A steady hum. A deep, mechanical thrum, low and constant, vibrating through his bones.

  Servius drifted between wakefulness and unconsciousness, his mind caught in the strange limbo between exhaustion and forced recovery.

  He was alive.

  That much, he was sure of.

  His body ached—a dull, persistent weight pressing against his ribs, his spine, his limbs. It was a familiar pain, the kind earned through survival. The kind that said, You made it through. Barely.

  Something cool pulsed against his neck. Medicae injections. His muscles tingled faintly from their effects—an automed system working to dull the worst of his injuries. A mechanical hiss accompanied a faint pressurization shift in the air. He wasn’t alone.

  Servius opened his eyes.

  Harsh lumen strips overhead cast a sterile glow across a reinforced medical bay. The walls were stark, lined with Mechanist diagnostic stations and monitoring augurs. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mixing with the faint tang of burning metal. A repair bay, not a hospital.

  His vision sharpened.

  Arohk-7 stood at the far end of the chamber, reviewing a data-slate. Their long, skeletal fingers tapped against the interface in steady intervals. Their crimson robes, normally pristine, bore the subtle scarring of their recent encounter—burn marks, small tears where impact had warped the reinforced fibers. Their head tilted slightly as they noticed him stir.

  "Awake," Arohk-7 noted, their vox-filter steady.

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders carefully. Bruised, stiff, but functional. He glanced toward his right arm.

  The augmetic limb was gone.

  Not completely—its skeletal framework remained, but the plating had been stripped away, the intricate cybernetics beneath half-exposed. Ruined servos twitched uselessly, the entire assembly locked in place by an external stabilizer. Thick cabling ran from his elbow to a diagnostic console nearby, where a low, unreadable data-stream pulsed across the screen.

  Servius flexed his remaining fingers slightly. No response.

  "Status?" he muttered.

  Arohk-7’s lenses flickered. "Extensive damage. Repairable, but the integrated systems suffered catastrophic failure. The limb requires full recalibration and reinforcement."

  Servius sighed, tilting his head against the support of the med-station. "And how long is that going to take?"

  Arohk-7's fingers paused against their data-slate. "Standard repairs would take multiple cycles. However, an alternative option exists."

  Servius already knew what they were going to say. He could feel the price of survival pressing down on him before they even spoke.

  "The Mechanists require further access to the Praedyth in exchange for expediting repairs," Arohk-7 stated. Their tone remained neutral, but Servius could tell they had anticipated his resistance.

  Servius’s tail flicked once in irritation. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

  So that was the cost.

  It wasn’t a demand—not outright. The Mechanists weren’t foolish enough to try and strong-arm him. But they had leverage now.

  And they knew it.

  Servius flexed his good hand against the med-table’s surface. "Define ‘further access.’"

  Arohk-7 regarded him carefully. "Direct physical examination of the Praedyth’s outer hull, structural analysis, and a limited interface with non-critical subsystems." A pause. "Your previous restrictions regarding core systems will be honored. For now."

  Servius’s ear flicked at the last part.

  For now.

  He turned his head slightly, looking past Arohk-7 toward the sealed med-bay doors. He could already imagine the Mechanists circling his ship, their minds filled with endless curiosity, trying to dissect its secrets one layer at a time.

  Servius exhaled slowly.

  "You’re not going to stop, are you?" he murmured.

  Arohk-7 did not answer immediately. Instead, they tilted their head ever so slightly, as if considering their words carefully.

  "The Praedyth is anomalous," they said finally. "It defies standard classifications. It is of interest. And interests must be understood."

  Servius let silence stretch between them for a long moment.

  He wasn’t a fool. He knew that this was inevitable. He had kept them at arm’s length for as long as possible, but this mission had forced his hand.

  He needed his arm back.

  The Mechanists needed access.

  A trade.

  Servius exhaled through his nose. "Fine."

  Arohk-7 inclined their head slightly, as if they had already expected his agreement. They tapped a command into their slate, sending an authorization signal through the chamber’s linked systems.

