The underbelly of Driftmourne was alive with whispers.

  It always was.

  Information flowed like oil through the station’s veins—thick, slow, and often tainted. The right ears could catch a name, a location, a trace of something valuable. The wrong ears could find themselves severed, their owners left to bleed out in some forgotten maintenance shaft.

  And tonight, the Hollowed Legion was listening.

  The towering transhuman figure, clad in a patchwork of warplate and exposed augmetics, stalked through the dim corridors of one of Driftmourne’s many trade districts. The Hollowed Legion rarely deployed their Astartes directly in matters like this—subtlety was not their strongest trait—but Drelk was different.

  He had long since abandoned the excessive ornamentation of the Legion’s past, stripping himself down to pure function. His armor was darkened, matte, free of ostentation. Half his face was replaced with augmetic plating, the exposed machinery of his jaw clicking faintly as he scanned the faces of the gathered crowd.

  Driftmourne was neutral ground in name only. Power shifted hands between mercenary lords, rogue Mechanists, and syndicate operators on a daily basis. That made it the perfect hunting ground.

  Behind him, two figures moved like shadows—Eramos and Luthik, operatives of the Legion’s Vigiles Obscura. They were specialists, chosen for their ability to track and eliminate targets without drawing unnecessary attention. Both were augmented, but in ways that allowed them to blend into Driftmourne’s populace.

  Their mission was simple.

  Find Servius. Confirm his involvement. And if necessary—eliminate him.

  Drelk came to a halt outside a small data exchange terminal. The neon sigil above it flickered intermittently, the low hum of failing power cells buzzing in the stale air. A handful of dockworkers loitered nearby, exchanging hushed words over ration packs and cheap stim injections.

  He turned his red-tinted optics toward the smallest of them—a scrawny man with augmetic eyes, his thin fingers drumming nervously against the surface of a rusted cargo crate.

  Drelk approached with the inevitability of a closing vice.

  The dockworker stiffened. He knew something.

  Eramos and Luthik fanned out slightly, positioning themselves to cut off any escape routes.

  Drelk Var spoke.

  “You lost someone.”

  The worker’s fingers twitched. His breathing hitched. A thousand possible denials must have rushed through his mind, but none came fast enough.

  Drelk took another step forward, looming over him. His mechanical jaw clicked once, a sharp sound of metal against metal.

  “Who was he?”

  The dockworker swallowed hard. “I—no one. Just a hauler. Took the wrong shift, that’s all.”

  Luthik, standing just behind him, exhaled a dry chuckle. “And yet, he didn’t come back. You filed a missing persons report, didn’t you?”

  The man’s augmented eyes flicked to Luthik, then back to Drelk. He was trying to calculate an escape, an excuse.

  Eramos intervened first.

  A small dataslate flickered to life in his hand, displaying an uncensored version of Driftmourne’s official records—something no ordinary citizen could have accessed. It showed the name of the missing dockworker. The timestamp of his last logged shift. And a single, grainy pict-feed of him near one of the Mechanists’ restricted docks.

  Drelk Var tilted his head slightly.

  The dockworker broke. “He… he said he saw something. After the firefight in the lower sections, after the—after you people left. He saw a ship leave. Said it wasn’t Mechanist. Said it wasn’t Hollowed Legion either.”

  Drelk’s augmetic fingers flexed. “And then?”

  The dockworker’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And then someone shut him up. No one’s seen him since.”

  Drelk exchanged a glance with Eramos. That aligned with their own findings—security feeds had been tampered with, key witnesses had gone missing, and someone had been thorough in erasing traces of what had really happened.

  But not thorough enough.

  Drelk leaned in slightly. “The ship he saw. Describe it.”

  The dockworker hesitated.

  Luthik sighed and placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t make us waste time, friend.”

  A second passed. Then another.

  Then—

  “Dark hull. Smooth. No markings. Fast.” The dockworker’s voice was barely audible. “Didn’t move like a normal ship. Almost… silent.”

  Drelk’s optics flickered. That was confirmation.

