The fortress was eerily silent now, its twisted halls empty save for the bloodstains and broken bodies left in the survivors’ wake. Servius moved through the sprawling complex with purpose, his steps measured and deliberate as he followed the faint pull of the Nexus’s threads. They tugged at him like invisible strings, guiding him deeper into the labyrinthine corridors toward something waiting—something significant.

  The Warp Gate chamber was far behind him, its pulsating energy dimming as the survivors disappeared into its light. His focus, however, had shifted entirely. He needed a ship—something fast, something resilient, and, most importantly, something that hadn’t yet been consumed by the madness of Chaos. The Nexus’s threads had assured him, in their cryptic way, that what he sought was waiting for him within the fortress’s hidden hangar.

  Descending a cracked staircase, Servius entered a vast chamber. The hangar sprawled before him, dimly lit by flickering lumen-strips and the faint glow of Warp-tainted energy. His sharp green eyes scanned the space, narrowing as he took in the grim sight.

  The hangar was a graveyard of voidcraft. Hulking, grotesque ships loomed in the darkness, their once-proud hulls now corrupted by Chaos. Jagged metal growths jutted from their frames like tumors, and crude symbols of the Ruinous Powers had been carved into their surfaces. Many of the vessels oozed a faint, sickly light, as though the Warp itself had seeped into their very cores. The stench of oil, burnt ozone, and blood clung to the air like a suffocating shroud.

  But one ship stood apart from the others, positioned at the far end of the hangar as though deliberately kept separate.

  The vessel was sleek, angular, and unblemished by the grotesque mutations that plagued the others. Its polished hull shimmered faintly with an iridescent sheen, unmarred by deep corruption. Yet crude Chaos symbols had been painted onto its surface, haphazard and almost desperate, as though the Ebon Claws had tried to claim the ship as their own but lacked the power to truly defile it.

  The ship was small—far smaller than the warband’s other monstrosities—with a design that immediately struck Servius as predatory. Its wings swept back in a sharp arc, resembling the outstretched talons of a bird of prey. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and the sight of it sent a faint chill through Servius’s veins. Not fear, but recognition.

  This was what the Nexus had guided him to.

  Servius approached cautiously, his steps silent as he weaved through the ruined hangar. His sharp eyes scanned the vessel for any obvious dangers, but nothing stood out—no grotesque sigils glowing with latent power, no visible signs of Warp corruption. It felt... dormant. Waiting.

  He was halfway to the ship when the air around him shifted.

  The hum of machinery rose sharply, filling the chamber with an almost oppressive resonance. Lights flickered to life along the ship’s hull, illuminating the Chaos symbols painted on its surface in stark detail. A faint shimmer of energy rippled outward, forming an invisible barrier around the vessel. And then, a voice echoed through the hangar.

  “Intruder detected.”

  The words were cold and mechanical, but layered with something deeper—an organic, almost living quality that made Servius’s fur bristle. The voice resonated in his mind as much as his ears, carrying with it a faint edge of hostility.

  “State your purpose or be eliminated,” it intoned.

  Servius froze, his claws tightening around the grip of his bolt pistol. His sharp green eyes darted toward the turrets now emerging from the walls—sleek, angular weapons that hummed with deadly energy. The voice had come from the ship itself.

  “I’m not your enemy,” Servius said, his voice calm but firm. “I’m here for the ship.”

  The energy barrier shimmered, and the air seemed to grow heavier. “Authorization required,” the voice replied. “You are not registered within this vessel’s protocols. State your designation.”

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply. “Servius,” he said evenly. “I’m no ally of Chaos, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  There was a pause. Then the voice returned, colder and harsher. “Warp interference detected. Designation unverified.”

  Before Servius could respond, the turrets swiveled toward him, their barrels glowing with lethal intent.

  “Damn it,” Servius muttered under his breath as he dove behind the rusted remains of a ruined shuttle. Bolts of searing energy tore through the air, shredding the voidcraft around him with relentless precision. The sound was deafening, the sheer force of the weaponry shaking the ground beneath his feet.