  "Repairs will commence immediately," they said.

  Servius didn’t reply. He simply laid back against the med-station, letting the weight of the deal settle over him.

  The Mechanists had won much today.

  A series of mechanical clicks echoed through the med-bay as the repair systems activated. Servius kept his expression neutral as the diagnostic rig surrounding his damaged arm shifted position, locking his limb in place. He had been through augmetic repairs before, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed them.

  Arohk-7 monitored the process from the adjacent terminal, their long fingers adjusting the interface with calculated precision. Streams of data flickered across the holo-display—structural integrity assessments, failed servo pathways, neural feedback recalibrations. The damage was extensive, but not irreparable.

  The first step was removal.

  "Initiating nerve-severance protocol," Arohk-7 stated.

  A faint hiss of pressurized coolant coursed through the stabilizers attached to his elbow. A second later—pain.

  Servius clenched his jaw as a sharp, ice-cold shock ran through the ruined limb. His fingers twitched involuntarily before the sensation vanished entirely, his neural pathways severed from the broken augmetic. A mechanized hiss followed as the damaged frame of his arm disengaged, segments retracting before being fully detached.

  The weight of the missing limb hit him instantly.

  Servius exhaled slowly. He had never been without it often since the day it was installed. Even in maintenance cycles, he had always ensured it remained connected, functional, part of him.

  Now, he felt the absence. Felt incomplete.

  Arohk-7 observed him for a moment, then resumed their work.

  "The level of resistance we encountered was greater than projected," they said evenly, beginning the next phase of repairs. Their servo-limbs adjusted fine-tuning elements in the remaining interface ports, ensuring clean connections for the replacement augmetic. "Your perspective on this outcome?"

  Servius exhaled through his nose, letting his muscles relax as the automated systems moved around him.

  "They were waiting," he said. "Not active, but ready."

  Arohk-7's lenses flickered. "Elaborate."

  Servius closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to the battle.

  "They didn’t act until something triggered them. Not just us arriving—something deeper. Something that responded the moment I got close." His tail flicked absently against the medical table. "It wasn’t just random security. It was preservation instinct."

  Arohk-7 was silent for a moment. "And the final intelligence?"

  Servius didn’t answer immediately. His mind returned to the moment—the shattered AI, the fragmented data stream, the lingering sense of something more.

  Finally, he muttered, "Dead."

  It wasn’t a lie.

  But it wasn’t the full truth, either.

  The machine had let him kill it.

  Machines didn’t do that. Not unless… they were something else.

  Servius didn’t like that thought.

  Arohk-7 studied him for a long moment, then returned to the repairs. "An anomaly. One that will require further study."

  Servius didn’t respond.

  He doubted they would ever find an answer—because he had erased it.

  The auto-surgeon’s arms whirred as it prepared the replacement limb. The new augmetic was similar in shape to his original, but its inner components were different. He could tell at a glance—some parts had been reinforced, others optimized. It was still his arm, but it had been altered.

  Upgraded.

  Servius’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You added something."

  Arohk-7 did not pause their adjustments. "Modifications were required to ensure full functionality. Your previous augment was custom—its structural integrity needed improvement."

  Servius’s tail flicked once. "And what else?"

  Arohk-7’s lenses remained impassive. "Enhanced articulation response. Integrated stabilization for ballistic weapons. Adaptive recalibration protocols." A brief pause. "Standard improvements."

  Servius held their gaze for a long moment.

  The Mechanists had changed his arm, not just repaired it. He hadn’t had a choice in the matter.

  But he needed it.

  And that was the cost.

  The connection ports clicked into place.

  A surge of sensation flooded through his nerves as the augmetic interfaced with his nervous system. The first jolt was pain—sharp, electric. Then it eased, replaced by the familiar weight of his limb. He flexed his fingers, watching as the actuators responded instantly. Smoother. Faster.

  His claws curled.

  It felt good.

  And that was the part that unsettled him.

  Arohk-7 deactivated the med-bay’s repair systems, stepping back. "Integration complete."