  The Praedyth.

  He straightened. “Who else knows?”

  The dockworker shook his head quickly. “No one. I swear. People around here don’t ask questions, especially not when someone goes missing. I just—”

  Drelk silenced him with a small, precise motion of his hand.

  The worker stopped talking immediately.

  Eramos and Luthik exchanged silent glances before stepping back into the deeper shadows. Their work here was done.

  Drelk, however, lingered just long enough to ensure the man understood one thing.

  “Forget this conversation.”

  The dockworker nodded hastily. His lips trembled as if he wanted to say something else, but Drelk was already turning away.

  The Legion did not linger. They never had to. Fear did their work for them.

  In a darkened chamber beneath one of Driftmourne’s many abandoned infrastructure blocks, Eramos interfaced directly with a compromised data-node.

  The station’s security had been altered. Erased, rewritten. The Mechanists had done their best to remove any trace of what had happened during the battle for the ruins.

  But data had a way of leaving echoes.

  Eramos’s fingers moved in rapid sequence, adjusting the encrypted data-stream, bypassing Mechanist firewalls one layer at a time. He wasn’t trying to break the system—just listen to its remnants.

  Then, something surfaced.

  A distorted pict-feed. Time-stamped shortly after the battle ended.

  A lone figure, walking away from the wreckage.

  The Hollowed Legion had already analyzed the official records, and this image had not been included.

  The figure was tall, lean, and moved with deliberate efficiency. Augmetic limb. Agile stance. A tail flicking once in irritation as they disappeared into the deeper tunnels of Driftmourne.

  Eramos locked the image in place, cross-referencing it against the probability analysis running on their ship’s main auspex arrays.

  [IDENTIFICATION MATCH: 89.1%]

  [SUBJECT: SERVIUS]

  Eramos exhaled slowly through his mask. He turned toward Drelk and Luthik, his red-lensed optics reflecting the flickering data-feed.

  “We have him.”

  Drelk nodded once, slowly.

  Servius had evaded them once. He would not do so again.

  They would watch. Learn. And when the time came—he would not see it coming.

  The contract details were sparse.

  That was the first warning sign.

  Servius had worked with House Ankaris before. Their jobs were rarely simple, but they were always thorough. Supply raids, personnel extractions, industrial sabotage—whatever the mission, they ensured every variable was accounted for.

  But this time, the information package was thin.

  Servius leaned against the Praedyth’s command console, sharp green eyes scanning the flickering dataslate in his hands. A location marker. A brief mission statement. No breakdown of forces. No known enemies. Just a disappearance and an order to eliminate those responsible.

  His tail flicked once, irritation curling at the edge of his thoughts.

  That wasn’t how House Ankaris operated. They paid for precision, not blind hunts.

  Servius set the dataslate down and exhaled through his nose. He was being tested.

  The Praedyth had been listening.

  Servius knew it before he even spoke.

  He turned his gaze toward the central interface, feeling the weight of unseen attention settling over him.

  “You’ve seen the details.”

  A pause. Then—

  “Yes.”

  The ship’s voice was calm, as always. Measured. Controlled.

  But not indifferent.

  Servius exhaled slowly. “What’s your assessment?”

  Another pause. He could almost hear the calculations running beneath the surface.

  “Incomplete. Deceptive. Hostile intent probability—high.”

  Servius’s claws tapped idly against the console. That aligned with his own suspicions.

  “Think it’s a trap?”

  A longer silence, then—

  “Yes.”

  Blunt. Absolute.

  Servius rolled his shoulders, feeling the faint hum of his new augmetic limb responding with unnatural ease. The Mechanists had done something to it. He still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

  He turned his attention back to the contract details. House Ankaris had offered seventy-five thousand. That was more than just good pay. That was desperation.

  And desperation always led to complications.

  He leaned forward, bracing his hands against the console. “We need to know who’s really behind this.”

  The ship remained silent, waiting.

  Servius straightened. “I’ll meet with them. In person.”

