The soft hum of the Praedyth’s active systems filled the air, a low, familiar presence beneath the ship’s dim lights. Servius sat in the armory, his coat discarded beside him, his weapons stored away for now. His breathing was steady, measured, but the dull ache in his ribs reminded him of the cost of his last encounter.

  The medical drone hovered before him, its spindly limbs whirring as it deployed its diagnostic array. A pale blue light swept across his torso, mapping the extent of his injuries in intricate detail.

  A faint click as the drone adjusted its stance.

  “Subdermal bruising detected.” The drone’s flat, clinical voice echoed through the chamber. “Rib fractures. Third and fourth. Minor internal bleeding. Muscular strain. Recommended action: immediate treatment.”

  Servius exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder. “I figured as much.”

  A thin injector arm extended from the drone’s side, preparing to administer pain suppressants. But as soon as the device primed itself—

  A sharp, mechanical sputter.

  Servius’s ears flicked in irritation as the drone emitted a short error tone. Its injector clicked uselessly, the fluid chamber dry. Another of its limbs shifted, attempting to deploy a tissue regenerator, but the tool whirred weakly before failing entirely.

  “Error: insufficient medical reserves. Priority treatment unavailable.”

  Servius ran a clawed hand over his face. “You’re telling me this now?”

  The drone buzzed slightly, adjusting its stance. “Alternative treatments include prolonged rest and natural recovery. Probability of optimal healing: substandard.”

  Servius scowled. Typical. He had known the medical drone was barely operational after his last repairs, but now the extent of its deficiencies was clear.

  No stim packs. No clot-sealant. Not even enough to stabilize his ribs properly.

  Servius flexed his claws, tail flicking once against the side of the chair. The solution was obvious. Rest wasn’t an option—he had work to do. If the drone couldn’t fix him, then he’d fix the drone.

  “Praedyth,” he muttered, lifting his head toward the overhead console. “Catalog available vendors for medical supplies. Quality first, price second.”

  The ship’s response was near-instant.

  “Search parameters locked. Multiple vendors detected. Central market district yields the highest probability of suitable goods.”

  Servius exhaled through his nose. Straightforward. If he could secure the right equipment, he could repair the drone and handle future injuries without being stuck in this same situation.

  His sharp green eyes flicked toward the secured storage platform.

  And while he was at it…

  His tail twitched once. The reinforced case still sat there.

  Untouched. Sealed. Waiting.

  He had spent so much time dealing with the factions fighting over it, yet he had never actually laid eyes on what was inside.

  Now, with his wounds acknowledged and his mind sharpening past the exhaustion, the thought nagged at him.

  The Guild would pay him whether he opened it or not. But he had already learned that people expected him to peek.

  And more importantly?

  He needed to know.

  Servius pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the slight pull of pain along his ribs. His boots moved with steady, deliberate steps toward the platform, each footfall quiet against the Praedyth’s metal flooring.

  He reached the crate, claws trailing along its cold, reinforced surface.

  A moment of stillness.

  Then—

  He disengaged the lock.

  A low, mechanical hiss filled the air as the case’s internal pressure equalized, a faint coil of cold mist spilling from the edges. The temperature in the room dropped slightly, reacting to whatever was inside.

  Servius’s tail flicked once as he lifted the lid.

  The mist coiled outward like breath in frozen air, curling along the ground as the interior was revealed.

  And within, cradled in the smooth contours of a stasis field, was something terribly alive.

  Servius stilled.

  His sharp green eyes locked onto the shape inside—small, frail. A human infant, floating within the containment field. Its skin was sickly pale, its veins darkened with unnatural energy. Its form was suspended in a field of cold light, stasis shielding humming softly.

  But the worst part?

  The child’s eyes were open.

  Black. Empty voids.

  They did not blink. They did not react. But even through the stasis field, faint tendrils of psychic energy curled and twisted like unseen fingers reaching outward.

  A presence. A hunger. A thing that should not be.

  Possession.

  Servius’s body remained rigid, instinct screaming at him to recoil. This was not just a psyker—this was a weapon. A creature of both flesh and warpcraft, something engineered for a purpose beyond its own understanding.

  And now, it was his to hold.

  His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. His claws twitched slightly, a rare moment of unease slipping through him.

  Servius had killed daemons before. He had fought against things that clawed at the walls of reality.

  This was something worse. One given a physical form.

  He had expected a stolen artifact, something material—a cache of weapons, a data-vault, a relic of value.

  Not… this.

  His mind worked through the possibilities rapidly.

  Why was it here?

  Why was it traded?

  The Hollowed Legion had fought to obtain it. That meant they needed it for something—or worse, they feared what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands.