  The ship wasn’t entirely wrong. The Nexus’s threads had marked him, tied him to the Warp in a way that made him more than mortal—but also something less. The ship couldn’t see him for what he truly was. All it saw was the faint trace of the Warp’s taint.

  Servius’s sharp eyes flicked toward the vessel’s exposed underbelly, where a faintly glowing access panel caught his attention. That had to be some sort of interface. If he could reach it, he might be able to override its defenses.

  But the turrets were a problem.

  The ache in his fingertips flared briefly, the threads of the Nexus stirring within him. He exhaled sharply, his mind racing. He didn’t like relying on it, but the situation left him little choice. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the power coiling within him. The world seemed to shift as The Shroud enveloped him, bending light and shadow to render him imperceptible.

  The turrets faltered, their barrels swiveling aimlessly as they lost their target. Servius moved swiftly, his movements silent as he slipped through the storm of gunfire. He passed through the energy barrier without resistance, the faint shimmer brushing against his fur like a cool breeze.

  Reaching the access panel, he pried it open with his claws. Inside, the ship’s core pulsed faintly with an eerie, corrupted glow. The taint of the Warp was faint but unmistakable, clinging to the system like a parasite. Servius gritted his teeth, his claws sinking into the interface as he plunged into the corrupted code.

  The Warp’s influence lashed out at him, a chaotic storm of malevolent energy that burned against his mind. But Servius pressed on, the threads of the Nexus weaving through the code with surgical precision. He unraveled the corruption piece by piece, severing the tainted connections and burning them away with the Nexus’s power.

  Finally, the corruption broke. The energy within the core stabilized, its glow shifting to a steady, rhythmic pulse.

  “Abnormalities purged,” the voice said, softer now, almost hesitant.

  Servius exhaled sharply, leaning against the ship’s hull. The turrets powered down, and the energy barrier faded into nothingness. For the first time, the hangar fell silent.

  “Designation: Sentinel-class long-range voidcraft,” the voice intoned. “Codename: Praedyth.”

  Servius’s sharp green eyes narrowed. “Praedyth,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a challenge. “You’re mine now.”

  The ship’s systems pulsed faintly, its voice carrying a hint of acknowledgment. “Awaiting directives.”

  Servius allowed himself a faint, predatory smirk. “First directive: let me aboard.”

  The ramp extended with a smooth, mechanical hiss, the faint glow of its polished surface reflecting the ambient Warp-light leaking through the cracked hangar walls. Servius hesitated at the base of the ramp, his sharp green eyes scanning the interior of the vessel’s entryway. For all the power and elegance the ship projected, there was an unnerving stillness to it, as though the ship itself were holding its breath.

  His claws flexed at his sides, and his tail flicked once, sharply. Every instinct told him this was no ordinary voidcraft, even by the standards of archeotech relics. The Nexus’s threads tugged faintly within him, but their guidance was silent now, leaving him to navigate this moment on his own.

  Servius ascended the ramp slowly, each step deliberate and soundless. The air inside the ship was different—cooler, thinner, and carrying a faint, sterile scent that was neither metallic nor chemical but something... unnatural. He entered what appeared to be a small cargo bay, the space dimly lit by soft, recessed lights lining the walls. Crates and containers were stacked neatly in one corner, their surfaces marked with faded gothic script. A faint layer of dust coated everything, as though the ship had been waiting for decades—or centuries—for someone to claim it.

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  Servius moved deeper into the ship, his bolt pistol drawn and held at the ready. The silence was oppressive, the faint hum of the ship’s systems the only sound as he passed through a narrow corridor lined with sleek, unblemished metal panels. The architecture was minimalistic but efficient, every detail speaking of advanced engineering and meticulous design. It was unlike anything he’d seen before, even among the remnants of the Imperium's lost Golden Age.