  The Praedyth’s systems pulsed with a faint energy shift. Not disagreement—calculation.

  Then, the response came.

  “Caution advised.”

  Servius exhaled through his nose. He didn’t need the warning.

  He already knew.

  The meeting was set for one of Driftmourne’s lower districts, deep within the Basilica of Ash.

  A former trade hub, before one of the many border conflicts had shattered its infrastructure. Now, it was a decaying maze of industrial ruins, filled with scavenger crews, rogue merchants, and those who operated outside of the station’s more regulated sectors.

  Perfect for a discreet conversation.

  Servius navigated the winding corridors with practiced ease, his lithe stance allowing him to move silently across the uneven flooring. The weight of his weapons was a familiar comfort—twin pistols holstered at his sides, power knife secured at his thigh.

  A contract this vague meant things could go wrong. Fast.

  His ears flicked at the distant sound of machinery grinding in the station’s depths. The Basilica of Ash was half-abandoned, but it was never empty. Shadows lingered in the ruined structures above, unseen eyes watching every traveler who passed below.

  Servius didn’t react. He had been watched before.

  The designated meeting point was a collapsed manufactorum, its roof partially caved in, exposing rusted scaffolding and dangling power cables. At its center, beneath the dim glow of failing lumen-strips, a single figure waited.

  House Ankaris rarely sent their higher-ranking members for negotiations like these. They preferred proxies. People whose faces meant nothing, people who could disappear once the deal was struck.

  This one was different.

  The masked figure standing beneath the ruined scaffolding wasn’t a proxy. Servius could tell by the way they stood—controlled, confident, untouchable.

  This wasn’t just a messenger.

  This was House Ankaris itself.

  Servius stopped a few meters away, his expression unreadable. His tail flicked once in irritation.

  The figure inclined their head slightly, their voice smooth through the vox-modulator.

  “You came alone.”

  Servius smirked faintly. “Should I be worried about that?”

  The figure chuckled, low and amused. “That depends. Do you trust the people of this station?”

  Servius’s sharp green eyes remained locked on them. “No.”

  And I trust you even less.

  He didn’t say it, but the thought coiled in his mind like a loaded trigger.

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  The figure gestured toward a reinforced crate beside them. “Your down payment.”

  Servius didn’t move. “You’re paying me before I even accept?”

  A small shrug. “We believe in incentives.”

  Servius exhaled slowly through his nose. This wasn’t normal. Not for Ankaris.

  “Tell me about the shipment.”

  The figure tilted their head slightly. “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  A pause. Then, the figure gestured toward a nearby rusted bench, as if inviting him to sit. Servius didn’t.

  “An asset was taken from us,” they said finally. “We believe it is still on Driftmourne, but standard recovery methods have been… ineffective.”

  Servius narrowed his eyes. “Define ‘asset.’”

  The figure’s silence was answer enough.

  Servius’s jaw tightened slightly. They weren’t talking about simple cargo. Not weapons. Not credits.

  Something House Ankaris wanted hidden.

  He exhaled. “Who took it?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Another lie.

  Servius’s tail flicked. “Then why hire me?”

  The figure’s mask tilted slightly. “Because you excel at finding things people don’t want found.”

  That much was true.

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  Servius considered his options. This job was dangerous—too dangerous. House Ankaris wasn’t telling him everything, and that meant walking in blind.

  But the money was good.

  And more importantly—if this asset was worth hiding, it was worth knowing.

  Servius’s green eyes flicked toward the crate. The down payment. Seventy-five thousand total for a retrieval and elimination contract.

  Not a bad payout, but was it worth the risk?

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Where do I start?”

  The figure chuckled again. “We were hoping you’d ask.”

  Driftmourne was always shifting. Deals were made and unmade in dimly lit corridors, wealth and power exchanged in coded phrases and half-truths. The weight of countless betrayals clung to the air, and in places like these, survival depended on knowing who was watching.