  Servius’s tail flicked, sharp and irritated. Damn them. Damn whoever had put this in his hands.

  He had no use for a weapon like this. Not unless he had no choice.

  His claws flexed against the edge of the case, instinct hissing at him to put it back where it belonged. Somewhere far from him.

  He sealed it shut.

  The stasis field remained undisturbed as Servius closed the case with a firm motion, locking it down once more.

  His breath came slower now, controlled. His ears flicked as he forced his mind past the unease settling in his chest.

  The case would remain here, in his hold.

  Sealed. Contained.

  But he had to wonder—for how long?

  Servius exhaled sharply through his nose, stepping away from the crate. His eyes flicked toward the secured med-supplies he had gathered so far.

  First things first.

  Fix the drone. Fix himself.

  He would get his payment.

  And he would get answers.

  Driftmourne’s lower tiers were still humming with the echoes of distant conflict, but within the Guild enclave, silence ruled.

  Servius stepped through the threshold, the familiar chill of the Guild’s halls pressing against his skin. The air was cooler here, cleaner, controlled—a stark contrast to the filth and chaos of the Sink. This was the true heart of power. Not in the open markets, not in the warzones, but here, in the places where decisions were made in whispers and sealed in blood.

  His body ached. The dull pull of bruised ribs, the slow burn of exhaustion in his muscles. His medical drone had managed only a temporary patchwork fix, enough to dull the worst of it, but not enough to erase it. He would deal with that later.

  For now?

  He was getting paid.

  The meeting chamber was the same as before—practical, sterile, devoid of excess. A place of business, not ceremony. And waiting at the circular table, clad in deep crimson, was the same envoy.

  The broker.

  Their expression remained unreadable, but Servius didn’t miss the way their gaze flicked not to him—but to his hands.

  No crate. No case. Only a data-slate.

  Good. That told him something.

  They knew what had been traded.

  But they didn’t know if he had opened it.

  Servius let the moment stretch before stepping forward. The data-slate containing the trade’s encrypted information slid onto the table with a dull metallic tap.

  "Intact," he said simply.

  The broker studied him for a moment before reaching for the slate, their long fingers tapping lightly against its surface. A slow, measured motion.

  "That much is clear," they murmured.

  A pause.

  "And yet… you took your time returning."

  Servius didn’t react. He had expected the veiled accusation.

  "I took as much time as was needed," he replied. His voice was even, giving nothing away.

  The broker’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in their black eyes. A calculation shifting.

  "Go on."

  Servius folded his arms, tail flicking once. "The Hollowed Legion didn’t just send mortal soldiers to oversee the trade. They sent an Astartes."

  A pause.

  The broker’s fingers stilled against the data-slate.

  That was the reaction he had been waiting for.

  "You killed one of their own?" they asked, voice smooth.

  Servius tilted his head slightly. "Would I be standing here if I hadn’t?"

  The broker exhaled—not quite a sigh, not quite amusement.

  "Of course not."

  They pressed a rune on the table, and a small holo-display flickered to life. A transfer confirmation. Payment. Standard Guild rates. No bonus.

  Fine. He hadn’t expected extra.

  The broker leaned back slightly, studying him.

  "You’ve proven yourself, traveler," they said, voice measured. "But I wonder…"

  Their dark eyes gleamed.

  "Did you truly think this was just another contract?"

  Servius’s tail flicked once. Annoyance.

  "And here I thought payment meant we were done talking."

  The broker’s lips curled slightly. Not quite a smirk.

  "This job wasn’t just given to you," they continued. "It was meant for you."

  Servius’s claws flexed slightly against the edge of the table.

  "And why is that?"

  The broker’s expression remained unreadable.

  "Driftmourne is a station of balance," they murmured. "Factions rise and fall. Power shifts. The right blade in the right place can tip the scales—or prevent them from tipping too far."

  They turned the coin between their fingers.

  Servius’s coin.

  He narrowed his eyes and checked the secret compartment on his belt where the coin should be.

  It was still there.

  Servius looked back up to see the broker with nothing in their hands.

  "You were marked the moment you accepted that token. The moment you entered the game, the pieces began to move around you."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose.

  "And who exactly is moving them?"

  The broker’s smile did not reach their eyes.

  "Now, that would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?"

  Silence.

  Servius’s claws tapped lightly against the table.

  He had expected half-truths. But this? It was just annoying.

  They hadn’t just offered him a contract. They had been waiting to see what he would do.

  Fine.

  He could play along—for now.

  His hand flicked toward the holo-display, confirming the payment transfer.

  "Direct deposit," he muttered. "No delays."

  The broker inclined their head. "Naturally."