  His sharp green eyes caught faint traces of something etched into the walls—symbols, faintly glowing, that looked almost like a hybrid of machine script and organic veins. They pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if alive. Servius’s grip on his pistol tightened. Whatever this ship was, it wasn’t dormant.

  The corridor opened into a central chamber that appeared to be the ship’s command deck. A single pilot’s seat sat at the center of the room, surrounded by an array of consoles and displays that hummed softly with latent energy. The seat itself was sleek and ergonomic, its surfaces unblemished by wear or age. The consoles flickered faintly, their displays cycling through lines of data in a language Servius didn’t recognize.

  He circled the room cautiously, his claws tapping lightly against the polished floor as he examined the consoles. One of the displays caught his attention—a faint, flickering diagram of the ship itself, its angular frame rendered in glowing lines of light. The image shifted occasionally, highlighting various sections of the vessel in red or green.

  “This thing’s more intact than it has any right to be,” Servius muttered under his breath, his tail flicking behind him as he studied the display. “No signs of corruption... no damage...”

  He trailed off, his ears flicking as a faint sound reached him. It was soft, almost imperceptible—a low, rhythmic thrum that seemed to come from deep within the ship. It wasn’t the hum of engines or machinery, but something subtler, more... organic. Servius straightened, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

  “Alright,” he muttered, his voice low but firm. “What are you hiding?”

  He moved toward the pilot’s seat, his claws brushing against the edge of the console as he leaned over to inspect the controls. The moment his hand made contact, the lights in the room dimmed, and the displays flickered erratically. The low thrum he’d heard earlier grew louder, resonating through the chamber like the beat of a massive, unseen heart.

  Servius stepped back, his bolt pistol raised as the ship’s systems began to hum with new energy. The displays stabilized, their glowing lines shifting into coherent shapes—runic patterns and strange, angular symbols that flickered across the consoles in rapid succession. The thrum grew louder still, filling the air with a sense of building tension.

  Then, the voice returned.

  “Intrusion in central command interface detected,” it said, cold and precise, devoid of any emotion. The words echoed through the command deck with sterile clarity, as though spoken by the ship itself.

  Servius’s ears flattened against his head, his sharp green eyes narrowing. The voice was different from the automated warnings of Imperial ships he’d encountered in the past. It wasn’t a pre-recorded announcement or a simplistic servitor’s monotone. It was far more advanced—adaptive, reactive—but it still carried the hollow efficiency of a machine.

  “State your designation,” the voice demanded. “Unauthorized access will result in termination. This vessel is restricted.”

  Servius didn’t lower his bolt pistol. His sharp gaze scanned the command deck, searching for anything resembling a speaker or vox interface, but the sound seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. He remained silent for a moment, calculating his approach.

  “I’m not your enemy,” he said finally, his voice calm but edged with steel. “I’m here to claim this vessel.”

  The ship’s systems responded immediately. The lights dimmed slightly, and the displays flickered, their runes shifting in rapid patterns. The voice replied, its tone unchanged—clinical and unyielding.

  “Claiming this vessel requires command clearance,” it said. “You do not possess valid credentials. Access denied.”

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply behind him, irritation flashing across his sharp features. “The ones who held this ship before me were heretics,” he said coldly. “I purged them. This ship belongs to no one now.”

  “Observation: Warp corruption detected in prior registrants,” the ship’s voice acknowledged after a pause. “Current registrant not identified. Assessment: Authorization status unverified.”

  The ship’s systems hummed louder, and Servius felt the air shift subtly, as though the vessel itself were analyzing him. The displays cycled through more runes and diagrams, their meaning lost on him but clearly part of some internal diagnostic process.

  Servius remained still, his bolt pistol held steady as he addressed the voice again. “Your systems were corrupted, but the corruption is gone now. You’ve stabilized. That was my doing. Let me prove I can command you.”

  Another pause. This time, the silence stretched longer, broken only by the faint thrum of the ship’s energy systems. When the voice returned, its tone was still mechanical, but there was an almost imperceptible hesitation in its cadence—like an ancient machine grappling with damaged protocols.