  Servius moved through the lower districts with calculated ease. His newly repaired augmetic adjusted seamlessly with each motion—too seamlessly. The servos responded almost before he had committed to movement, like the Mechanists had tuned it for something beyond simple combat efficiency.

  It felt too perfect.

  He hated how natural it was. The way it reacted before he had even fully committed to movement. A piece of himself, altered by another’s hand.

  But right now, he had bigger concerns.

  The Guild outpost was nestled between two decrepit hab-spires, its entrance disguised as yet another nameless shopfront. No real markings, no identifiers. Only those who needed to find it ever did. Servius approached without hesitation, the concealed door sliding open with a faint hydraulic hiss.

  Inside, the Guild’s Driftmourne branch was a machine of quiet precision. Vox-operators coordinated contracts, bounty lists flickered across holo-displays, and hired guns checked their weapons in the waiting areas. The air was thick with the smell of oil, metal, and the faint tang of ozone from active shielding protocols.

  The Guild kept things efficient. That’s what made it work.

  Servius barely acknowledged the other mercenaries as he strode through, his sharp green eyes scanning the central operations hub. Most were just like him—contractors, killers, specialists in dirty work. Some had the look of veterans, their augmetics worn from years of use, weapons settled into their holsters with the ease of muscle memory. Others were fresh, newer hires, hungry but uncertain.

  None of them mattered.

  Servius was looking for one person.

  A familiar figure noticed him first.

  Karthis Drel, an enforcer of the Guild, lifted his head from a console, his augmented eyes locking onto Servius with mild interest. He was broad, built like a walking fortress, with a brutal mix of cybernetics and scar tissue marking decades of work in the trade. Unlike most of the Guild’s more discreet agents, Karthis preferred an overt approach—intimidation over subtlety.

  “You’re back early,” Karthis grunted, his deep voice carrying through the outpost’s low din.

  Servius didn’t slow. “Got tired of waiting.”

  Karthis let out a dry chuckle. “That mean you’re looking for more work?”

  Servius shook his head. “Already have a job.”

  Karthis raised a brow. “House Ankaris?”

  Servius exhaled. “You hear things fast.”

  “The Guild hears everything.” Karthis leaned forward, resting his heavy cybernetic arm on the desk. “And from what I hear, you’re walking into a pile of trouble.”

  Servius said nothing.

  Karthis smirked slightly, though it was a humorless expression. “That shipment they lost? No one’s talking. Not the informants, not the usual scavengers. House Ankaris pays enough credits to make corpses disappear, but even this is unusual.”

  Servius had already suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed made the irritation in his chest tighten.

  He had accepted the contract, but the lack of details was beginning to feel deliberate.

  Karthis studied him for a moment. “And you’re still taking the job.”

  Servius flexed his augmetic fingers absently. “Seventy-five thousand is a good price.”

  Karthis gave a low grunt. “It’s a good price when they expect you not to live long enough to spend it.”

  That, Servius did not have an answer for.

  Karthis leaned back, his voice lowering slightly. “Word of advice, Servius. If House Ankaris wants someone dead, they don’t call the Guild first. They don’t call the Guild at all. If they’re hiring you instead of their own people?” He tapped a heavy finger against the desk. “They’re using you for something.”

  Servius already knew that.

  The Guild never asked questions. They took contracts, fulfilled them, and got paid. But House Ankaris had its own enforcers—highly trained, loyal enforcers. If they were outsourcing work, it meant they wanted deniability.

  And deniable assets?

  They were expendable.

  Servius met Karthis’s gaze. “I’ll be careful.”

  Karthis exhaled, shaking his head. “You always say that. Let’s see if you mean it this time.”

  Servius turned away without another word, stepping deeper into the Guild’s operations hub. He had preparations to make.

  Whatever this job was, he wasn’t walking into it blind.

  Servius moved toward one of the secured back rooms, swiping an access key across the scanner. The reinforced door slid open, revealing a small, soundproofed chamber lined with encrypted data terminals. The Guild didn’t just provide mercenaries—they provided information.

  For the right price.