  Servius turned, stepping away from the table.

  "You’re taking a break, then?" the broker called after him.

  He didn’t pause.

  "Not a break," he murmured. "Just taking a different job."

  The market district of Driftmourne was a cacophony of noise, scent, and motion. A place where commerce never truly stopped, where the air was thick with the scent of burned metal, recycled air, and the acrid tang of cheap incense masking something far less pleasant.

  Servius moved through the shifting crowds with purpose, not haste. His movements were precise, his sharp green eyes scanning the layout of the sector with practiced efficiency. He had been here before. He knew how to navigate it.

  The Central Bazaar sprawled out before him like a tangled web of steel and neon, its winding pathways marked by stalls overflowing with tech components, weapon mods, contraband, and luxuries smuggled from a hundred dying worlds. Vendors shouted, deals were struck, threats exchanged, all blending into the dull roar of a city built on necessity and ambition.

  But Servius was only here for one thing.

  Medical supplies.

  His ribs still ached—a deep, persistent throb beneath the surface that reminded him he was still not at his best. He needed stim packs, clot-sealant, tissue regenerators. Enough to fix himself now and to ensure the drone wouldn’t fail again when he needed it most.

  The right merchant wasn’t hard to find.

  A low-end augmetic vendor had a side trade in field-grade medical gear. His stall was an ugly patchwork of battered plasteel, exposed wiring, and stolen Imperial supply crates. He barely looked up as Servius examined the wares, selecting what he needed with methodical precision.

  A short negotiation. A credit transfer. No questions asked.

  The merchant pocketed his earnings, barely sparing Servius another glance. That was the way of Driftmourne—so long as you paid, no one cared who you were.

  Servius secured the supplies in his coat and turned away, his ears flicking slightly as he shifted back into the tide of moving bodies.

  One task complete.

  But as he walked, his instincts prickled.

  Someone was watching him.

  Servius didn’t react outwardly, but his tail flicked in silent irritation. A trained shadow would be quieter, more careful. Whoever this was, they weren’t here to kill him. Not yet.

  He let them follow.

  A few turns through the market, past the deeper sectors where the air was stale with recycled filtration, and then—

  A figure stepped into his path.

  Not a threat. Something else.

  A tall, robed figure, their form draped in the muted hues of mechanized crimson. Their movements were precise, calculated. Not quite human, not quite machine.

  A Mechanist.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose, stopping just short of them.

  “Traveler.” The voice was modulated, filtered through a vox-emitter, but not hostile.

  Servius tilted his head slightly, his sharp green eyes narrowing. “I assume you’re here for a reason.”

  The Mechanist inclined their head ever so slightly. “Your ship.”

  Servius didn’t react, but his claws flexed slightly beneath his coat.

  He should have expected this.

  The Praedyth was too clean. Too perfect compared to the wreckage of Driftmourne’s usual starships. And the Mechanists? They craved understanding. They hoarded knowledge.

  And now, they wanted his ship.

  The Mechanist continued, their voice smooth. “We have an interest in… unique vessels.” A pause. “Your ship qualifies.”

  Servius folded his arms, tail flicking once in irritation. “If you want inside, you’re wasting your time.”

  A slight pause.

  “Not inside. The exterior.”

  That was different.

  Servius considered. His ribs still throbbed. He was tired. He needed rest, real treatment. And if the Mechanists were willing to offer something in return…

  A calculated trade.

  His ears flicked. “What do I get?”

  The Mechanist’s head tilted slightly, as if analyzing him.

  “You will be compensated. Supplies, services, perhaps future cooperation.” A pause. “And time to recover.”

  They knew.

  Servius exhaled slowly. A faction that could be useful.

  Fine.

  “One condition,” he murmured.

  The Mechanist inclined their head.

  Servius’s sharp green eyes locked onto them.

  “No attachments. No surveillance. No tracking.”

  Another pause. Then—a slight nod.

  “Accepted.”

  Servius rolled his shoulder, feeling the dull pull of bruised ribs beneath his coat.

  “Then we have a deal.”

  The Mechanist gestured smoothly.

  “Lead the way.”

  The Praedyth’s landing struts settled against the docking bay’s reinforced deck, the faint hum of its engines fading into the controlled silence of the berth. The Mechanists moved without wasted motion, their augmented limbs unfolding, multi-jointed servo-arms extending with precise, mechanical efficiency as they began their work.

  Servius watched them from the boarding ramp, his tail flicking once in mild irritation as they spread out around his ship. The dull ache in his ribs had worsened since his walk through the market, but he had learned to endure worse.

