide down the bulkhead before stepping back, exhaling through his nose as he flicked the blood from his blade.

  No alarms. No reinforcements.

  The job was done.

  He turned his gaze downward, scanning the ground until he found what he was looking for—the data-slate one of them had been carrying.

  It was still active.

  Servius knelt, picking it up, his sharp green eyes flicking over the encrypted display. He turned it over, feeling its weight. There would be information here. A digital trail of whatever deal they had just walked into.

  This was his now.

  His tail flicked once as he tucked the device into his belt.

  He had cleaned up the loose ends.

  Now, it was time to turn his attention to the Hollowed Legion.

  The three Legionnaires continued to travel away, maintaining their formation as if waiting for some unseen signal. They were moving deeper into the Sink, away from the ruins, toward an unknown destination.

  Servius followed.

  His movements were careful, methodical. His padded steps barely made a sound against the fractured walkways as he trailed them from above, shifting across rusted gantries and collapsed ducts. They were disciplined, their movements crisp, purposeful—trained soldiers, not simple mercenaries.

  That made them dangerous.

  Which meant they had to be isolated before they were eliminated.

  Servius reached into his belt, his claws brushing against the smooth surface of his comms scrambler.

  He pulled it free, activating it with a quiet flick of his thumb. A faint pulse emanated from the device—undetectable to human ears but devastating to vox-links and encrypted signals.

  Their connection to the Hollowed Legion was now severed.

  No reinforcements. No calls for aid.

  They were alone.

  And they didn’t even know it yet.

  The Legionnaires were moving through a collapsed sector of the Sink, navigating through the remains of what had once been a cargo storage bay. Twisted metal and shattered bulkheads formed a maze of half-standing structures, creating natural choke points.

  Servius shifted position, keeping to the high ground as he stalked them, his longlas held steady in his grip. He studied their formation, searching for weaknesses.

  The leader—the Astartes—moved in the center. Not at the front, not at the back. That was telling. He was confident in his control over the situation, letting the lesser soldiers move ahead and behind him.

  A mistake.

  It meant that the two mortal Legionnaires were his first targets.

  Servius exhaled slowly, settling his scope over the rearmost soldier.

  One shot.

  One clean shot.

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  A whisper of energy.

  The las-bolt punched clean through the back of the soldier’s skull, exiting through his visor in a flash of seared flesh and shattered glass.

  The body staggered mid-step, then collapsed forward, face-first into the dust.

  The other two reacted instantly.

  The forward soldier whirled around, weapon raised—

  Servius fired again.

  The shot burned through his chest, the force of the impact slamming him backward into a collapsed bulkhead. He let out a choked sound, his weapon slipping from his fingers as he sank to the ground, twitching once before falling still.

  Two down.

  One left.

  Servius adjusted his grip on his rifle, shifting his aim to the Astartes—

  But the Legionnaire was already moving.

  Fast.

  Faster than a man in power armor should be able to move.

  Servius barely had time to reposition before the Astartes rolled into cover behind a rusted container, avoiding the next shot.

  The hunter had become the hunted.

  Servius’s tail flicked once, irritation pressing against the edge of his thoughts.

  No matter.

  This was still his fight.

  He kept moving, shifting across the high ground, never lingering in one place for too long. The Astartes couldn’t afford to stay pinned down, which meant—

  There.

  A flicker of motion. A blur of ceramite shifting between cover.

  Servius anticipated the movement, adjusting his position as the Astartes darted from behind his temporary cover, bolter raised—

  Servius fired.

  A las-bolt seared across the Legionnaire’s shoulder, sending a flash of scorched ceramite and blackened flesh into the air.

  The Astartes grunted but did not stop.

  Servius was already repositioning.

  He moved through the ruins like a ghost, his body slipping between the rusted bulkheads and shattered plating of the old cargo bay. The stink of oil, stagnant water, and scorched metal filled the air, masking his scent as he hunted through the dark.

  The Astartes was still out there. Wounded, but alive.

  That was a problem.

  Not because of the wound—Servius had seen enhanced soldiers push through worse—but because of who he was.

  The Hollowed Legion were not impulsive fighters. They were calculated. He wouldn’t panic. He wouldn’t rush blindly.

  He would adapt.

  Which meant this fight was not going to be won by trading shots.

  Servius exhaled slowly, centering himself as he crouched behind a rusted pipeline. The silence had stretched between them now. No footsteps. No gunfire.

  The Astartes was waiting, too.

  A stalemate.

  The remains of the cargo bay were a battlefield built for one kind of combat—movement warfare. Tight corridors, high vantage points, a mix of concealment and lethal sightlines.

  The Astartes might have superior endurance, but Servius had speed, precision, and the advantage of terrain.

  He flexed his claws slightly against the grip of his autopistol, his tail flicking once as he mapped the battlefield in his mind.

  There were three possible exits from this section of the ruins. The Astartes would know that. He would be moving toward one, positioning himself for a counterattack.

  But which one?

  Servius’s sharp green eyes flicked toward the ground.

  Tracks.

  Even in the low light, the slight indentations in the dust told a story. The weight of ceramite armor left subtle disturbances—ones that Servius could read like a map.

  East.

  He turned, slipping through the shadows.

  The Astartes had taken cover behind a collapsed container stack, wedged between two skeletal support beams. It was the best defensible position in the area—limited angles of attack, reinforced cover, and a clear line of fire to any approaching threat.

  It would have been a problem.

  If Servius played by the same rules.

  Instead, he circled wide, climbing.

