The Praedyth sat in silence, its sleek, angular hull catching the faint, distorted light of the Warp storm outside the hangar. Servius stood at the base of its loading ramp, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he surveyed the ancient vessel. It had been hours since he’d first interfaced with its systems, gaining just enough clearance to operate it—but not enough to understand it fully. The ship had allowed him access, but its wariness was palpable.

  For now, the Praedyth was his. But their partnership was one of cautious observation, not trust.

  Behind him, the vast expanse of the Ebon Claws’ fortress loomed in eerie silence. The once-bustling stronghold, filled with the guttural roars of traitor marines and the chants of zealot cultists, was now a hollow husk. Bloodstains marred the walls, shattered weapons littered the halls, and the Warp Gate’s ominous light still pulsed faintly in the depths.

  But that wasn’t Servius’s concern anymore.

  The feline warrior stepped into the ship’s hold, his boots clicking against the polished floors. The cargo bay stretched before him, dark and cold, its vaulted ceiling supported by sleek, reinforced struts. The space was surprisingly clean, untouched by the corruption that had plagued the fortress. Servius’s tail flicked sharply as his gaze swept across the crates and storage containers stacked neatly along the walls.

  The Praedyth had been well-stocked once. But how long ago?

  Servius approached the nearest crate, his claws scraping faintly against the smooth surface as he pried it open. Inside, he found little more than dust—ancient rations that had long since turned to ash. He grimaced and moved to the next crate, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he repeated the process.

  Box after box yielded the same results. Decayed food supplies, inert power cells, and fragmented tools that crumbled at the touch. The cargo hold was a tomb, its contents reduced to relics of a bygone era.

  Servius’s ears flicked as he paused at one container. It was sealed with an intricate locking mechanism, its surface unmarred by time. Unlike the others, this one carried no signs of decay or damage. His claws traced the edges of the lock, his tail twitching in thought.

  “What are you hiding?” he muttered under his breath.

  The Praedyth’s voice came suddenly, breaking the silence. “Access denied. Cargo designation classified.”

  Servius straightened, his sharp gaze locking onto the glowing console embedded in the wall nearby. “Classified?” he repeated, his tone cold. “Why?”

  The ship hesitated, its response mechanical and flat. “Data corruption detected. Primary directive: preservation of essential cargo. Security clearance insufficient.”

  Servius’s claws flexed against the crate. He hated locked doors. They always led to complications. But he also knew better than to force the issue—whatever was inside, the Praedyth wasn’t ready to share it yet.

  “Fine,” he muttered, stepping away. “We’ll come back to that.”

  He continued his sweep of the cargo hold, finding little else of use. Most of the supplies were too far gone to be salvaged, and the few pieces of equipment that seemed intact were unfamiliar to him—tools and devices whose purpose eluded even his sharp mind.

  Satisfied that there was nothing immediately useful in the hold, Servius exited the ship and made his way back into the fortress. The corridors were quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Warp Gate in the distance.

  Servius moved through the fortress like a ghost, his sharp eyes scanning every room and chamber for anything that could be salvaged. Most of the Ebon Claws’ equipment was too corrupted to be of any use—tainted weapons and armor that practically radiated the Warp’s influence. But here and there, he found small caches of supplies that had remained untouched.

  A stack of unmarked bolt rounds, sealed in a reinforced crate. A set of tools for field repairs. Even a few rations that, while bland and unappealing, were edible.

  He carried the supplies back to the Praedyth in multiple trips, each time pausing to glance toward the Warp Gate. It still pulsed faintly, its presence a reminder of what had come before—and what still lingered beyond its veil.

  On his third trip, he found himself in a small armory tucked away near the fortress’s eastern wing. The room was in disarray, its shelves overturned and its contents scattered. But among the wreckage, Servius found a few hidden gems: a case of hotshot lasgun power packs, a pristine medikit, its seals unbroken, and tucked away in a locked cabinet, a pair of frag grenades.

  He smirked faintly as he pocketed the grenades. “Better than nothing.”

  By the time Servius finished loading the Praedyth, the fortress felt more like a tomb than ever. The corridors were silent, the air heavy with the lingering stench of blood and fire. He stood at the base of the loading ramp, his sharp green eyes scanning the hangar one last time.

  The Ebon Claws’ corrupted ships loomed like hulking shadows, their grotesque forms a blight on the fortress. Servius’s tail flicked sharply as a thought crossed his mind.

  The Praedyth had been equipped with weapons—advanced ones, from what little he’d gleaned during his earlier exploration. If the ship was going to serve as his vessel, his refuge, then it was only fitting that he test its capabilities.

  “Praedyth,” Servius said, his voice cutting through the silence.

  The ship’s voice responded immediately. “Acknowledged.”

  “Armaments,” Servius continued. “What do you have?”

  “Primary weapon systems operational,” the Praedyth replied. “Twin-linked plasma disruptors. Anti-voidcraft turrets. Capable of engaging light to medium-scale targets.”

  Servius’s smirk returned, sharp and predatory. “Good. Let’s put them to use.”