  The Mechanists were careful. They did not touch the hull—not yet. Instead, they observed. Scanners unfolded from their robes, silent pulses sweeping across the Praedyth’s surface. The ship responded subtly, its energy field shifting—watching them back.

  Servius narrowed his eyes. He had always felt that the Praedyth was more than just a ship—now, he was sure of it.

  A thin-fingered Mechanist, his face a lattice of augmetic implants, turned his head slightly. "You may enter. We will not interfere with your vessel's systems."

  Servius said nothing.

  With a last glance toward the robed figures surrounding his ship, he ascended the ramp. The doors hissed shut behind him, sealing the Praedyth from the outside world.

  Inside, the ship’s atmosphere was calm, cool—controlled. The hum of its core pulsed steadily, as if acknowledging his return. Servius’s ears flicked slightly as he made his way to the medical bay.

  Time to fix this.

  The small, spindly drone hovered from its station, reacting to his presence.

  "Medical intervention reinitiated," it droned. "Additional supplies detected. Processing treatment protocol."

  Servius removed his coat and weapons belt, settling onto the reinforced chair in the ship’s compact med-bay. His claws flexed slightly as he leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose.

  The drone extended a scanning arm, a faint blue light sweeping over him.

  "Bruising and micro-fractures remain," it reported. "Internal stabilization required. Administering pain suppression and tissue regeneration compound."

  A small injector arm whirred as it extended—this time, functioning properly. A sharp, brief sting as the compound entered his bloodstream, followed by a spreading cool sensation beneath his skin. The pain in his ribs dulled—not gone, but manageable.

  Another limb extended, applying clot-sealant over the worst contusions.

  "Expected recovery time: three cycles. Recommend minimal exertion."

  Servius exhaled slowly. "Noted."

  He tilted his head slightly, watching the drone work. It had improved—its repairs had made it more efficient, more in tune with his needs. But there was still a strange connection between them, something lingering from when he had woven his intent into its broken framework.

  It was more than just following protocols. It was… adjusting to him.

  Servius’s sharp green eyes flicked toward the console overhead. "Praedyth."

  A soft pulse of energy ran through the ship.

  "Confirm external activity."

  A brief pause. Then, the ship’s smooth, synthetic voice responded:

  "The Mechanists remain within expected observational parameters. No direct interface attempts detected."

  Good.

  Servius let his eyes close for a moment, breathing steadily. The drone’s final adjustments were smooth, precise—the mechanical equivalent of a practiced hand sealing a wound with practiced ease.

  "Treatment complete," it announced. "Further action unnecessary unless injury worsens."

  Servius rolled his shoulder slightly. The ache was still there, but the sharpness had dulled.

  It was enough.

  He stepped down the boarding ramp, adjusting his coat as he surveyed the Mechanists at work. Their movements were efficient—calculating, but deliberate. None of them made any unnecessary gestures, and none had yet touched the ship’s hull directly.

  The robed figure leading the study—the same thin-fingered Mechanist from before—turned slightly at his approach. "Your vessel is… unique."

  Servius’s tail flicked once. "So I've noticed."

  The Mechanist did not react to the dry remark. Instead, his multiple augmetic lenses whirred and adjusted, as though attempting to read something unseen. "We have never observed a structure quite like this before," he continued. "Your vessel lacks standard construction patterns, yet it is not purely xenos in design."

  Servius folded his arms, watching them carefully. "And?"

  The Mechanist gestured with one hand, and a holo-slate activated in his other. A projection of the Praedyth hovered in the air, its form overlaid with shifting data-streams. Strange readings flickered across the display—subtle energy fluctuations along the ship’s plating, pulse patterns that did not align with any conventional power source.

  "Your ship resists standard analysis," the Mechanist stated. "There is an energy signature we cannot fully quantify. It is neither Warp-based nor entirely mechanical in origin. It adapts to interference." His augmented eyes flicked toward Servius. "It reacts to you."

  Servius’s ears flicked slightly, but his expression remained neutral. This was not entirely unexpected. He had always known the ship was different—far more than just a machine. But the fact that even the Mechanists, with all their knowledge of lost technologies, were struggling to define it…

  That was new.

  He exhaled through his nose. "So, do you have an answer, or just more observations?"

  The Mechanist did not look offended. "Observations lead to answers. Given time."

  Servius considered that. He hadn’t expected immediate results, but the Mechanists were persistent. If they were given too much time, they would start reaching their own conclusions—ones that might not work in his favor.

  The robed figure tilted his head slightly. "We would like to conduct deeper scans—full-spectrum analysis, direct interface attempts."

  Servius shook his head immediately. "Not happening."

  A pause.

  "You are protective of this vessel," the Mechanist noted, his modulated voice carrying no emotion. "Unusual, for a simple mercenary."