  “Corruption purge confirmed. System integrity... restored. Hostile influence eliminated.” There was another pause, and the voice added, “Registrant status remains invalid. Authentication required. Proceed to primary interface for verification.”

  Servius narrowed his eyes, his tail flicking sharply. Primary interface. That’s what it wants. He glanced toward the sleek pilot’s chair at the center of the command deck, surrounded by the glowing consoles. It was likely the key to unlocking the ship’s systems—but it could just as easily be a trap.

  He stepped closer, keeping his pistol raised as he approached the chair. The displays around it flickered faintly, lines of data scrolling across their surfaces in a language he couldn’t decipher. The voice spoke again, its tone as clinical as ever.

  “Warning: Unverified registrant. Approach at your own risk.”

  Servius smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth curling in defiance. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered under his breath. He holstered his bolt pistol slowly but kept his claws flexed, ready to draw the weapon again at a moment’s notice.

  He reached out, his claws grazing the edge of the chair’s console. The moment he made contact, the room seemed to come alive. The lights brightened, and the displays stabilized, their chaotic patterns coalescing into a single diagram—a schematic of the ship, its sleek frame rendered in glowing lines of light. A faint pulse ran through the air, like the ship was taking its first breath in centuries.

  “Initializing diagnostic sequence,” the voice intoned. “Verification required. State designation and purpose.”

  “Servius,” he said, his voice sharp and deliberate. “Purpose: survival.”

  The displays flickered again, the diagram of the ship shrinking to make room for new lines of data. The voice processed his response without comment, its tone as detached as ever. “Designation logged: Servius. Purpose logged: survival. Limited command protocols enabled.”

  Servius’s green eyes narrowed. “Limited protocols? What does that mean?”

  “Primary functions remain restricted,” the voice replied. “Full access requires further verification. Current functionality: basic navigation, onboard systems management, and auxiliary controls. Warp navigation compromised. Drive systems nonfunctional.”

  Servius frowned, his sharp mind quickly assessing the implications. A ship without a working Warp drive wouldn’t get him far—not outside the Warp, at least. But everything else appeared intact. The Praedyth might not be ready for long voyages yet, but it was functional enough to get him started.

  “Why is the Warp drive offline?” he asked, his tone clipped.

  “Diagnostic incomplete,” the voice replied. “Warp drive systems require recalibration. Manual intervention may be necessary.”

  Servius’s claws tapped lightly against the edge of the console as he considered his options. The ship wasn’t corrupted, and its systems were stabilizing, but it was clear that it hadn’t been used—or properly maintained—for a very long time. Whatever damage had left it stranded in the Warp wasn’t entirely fixed yet.

  “And the intelligence running this ship,” he asked carefully, his green eyes narrowing. “What are you? A machine spirit?”

  “Negative,” the voice replied. “This vessel operates under autonomous protocols designated for Sentinel-class voidcraft. Core functions include navigation, system management, and threat assessment. Designation: Praedyth. Sentinel-class. Long-range voidcraft.”

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply. Not a machine spirit, then. Something else entirely.

  He leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze scanning the room as he processed the situation. The ship’s systems were advanced—far more advanced than anything he’d encountered before. But it wasn’t truly sentient, or at least it didn’t seem that way. Whatever intelligence it had, it was still bound by its programming.

  “Alright, Praedyth,” Servius said finally, his tone steady. “You and I are going to get along. But I’ll be the one giving the orders.”

  The displays flickered again, as though processing his statement. Then the voice responded, its tone as neutral and clinical as ever.

  “Command acknowledged. Awaiting further input.”

  Servius smirked faintly, lowering himself into the pilot’s chair. His tail flicked behind him as he gripped the console’s controls, the hum of the ship’s systems resonating beneath his claws.

  The Praedyth was his now—or at least, it would be. And this twisting realm wouldn’t know what hit it.

  https://youtu.be/Vn-km1CX4dw?si=a5rXNrrHxLyFFrpz