  Servius keyed in his authorization code, the screen flickering to life with a soft green glow. A list of inquiries was available—recent contracts, outstanding bounties, ongoing territorial conflicts. But Servius wasn’t interested in the usual work.

  He entered a private request.

  Subject: Lost Shipment — House Ankaris

  Query Parameters: Movement logs, sector activity, recorded vessel anomalies.

  The system processed his request, displaying an estimated time for results. A few minutes. It was longer than usual.

  Servius tapped his fingers against the desk, his tail flicking absently. That wasn’t a good sign.

  He glanced around the dimly lit chamber. The Guild was neutral. It didn’t take sides. But House Ankaris had weight here. If someone had tampered with the records, they had done it before Servius even asked the question.

  The screen finally updated.

  Minimal data.

  No confirmed movement records. No listed departure logs. Nothing indicating that the shipment had even left its starting location.

  Servius narrowed his eyes.

  That was impossible.

  Everything in Driftmourne was logged, if not by the official docking authorities, then by someone. Guild informants, rival syndicates, independent haulers—someone should have seen something.

  But there was nothing.

  Servius leaned back in his chair.

  House Ankaris hadn’t just lost the shipment. They had erased its existence.

  And that meant one of two things.

  Either they were covering for their own mistake…

  …or they didn’t want anyone knowing what had really happened.

  Servius exhaled slowly. He had already agreed to the contract.

  He moved through Driftmourne’s lower districts, his pace measured but unhurried. He had learned long ago that rushing through places like this only made you look like prey. The backstreets of the station were a tangled network of dim corridors, narrow alleys, and shifting market stalls, each one teeming with figures who thrived in the unseen spaces between law and anarchy.

  His attempts to dig deeper into House Ankaris’s missing shipment had yielded nothing. That alone told him enough—someone had buried the details well before he had even known to ask.

  Pushing harder would be a mistake.

  He let it go.

  For now.

  The contract details had been sent to his personal data-slate through an encrypted channel. The briefing was deliberately sparse, with just enough information to make it seem like a straightforward job.

  Objective: Investigate missing shipment.

  Last confirmed location: Driftmourne Cargo Transit—Sector 12.

  Ankaris Liaison: Awaiting contact at designated meeting point.

  Threat Level: Undetermined.

  Compensation: 75,000 credits (50% upfront, 50% upon resolution).

  A few simple lines. Not much to go on.

  And that was exactly what bothered him.

  House Ankaris was meticulous. Every shipment, every trade, every loss was accounted for. Even in their illegal dealings, their operations were clinical in their precision.

  For something to vanish—without so much as a whisper?

  Servius exhaled through his nose and tightened his grip on his belt. His weapons sat comfortably at his sides—his twin bolt pistols holstered, his power knife secured in its sheath. His new augmetic arm moved flawlessly, almost too well.

  He hated that he kept noticing.

  But the contract was set. And a contract was a contract.

  Especially in this realm.

  The designated meeting point was in one of Driftmourne’s mid-tier docking bays, far from the deeper criminal sectors but not close enough to be under Mechanist surveillance. A neutral ground—just public enough that neither party could afford to make a scene.

  Servius arrived early, blending into the loose flow of foot traffic near the observation gantries. He leaned against a rust-streaked railing, his sharp green eyes scanning the crowd.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The Ankaris liaison arrived precisely on time.

  She was dressed in the understated but finely cut uniform of a mid-level operative—dark leather longcoat, reinforced gloves, and a discreet data-interface embedded into her temple. House Ankaris prided itself on efficiency, and she was no exception. Everything about her was controlled. Measured.

  She spotted Servius immediately and approached without hesitation.

  “Servius.” Her voice was calm, professional. No unnecessary pleasantries. “I’m Lena Vorix. I’ll be handling your briefing.”

  Servius gave a short nod. He didn’t offer a handshake. Neither did she.

  Vorix gestured for him to follow, leading him toward a quieter alcove near the bay’s maintenance corridors. The moment they were out of earshot from the crowd, she got straight to the point.