  Servius sat up, rolling his new wrist experimentally. No resistance. No strain. A perfect fit.

  He flexed his fingers once. Then twice. The movement was too smooth—too perfect.

  The servos responded almost before he had even fully committed to the motion. There was no mechanical delay, no microsecond of recalibration that all augmetics had. It just… moved.

  His tail flicked as he turned his hand over, inspecting the reinforced plating. The Mechanists had optimized everything—but had they optimized it for him?

  Servius clenched his fist. It happened instantly.

  He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

  He exhaled through his nose and swung his legs off the table. "Then I’m done here."

  Arohk-7 inclined their head slightly. "The Mechanists will begin their analysis of your vessel shortly."

  Servius said nothing. He simply stood and made his way toward the exit.

  He would make sure they didn’t find more than they needed to.

  Servius exhaled slowly as he walked up the boarding ramp of the Praedyth. The cool, sterile air inside the vessel was a stark contrast to the recycled atmosphere of Driftmourne. It was always like this—calm, controlled, detached.

  He didn’t like how much it felt like returning home.

  The boarding ramp sealed behind him with a quiet hiss. The hum of the ship’s systems greeted him, a familiar undercurrent of power running through the bulkheads.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  For a brief moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

  But that was a lie.

  Servius flexed his new augmetic hand as he stepped into the dimly lit corridors. It was his arm, but it wasn’t. The Mechanists had altered it, added to it, improved it. He could feel the difference in every movement. Smoother. Faster.

  Just like they wanted.

  He had given up something, even if he couldn’t name what.

  And now, he was about to give up something more.

  He made his way toward the command deck, each footfall steady against the polished flooring. The ship remained silent, waiting, watching.

  Servius reached the central console and placed a clawed hand against the interface. He didn’t need to speak.

  It was already listening.

  "Praedyth," he muttered.

  A pulse of energy ran through the ship’s systems, the quiet acknowledgment of something far too aware.

  “Listening.”

  Servius’s tail flicked slightly. No hesitation. No unnecessary pretense.

  "Mechanists want to study you."

  A pause. Then—

  “Clarify: Scope.”

  Servius exhaled. "External analysis. Structural composition. No internal access, no direct interfacing."

  Another pause.

  Then, the ship responded.

  “Purpose?”

  Servius narrowed his eyes. He had expected resistance, but not questions. Praedyth wasn’t refusing outright—it was weighing the situation.

  "They repaired my arm," he said. "I owe them something."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Servius could feel the ship thinking.

  Finally—

  “Unnecessary.”

  Servius’s claws flexed against the console. "Not to them."

  The response came smoothly, without inflection.

  “Their knowledge will not aid you.”

  Servius exhaled sharply through his nose. "Maybe not. But refusing them makes it worse."

  The ship did not answer immediately.

  For a moment, he wondered if it would refuse him entirely.

  Then, at last—

  “Conditional agreement.”

  Servius’s ears flicked. "Terms?"

  “External scans only. No direct systems interaction. No unauthorized personnel beyond designated access points.”

  Servius nodded. That was about as much as he could have hoped for. "Fine."

  A brief pulse of confirmation ran through the ship’s systems.

  Then—nothing.

  As if the conversation had never happened.

  Servius withdrew his hand from the console, rolling his shoulder slightly. His augmetic fingers flexed with unnatural ease. Too smooth. Too perfect.

  He ignored it.

  Instead, he moved toward the lower deck, where the pict-feeds would give him a direct view of what the Mechanists were doing.

  The external feeds flickered to life as Servius settled into the chair in his private quarters. The screens displayed a dozen different angles of the Mechanists moving around the Praedyth’s hull—some with auspex scanners, others with servo-limbs unfolding in delicate, precise motions.

  Servius watched in silence.

  The Mechanists were thorough, but careful. Their movements were clinical, detached, reverent in a way that made Servius uneasy. They treated the ship like a relic, not just a vessel.

  Servius’s sharp gaze flicked across the screens, watching every adjustment, every scan. They were staying outside the parameters the Praedyth had set—for now.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  How much control did he really have?