  Servius’s tail flicked. "It's mine. That’s all that matters."

  The Mechanist regarded him for a long moment. Then, he inclined his head slightly. A calculated withdrawal.

  "Very well," he said. "We will honor the agreement as it stands—external scans only." His holo-slate flickered, shifting the projection. "However, we would like to offer something in return for further cooperation."

  Servius raised a brow. "That depends on what you're offering."

  The Mechanist tapped a command into his slate. A new projection appeared—an encrypted data file.

  "This is an old archive," he explained. "Recovered from an Imperial research vessel that was lost in the Driftmourne sector decades ago. It details certain experimental voidcraft principles—ones that might interest you."

  Servius’s gaze sharpened slightly. He doubted the Mechanists were giving him the full truth, but even partial knowledge of lost technology could be useful.

  Still, he didn’t move immediately. Information always came with a price.

  "What’s the catch?"

  The Mechanist’s lenses adjusted again. "A minor request. Allow us to conduct long-range telemetry scans while your vessel is in operation. No direct interface, no invasive measures."

  Servius considered it. A fair trade, as long as they weren’t lying.

  And if they were? Well, the Praedyth had a way of dealing with intrusions.

  "Fine," he said at last. "Long-range scans only. You try anything more, and the deal’s off."

  The Mechanist inclined his head once more, his servo-limbs retracting. "Understood."

  The agreement was made.

  As Servius turned back toward his ship, he could feel their gaze lingering on him. They wanted more than just knowledge of the ship.

  But for now, this was all they would get.

  The Praedyth remained stationary, its sleek, unblemished hull a stark contrast to the industrial decay of Driftmourne’s lower docking sectors. Servius sat within the ship, rolling his shoulder carefully, feeling the ache that had settled deep in his ribs. The Mechanists had completed their scans—at least the ones he had allowed.

  But they hadn’t left.

  The ship’s internal comms pulsed with a soft alert.

  “External visitor approaching. Mechanist designation.”

  Servius exhaled through his nose. Not unexpected. He adjusted his coat, stood, and descended the boarding ramp.

  Waiting for him at the edge of the docking bay was the lead Mechanist—his thin-fingered hands clasped before him, the multi-jointed servo-limbs beneath his robe folded in unnatural stillness.

  “You remain a subject of interest,” the Mechanist said smoothly.

  Servius folded his arms, his tail flicking once behind him. “I don’t recall asking to be.”

  The Mechanist’s augmetic lenses whirred slightly, adjusting as if scanning him anew. “No. But interest and necessity are rarely aligned.”

  Servius narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t about the ship anymore.

  “What do you want?”

  The Mechanist gestured subtly toward a small, flickering holo-emitter in his hand. The projection stabilized, revealing a compiled security report—grainy footage, partial vox-exchanges, fragmented logs. Images of the aftermath of the trade site.

  More importantly—images of the Hollowed Legion’s response.

  Servius’s ears flicked forward. The Legionnaires were already moving. He had expected that. But what caught his attention was the distortion in the records—deliberate obfuscation. Some of the data had been altered. His presence at the trade had been erased.

  A false signature, a fabricated energy discharge. Evidence had been rewritten to imply a rival mercenary outfit, not him.

  His green eyes flicked toward the Mechanist.

  “I assume this is your work?”

  The Mechanist inclined his head ever so slightly.

  “The Hollowed Legion’s information pathways are… vulnerable to recalibration.” A slight pause. “We ensured their conclusions aligned with what was most beneficial.”

  "Beneficial to whom?" Servius muttered.

  The Mechanist tilted his head. "To us. And now, to you." A pause. "And we would ask something in return."

  There it was.

  Servius’s tail flicked once in irritation. "I knew this wasn’t just charity."

  The Mechanist did not deny it. "Beneath Driftmourne is a ruin. A structure with… irregularities. We believe it shares properties with your vessel."

  Servius narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

  "Not here." The Mechanist’s voice remained even. "Vault Pier Six. Two cycles."

  A long silence.

  Servius exhaled through his nose. The Hollowed Legion wasn’t after him. That was an advantage.

  But now he owed the Mechanists. That was a problem.

  He nodded once, short and sharp. "Fine."

  The Mechanist’s lenses whirred. "Then we are in agreement."

  Servius turned, ascending the ramp, letting the doors seal behind him. He exhaled sharply.

  The Hollowed Legion had been dealt with. For now.

  But now, something worse was waiting.

  He had a new decision to make.

  Would he take the Mechanists’ offer?

  Or would he keep the Praedyth’s secrets exactly where they belonged?

  Buried.