  “The shipment was lost en route to one of our secured holding zones. Last confirmed transit was in Sector 12, Warehouse 87. The convoy disappeared before arrival.”

  Servius’s tail flicked absently. “Disappeared?”

  “No distress signals. No wreckage. No reports of conflict.” Vorix’s expression remained neutral. “One moment, it was transmitting standard movement logs. The next, it was gone.”

  Servius exhaled slowly. That wasn’t normal.

  “And your security teams?”

  “Deployed within minutes of the signal loss. They found nothing. No debris. No energy signatures. No forced access points.”

  Servius studied her face. She wasn’t lying.

  “What was in the shipment?”

  Vorix’s lips pressed together. “Classified.”

  Servius’s expression remained unreadable.

  “You hired me to retrieve something. I can’t retrieve it if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  Vorix hesitated—only slightly, but Servius caught it. She had an answer prepared, but she was deciding whether to give it to him.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “High-value assets. Not standard cargo. And not something we can afford to have in the wrong hands.”

  Servius narrowed his eyes. “And yet, someone managed to take it.”

  Vorix didn’t react. “Which is why we’re paying you.”

  Servius considered pressing further. But the way she was standing—the exact, deliberate neutrality of her tone—told him he wasn’t going to get more.

  So, he let it go.

  “Where do I start?”

  Vorix handed him a data-slate. “Sector 12 has been put under soft lockdown. No official reports, just increased presence. We’ve given you clearance under a standard inspection cover—nothing that raises questions, but enough to get you access to the site.”

  Servius took the slate without looking at it. “And if I find something you don’t like?”

  Vorix met his gaze evenly. “You were hired to find the shipment. Not ask questions.”

  Servius smirked slightly, just enough to be irritating. “That was never part of the contract.”

  Vorix didn’t respond. She simply turned on her heel.

  “Your access window is limited. I suggest you use it.”

  And just like that, she was gone.

  Servius watched her leave, his tail flicking once before he turned his attention to the data-slate. Sector 12, Warehouse 87.

  Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong.

  He had been given access, but that didn’t mean they trusted him.

  House Ankaris wasn’t stupid. They wanted him to find what they already knew.

  And if they had to hire an outsider?

  That meant the truth was worse than they were letting on.

  Servius exhaled sharply, holstering the slate and turning toward the docking bay’s outer corridors.

  The depot was dead.

  Not abandoned. Not looted. Dead.

  Servius stepped off his transport, his boots sinking into grime-streaked ferrocrete. The air hung thick with the scent of scorched metal and burned flesh, but no carrion birds circled above, no scavengers had dared pick through the remains.

  That alone was a bad sign.

  Most crime scenes in Driftmourne were stripped bare within hours. Gangs, mercs, or even hungry civilians—someone always came to claim what was left. But here? The destruction was untouched. Untouched meant feared.

  His tail flicked once as he surveyed the wreckage. The attack had been surgical, but brutal. The convoy transports lay gutted and blackened, their armored hulls warped by high-energy impacts. Cratered walls, melted steel, bloodstains without bodies.

  Everything spoke of efficiency.

  No gang markings. No warning symbols. No sign of occupation.

  Something about this felt wrong.

  He tapped his vox-bead. “I’m here. Scanning now.”

  A brief click of acknowledgment from House Ankaris’s liaison came through. No words. They were listening—but waiting.

  They already know something.

  Servius exhaled sharply and strode forward. Time to see what they weren’t telling him.

  The site had all the signs of an ambush, but not a standard one.

  Servius crouched beside the nearest ruined transport, running a clawed hand over the blackened entry holes along the hull. The angles were too precise—coordinated fire from multiple directions.

  A professional attack. Not pirates. Not a random raid.

  He pulled a blade from his belt and slid it into one of the deeper gouges, prying loose a sliver of armor plating. The scoring along the edges told him the rounds had been heavy-caliber, magnetically accelerated.

  He turned the fragment over in his palm, scanning the residual energy patterns burned into the metal.