  Over the Mechanists? None.

  Over the Hollowed Legion? Even less.

  Over this ship—this thing that he flew, fought in, relied on?

  His tail flicked once.

  He liked to think it obeyed him.

  But the Praedyth had always been too cooperative. Not servile. Not submissive. Just… willing.

  And that was the part that unsettled him.

  The ship had given its consent, but it had done so because it chose to.

  Not because he made it.

  Servius exhaled slowly, watching the pict-feeds as the Mechanists continued their work.

  For now, they found nothing.

  But one day—

  Someone would.

  And when that day came…

  He had no idea what the Praedyth would do.

  A soft chime broke the silence.

  Can I ever have a moment of peace?

  Servius’s sharp green eyes flicked toward the control panel at his desk. His fingers hovered over the interface for a moment before he exhaled through his nose and keyed the connection.

  The screen shifted. The grainy, static-laced projection of a masked figure filled the display. The insignia on their chestplate was unmistakable.

  House Ankaris.

  Servius leaned back slightly, his tail flicking once in irritation. He wasn’t surprised.

  The Ankaris family ran one of the largest syndicates in Varrn’s Shroud. Their operations stretched across a dozen warzones, their contracts spanning from industrial sabotage to full-scale planetary incursions. They usually sent all their requests through the Guild.

  If they were calling him directly, it meant they wanted something specific.

  The figure on the screen inclined their head slightly. Their voice was filtered through a vox-modulator, smooth and calculated.

  “Greetings Servius. We have some work that may be of interest.”

  Servius studied the projection, weighing his response.

  “What do you offer?”

  The figure let out a quiet chuckle. “Just a small job.”

  Servius didn’t smile. “And you needed me specifically?”

  A brief pause. Then—“Not particularly. We simply figured you would appreciate a first chance. There is a key problem we are encountering.”

  Servius exhaled slowly. “What kind of problem?”

  The masked figure leaned forward slightly.

  “The kind that requires someone like you.”

  That told him enough.

  Servius drummed his fingers against the desk, glancing at the pict-feeds displaying the Mechanists still working on the Praedyth. He didn’t have time for another contract. Not yet.

  But House Ankaris didn’t deal in simple requests. If they were calling him now, they had already decided he was the best option.

  That meant ignoring them wasn’t an option.

  Servius’s voice remained level. “I need details.”

  The figure nodded. “One of our supply lines has been compromised. A shipment of high-value assets disappeared en route to a secure location. The circumstances suggest…”

  A pause.

  “…outside interference.”

  Servius raised a brow. “Pirates?”

  “No.”

  The masked figure’s tone was unreadable.

  “Something worse.”

  Servius narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “You’re being vague.”

  “We have reason to believe this was an orchestrated attack. Not a random raid.”

  Servius’s ears flicked slightly. That changed things.

  House Ankaris had enemies—too many to count. They thrived in the chaos of Driftmourne’s underworld, but that chaos came with its own risks. If someone was deliberately targeting their supply lines, it wasn’t just about theft.

  It was about sending a message.

  And House Ankaris never tolerated that.

  Servius exhaled through his nose. “And you want me to find out who did it.”

  “We want you to find them and remove them. Permanently.”

  Servius tilted his head slightly.

  “What’s the payout?”

  The figure didn’t hesitate.

  “Seventy-five thousand. Half up front.”

  Servius’s ears flicked forward. That was a lot of money. More than usual Guild rate.

  Which meant House Ankaris was desperate.

  He considered it. The Mechanists were still busy with the Praedyth. His augmetic arm was just repaired and needed a test run.

  This job could be useful.

  If House Ankaris was dealing with an organized attack, that meant someone was making moves in Driftmourne’s political scene.

  Servius tapped his fingers against the desk.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The masked figure chuckled again.

  “You don’t have long.”

  The screen went dark.

  Servius exhaled, running a clawed hand over his face.

  A contract worth that much was tempting.

  But something about this job felt… wrong.