  He ascended the ramp and entered the ship, the command deck greeting him with its cold silence. The pilot’s chair adjusted to his presence as he settled into it, the displays around him flickering to life.

  “Target the corrupted ships,” he ordered. “All of them.”

  “Confirming combat authority...” the ship replied. “Parameters accepted. Weapons primed.”

  Servius gripped the controls, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he watched the targeting systems lock onto the hulking vessels in the hangar. The Praedyth hummed with energy, its systems coming alive as the weaponry powered up.

  “Fire,” Servius said coldly.

  The ship’s weapons roared to life, beams of searing light lancing across the hangar. The corrupted vessels exploded in succession, their twisted forms consumed by fire and shrapnel. The air filled with the deafening sound of destruction, the once-dominant shadows of the Ebon Claws reduced to smoldering wreckage.

  When the last ship fell silent, Servius leaned back in the pilot’s chair, his tail flicking lazily behind him. The hangar was empty now, save for the Praedyth and the scattered remnants of its enemies.

  “Efficient,” he muttered, his voice low.

  “Primary threat neutralized,” the ship confirmed.

  Servius rose from the chair, his sharp eyes scanning the displays one last time. The fortress was behind him now—its secrets, its battles, its bloodshed. Ahead lay the endless expanse of the Warp, a labyrinth of chaos and danger.

  And Servius was ready to face it.

  “Take us up,” he said, his voice steady. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The Praedyth’s engines roared to life, and the sleek vessel rose from the hangar floor, its hull gleaming in the flickering light.

  The engines hummed with a smooth, measured rhythm as the ship ascended into the swirling maelstrom of the Warp. Servius stood at the center of the command deck, his sharp green eyes fixed on the displays flickering around him. The last vestiges of the fortress shrank into the distance, the destruction he had wrought on the Ebon Claws' corrupted fleet still fresh in his mind.

  He was alone now. Truly alone.

  The Praedyth's voice broke the silence, mechanical yet steady. “Primary systems functioning at eighty-two percent. Structural integrity stable. Non-essential subsystems offline. Maintenance recommended.”

  Servius glanced at one of the screens, which displayed a schematic of the ship. Several areas glowed faintly red, indicating systems that required attention. He exhaled through his nose, his tail flicking behind him. “Figures. Nothing’s ever easy.”

  He moved from the command deck into the heart of the ship, his claws clicking softly against the metal floors. The air inside the vessel was cold but breathable, it lacked the faint hum of machinery to fill the silence. It was a far cry from the suffocating corruption of the fortress, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

  As he descended into the lower levels, Servius began to take stock of the Praedyth. The ship was compact but efficient, its layout designed for a small crew—or, in his case, a lone operator.

  The corridors stretched ahead, eerily pristine despite the ship’s age. Servius moved cautiously, sharp green eyes scanning every inch of the silent, seamless passageways. No weld lines. No exposed conduits. No visible panels to pry open or mechanisms to override.

  It was unnatural.

  Every Imperial ship he had ever set foot on—whether a towering cathedral of war or a rusted scavenger’s barge—had a brutal, mechanical presence. Layers of armor plating, exposed machinery humming with barely-contained energy, bulkheads held together by the stubborn will of failing systems.

  This? This was too smooth.

  Even the floor beneath his boots absorbed sound. Not like carpet, not like soft metal, but as if the material itself was actively preventing noise.

  A dead ship should creak. Should hum. Should settle with age.

  The Praedyth didn’t.

  His tail flicked sharply as he approached what should have been the crew quarters. The door ahead was featureless, barely distinguishable from the surrounding wall—no visible handle, no manual override. But as he neared, it simply… opened.

  No sound. No mechanical hiss.

  One moment, a solid surface. The next, an entryway.

  His ears flicked at the absolute lack of delay. Even modern Imperial doors took fractions of a second to register movement, to cycle their servos, to unlock their mechanisms. This ship responded instantly.

  That was unsettling.

  He stepped inside.

  The room was not what he expected.

  No bunk. No standard cot. No storage lockers or personal effects. Instead, the walls themselves seemed to shift subtly—sections of the floor and bulkheads designed to reshape at a moment’s notice.

  At the center of the space, a slender recess extended from the far wall. It wasn’t quite a bed, wasn’t quite a platform—somewhere between the two. No sheets, no blankets, nothing loose. Just a smooth, untouched surface that seemed to adjust in shape as he observed it.

  Servius approached, running his claws lightly over the material. Not fabric. Not standard alloy. Something else entirely—too rigid to be soft, too adaptive to be metal.

  The far wall had a recessed alcove, positioned where a standard storage locker should have been. But instead of a physical door, there was only a smooth surface.

  He reached toward it.

  The moment his claws hovered near, a section of the wall simply vanished.

  Not an opening. Not a hidden panel sliding aside. It was as if the metal ceased to exist for a moment, revealing a storage compartment inside.

  Servius tensed, his instincts flaring. That wasn’t normal.

  The quarters were not built for comfort. They were not built for people, they were built for function. And something about that sent a familiar unease creeping into his spine.

  This ship had no wasted space. No unnecessary components.

  Everything existed for a reason.