  The glow was faint, but unmistakable.

  Hollowed Legion ordinance.

  His expression darkened. He had expected someone with serious firepower—but the Hollowed Legion? That changed things.

  They were methodical, disciplined, but they didn’t waste effort. They wouldn’t strike a convoy just for weapons or supplies.

  They had come for something specific.

  And Servius had a feeling it wasn’t something they should have.

  The absence was unnatural. No bodies. No remains. Not even the scorched remnants of a quick cleanup.

  That wasn’t normal.

  Even if the attackers had cleared their own dead, Ankaris’s men should have left remains behind—blood, discarded weapons, torn armor, something. But there was nothing.

  He felt a prickling at the back of his skull. Something more than firepower had been used here.

  Servius knelt, scraping his claws across the warped ferrocrete.

  The material hadn’t just melted from weapons fire—it had twisted.

  It had been altered.

  A feeling stirred in his gut, old instinct gnawing at him. Warp residue? No. Not quite. But whatever had happened here wasn’t natural.

  His vox clicked. “Your people didn’t leave a trace.”

  A moment of silence. Then, Ankaris’s liaison responded.

  “There were… complications.”

  Servius’s ears flicked at the hesitation. Lies.

  “You’re holding something back,” he said. “Tell me.”

  Another pause. Then—

  “The cleanup crews… found no remains. They—” A static crackle. “—were gone.”

  Servius’s tail lashed. “Define ‘gone.’”

  “Gone,” the voice repeated, clipped and controlled. “Vanished. We have no further details.”

  Servius exhaled through his nose. That wasn’t possible.

  Something had erased them.

  He turned back to the wreckage.

  His augmetic fingers twitched involuntarily.

  A faint pressure built in the air. Not strong. Not overwhelming. But… there.

  Servius had felt this before.

  He walked forward, forcing his muscles to stay loose. His augmetic fingers twitched—just a fraction, a subconscious response to something unseen.

  His eyes flicked across the ground, sharp, scanning with practiced precision. It felt like walking through a space that should be occupied, but wasn’t.

  Then he found it.

  At the center of the ambush site, one of the shipping crates had been breached.

  The others were shattered by weapons fire, but this one?

  This one had been peeled open.

  The edges of the reinforced metal casing were warped and stretched, pulled apart from within.

  Not an explosion.

  Not an energy weapon.

  It was as if something had simply chosen to unmake the structure, rather than break it.

  A cold pressure tightened in his chest. Not fear—something deeper, something older.

  His augmetic arm tensed involuntarily, and for a fraction of a second, it almost felt like it wasn’t his anymore.

  Servius crouched low, forcing himself to focus. The crate’s inner walls were wrong—smooth where they should have been jagged, like the wound of reality had been cauterized instead of torn.

  His auspex scanner flickered.

  A moment of static, then—

  Nothing.

  No readings. No trace of the cargo that should have been inside.

  Servius’s gut twisted.

  Something had been here.

  Something that shouldn’t exist.

  Servius stood slowly, letting the weight of realization settle.

  The Hollowed Legion had taken something.

  Not just weapons. Not just supplies.

  Something that had erased its presence.

  Something that had left reality itself scarred.

  He didn’t have enough yet.

  But he had a trail.

  And he knew where to start.

  His vox clicked as he turned back toward his transport. “I need a list of everything on that shipment. Every crate. Every serial code.”

  Ankaris’s response was immediate. “That is classified.”

  Servius’s eyes narrowed. There it was. The truth they wouldn’t share.

  “I’m not interested in your excuses,” he growled. “I’m interested in what’s about to get you all killed.”

  Silence, then—

  “The list will be sent.”

  Servius exhaled slowly. They had folded too fast.

  They were scared.

  He looked back toward the ruined transport yard, toward the claw-marked ground, the twisted crate, the scorched air.

  Something had happened here.

  Something no one wanted to talk about.

  And if the Hollowed Legion had taken it?

  It wouldn’t stay theirs for long.