  The money was good. Too good.

  And when something seemed too good?

  It usually was.

  He leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes flicking back to the pict-feeds of the Mechanists moving across the Praedyth’s hull.

  One thing at a time. The Mechanists were a problem. The Hollowed Legion was a threat. But House Ankaris?

  They were a gamble.

  The warship Atramentus Rex loomed above Driftmourne’s orbital ring, a brutal relic of the Long War. A ship built for sieges, not patience. It hung in the void like a wounded predator, scars of ancient battles etched deep into its hull.

  Within its command chamber, Valcair stood before a massive hololithic array, the cold glow of data-feeds casting his armored form in flickering shadows. A warrior’s mind sharpened by an engineer’s precision.

  The Hollowed Legion had bled for the trade. One of their own, a true son of Olympia, had been cut down.

  They had secured the battlefield, claimed what little remained—but the most important piece of the puzzle was missing.

  The cargo.

  He had called in a favor to gain access.

  And someone had taken it.

  A rasping voice cut through the chamber’s heavy silence.

  “The Mechanists are lying.”

  Valcair did not turn. He did not need to. The voice belonged to Drelk Var, his second in command—an Astartes who had long since replaced more of his flesh than most would consider sane.

  The ex-Warsmith studied the fractured data-feeds before him, observing the corrupted pict-logs and fragmented sensor readings. Deception woven into every layer.

  The Mechanists had altered the security records before the Hollowed Legion could seize them. Pict-feeds erased. Weapon signatures misattributed. Even explosion yields falsified.

  An impressive effort.

  But not perfect.

  “We have something.”

  The words came from the chamber’s central auspex station, where an augmented Data-Seeker worked tirelessly. His cybernetic limbs twitched as his systems parsed countless data streams, reconstructing what had been lost.

  A segment of unfiltered security footage flickered onto the hololithic display.

  Low resolution. Heavily degraded.

  But not entirely useless.

  A lone figure, moving with practiced efficiency, stepping outside the primary engagement zone.

  Valcair’s gaze darkened as the Data-Seeker continued.

  “Facial recognition is unreliable. Augmetic interference and low-visibility factors reduce certainty.”

  He adjusted the data-feed, refining the search parameters. The system whirred, recalculating.

  Then—

  [IDENTIFICATION MATCH – 87.3% PROBABILITY]

  A name populated the screen.

  [SERVIUS]

  Valcair’s fingers flexed against the reinforced plating of his gauntlets.

  The name was unfamiliar to him—but that meant nothing. The true architects of failure were rarely the ones in the spotlight.

  This mercenary had walked away from the battle with something. And now, the Mechanists were shielding him.

  Drelk Var’s mechanical rasp cut in again. “A single mercenary is of no consequence.”

  Valcair tilted his head slightly, his voice even. “Then why is he still alive?”

  Silence settled over the chamber.

  The answer was obvious.

  If this Servius was just another hired gun, he would be dead. The Mechanists, paranoid hoarders of knowledge, would not protect him without reason.

  Which meant he was valuable.

  Which meant he knew something.

  Valcair turned from the hololith, his gaze shifting toward the void beyond the viewing panel. The station below held the answers.

  “We recovered fragments of energy displacement signatures from the docks near the incident,” the Data-Seeker added, shifting to another data-feed. “Most readings align with Mechanist vessels and Hollowed Legion forces.”

  Valcair did not react. That was expected.

  “But there’s something else,” the Data-Seeker continued. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his synthesized voice. “A separate power signature. Isolated. Distinct.”

  A new readout appeared on the hololithic display. A field resonance that did not belong to any ship registered in the Driftmourne sector.

  Valcair’s fingers flexed. “Not Mechanist.”

  “No.”

  His gaze flicked toward the partial name still visible in the degraded security logs. [SERVIUS]

  The probability calculation remained at 87.3%.

  Valcair’s red-tinged optics narrowed.

  “Send the signal to our operatives on Driftmourne.”

  Drelk Var nodded. “What are their orders?”

  “Find him.”