  His climbing harness ensured silence as he scaled the rusted framework of a collapsed gantry, rising above the battlefield. His breath remained steady, his claws gripping onto jagged metal as he moved into position.

  He spotted the Legionnaire’s form below— motionless, bolter steady, waiting for a mistake.

  Waiting for Servius to attack from the front.

  Servius smirked.

  His tail flicked once, activating his comms scrambler again.

  A fresh pulse of disruption filled the air.

  The Astartes twitched. A small reaction—barely perceptible—but it told Servius everything.

  The disruption wasn’t just affecting his ability to call for backup.

  It was interfering with his armor’s systems.

  His visor. His tracking. His autosenses.

  He was blind.

  Servius moved.

  Fast.

  He dropped down behind the Astartes, knife in hand.

  But the Legionnaire wasn’t caught completely unaware.

  The moment Servius landed, the Astartes reacted.

  With inhuman speed, the bolter swung around—not to fire, but to smash.

  Servius barely twisted in time. The weapon slammed against his ribs, a solid mass of ceramite that sent a jolt of pain lancing through his side. If he had been slower—if he had been anything less than what he was—the impact would have shattered bone.

  Instead, he rolled with it, claws scraping against the floor for balance, using the force of the hit to pivot into a counterstrike.

  The Legionnaire was already lunging.

  Servius dodged left—not fast enough.

  A gauntleted fist clipped his shoulder, driving him backward. The power behind the blow sent him sliding against the ruined metal flooring, boots skidding against rusted debris.

  Pain flared in his side. A cracked rib? Maybe. It didn’t matter.

  The Astartes was still advancing.

  No hesitation. No wasted motion. A machine of war.

  But he was fighting at a disadvantage. And that was enough.

  Servius moved.

  The Astartes’s next strike came—faster, stronger. A killing blow.

  Servius ducked, rolled— and in the same motion, his power knife lashed out.

  The blade punched under the arm plating, slipping into the joint between ceramite and flesh.

  The Legionnaire grunted, a deep, inhuman sound—part pain, part fury.

  Servius twisted the knife, ripping it free. Blood hissed against the edge of the weapon as he sprang backward, avoiding the counterstrike.

  The Astartes did not slow.

  Instead of recoiling, he lunged forward.

  Servius barely managed to sidestep, but the Legionnaire's bulk clipped him, the sheer weight sending a fresh shock of pain through his side.

  The bolter came up.

  Servius’s tail snapped out, striking the weapon’s trigger guard before the shot could fire.

  A fraction of a second.

  But fractions of seconds were how fights were won.

  The Legionnaire’s grip shifted— off balance for a moment.

  Servius took it.

  He surged forward—knife in one hand, silenced autopistol in the other.

  The blade plunged into the Astartes’s neck joint, just beneath the helmet, driving through the reinforced bodysuit and into vital tissue.

  The Legionnaire jerked.

  Not dead yet.

  A massive hand clamped onto Servius’s arm, squeezing with bone-crushing force.

  Pain flared. Servius’s vision blurred for a half-second.

  He snarled, forcing himself through the pain, forcing his arm forward.

  Another twist of the knife.

  The grip loosened.

  Servius ripped the blade free, and in the same motion—

  The autopistol fired.

  A final shot, point-blank—the silenced round punching through the weakened plating at the base of the skull.

  The Astartes staggered.

  Then, at last—collapsed.

  Servius exhaled, stepping back from the fallen Legionnaire.

  His chest rose and fell steadily, suppressing the dull ache in his ribs.

  The Astartes had fought well.

  Not well enough.

  Servius crouched, pulling the knife free, wiping the blood against the Astartes’s scorched cloak.

  It was done.

  Three Hollowed Legionnaires dead.

  But Servius was not finished.

  He had time.

  Time to search the bodies.

  Time to collect whatever secrets they had left behind.

  And time to disappear before the next hunter came looking.

  Servius stood amidst the wreckage of the exchange, the bodies of the Hollowed Legionnaires cooling in the stagnant air of the Sink. The scent of blood, burned metal, and ozone clung to the air, mixing with the damp rot of the lower levels.

  No alarms. No distant reinforcements.

  No one knew yet.

  His comms scrambler had ensured that.

  But that wouldn’t last forever.

  Servius exhaled through his nose. His ribs ached, his muscles burned, but he ignored the discomfort. He had work to do.

  The exchange was in ruins, but there was still one thing left to claim.

  Servius approached the reinforced container and crouched beside it, his claws tapping against the surface. Still sealed.

  No markings. No identifiers. No obvious locks.

  Whatever was inside, it was important.

  And now it was his.

  Servius stood, the case secured in his grip. His mind was already working through the next steps.

  He had two priorities now: Leave the Sink undetected, and decide what to do with the case.

  The first was simple—he had planned his exit well. The ventilation shafts were still the best option, allowing him to slip away unseen. The bodies would be discovered eventually, but by then, he would be long gone.

  The second…

  Servius’s tail flicked once.

  This was a crossroads.

  Deliver the case to the Guild as proof of the job’s success? That would ensure payment, bolster his reputation. But it would also mean giving up whatever was inside.

  Or… open it?

  He had seen the envoy’s reaction after the last mission. House Ankaris hadn’t known if he had peeked inside the crate. They had only been waiting for him to admit it.

  Would the Guild know if he broke the seal?

  Would they care?

  Servius’s claws flexed slightly against the case.

  He had options.

  He just needed to decide before the next players entered the game.

  The Sink was silent, but that silence wouldn’t last forever.

  Servius turned, stepping away from the blood-soaked ruins of the meeting.

  It was time to disappear.