  The corridor leading to the armory was just as unnervingly pristine as the rest of the ship. No security panels, no bulkhead reinforcements, no visible locks. If he hadn’t mapped the Praedyth’s layout from the control interface, he wouldn’t have even known this was the armory at all.

  Then, as before—the door simply opened.

  No hiss of hydraulics. No delay.

  The armory was immaculate.

  Rows of weapon racks, seamlessly integrated into the walls, extended down both sides of the chamber. Unlike Imperial vessels, there were no crude metal shelves, no rusting brackets, no signs of wear or decay. The walls themselves seemed to mold around the weapon slots, adjusting to hold each item with effortless precision.

  Most of them were empty.

  Servius stepped inside, his sharp green eyes scanning the chamber. He had seen countless armories in his time—from warships to pirate dens, from fortress stockpiles to scavenger caches. And yet, something about this one felt different.

  It was too sterile.

  Not a single loose component. Not a single unsealed compartment. No sign of prior use.

  Like it had been waiting.

  His tail flicked sharply as he moved along the racks, his claws trailing lightly over the smooth, untouched surfaces. Even the weapon mounts were strange—no clamps, no straps, no mag-locks. Instead, the design seemed to use some unseen mechanism to hold each weapon in place.

  He stopped as he finally found something that hadn’t been stripped away.

  A single pistol, sleek and dark, sat nestled in one of the slots. Unlike the standard Imperial las-weapons or slugthrowers, this one had no external power pack, no visible barrel modifications, nothing to indicate its origin.

  It was elegant. Compact. Unfamiliar.

  Servius reached for it.

  The moment his claws touched the grip, the weapon came free effortlessly—too effortlessly. No resistance, no locking mechanism disengaging.

  His ears flicked as he turned the weapon over in his palm, studying it.

  Lightweight. Too lightweight.

  The alloy was unfamiliar, but it carried none of the telltale density of standard Imperial or Xenos weaponry. He tested the balance, adjusting his grip. Perfect. Uncomfortably so.

  His tail flicked as he inspected the side of the weapon, searching for a power cell or ammunition slot. Nothing.

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  He narrowed his eyes and turned his attention back to the rack where it had been stored. The mount was adjusting— shifting subtly, recalibrating itself as if it expected the weapon to return.

  He didn’t like that.

  Setting the pistol aside for now, he moved deeper into the armory.

  At the far end of the chamber, he spotted something more recognizable.

  A storage crate, set apart from the racks. Unlike the rest of the armory, this wasn’t part of the ship’s strange integrated design—it was a physical object, solid and tangible, untouched by the ship’s seamless construction.

  That meant it had been brought here.

  Servius crouched, running his claws along the edges of the crate. No markings. No signs of rust or decay. The seal was still intact.

  With a sharp motion, he wrenched it open.

  Inside, he found two grenades, their designs unmistakably Imperial. Crude, functional, deadly. A stark contrast to the ship’s eerie precision. Beside them, a well-worn combat knife rested in its sheath.

  He picked up the blade, testing its weight. The grip was slightly degraded, but the edge was still sharp. A simple weapon. A soldier’s tool.

  He exhaled slowly, straightening.

  The Praedyth’s armory was not empty by accident.

  Everything else had been taken. Stripped away.

  The pistol had been left behind.

  The crate had been placed deliberately.

  A calculated choice.

  That unsettled him more than an empty armory should have.

  His tail flicked as he secured the grenades and knife to his belt. The pistol would require further testing. For now, he had seen enough.

  The medbay was just as pristine as the rest of the ship.

  The door slid open without a sound, revealing a chamber that was neither sterile nor cluttered—simply waiting.

  Servius stepped inside, his sharp green eyes sweeping across the interior.

  Unlike the Imperium’s medicae facilities, which were typically cramped, overloaded with machinery, and reeking of disinfectants and blood, this space was open. Calm. The walls were smooth, curving seamlessly into the ceiling, with no visible seams or exposed conduits. No vents. No cables. No clutter.

  At the center of the room stood a single examination table, its surface dark and matte—not metal, not plasteel. Something else. The moment he entered, a faint luminescent glow ran along its edges, as if sensing his presence.

  His tail flicked sharply.

  Along the walls, storage compartments were seamlessly integrated, their outlines barely visible. No hinges. No manual latches. Only smooth, unbroken panels. Servius moved closer, running a claw along the nearest one.

  Instantly, the compartment responded.

  The panel dissolved into a thin shimmer of light, vanishing to reveal a set of medical instruments. Syringes, scalpels, dermal regenerators. The tools were sleek, elegant, their designs bearing no resemblance to Mechanicus-standard equipment. No obvious power sources. No tubing.

  Self-contained. Compact.

  He reached forward, plucking one of the small, metallic devices from the set. It was cool to the touch, lighter than it should have been. He turned it over, trying to determine its function—only for the device to activate.

  A thin pulse of blue light ran across its surface, scanning his hand.

  His ears flicked. He had not turned it on.

  Servius placed the device back on the shelf, watching as its light faded—as if it understood it was no longer needed.

  He did not like that.

  His claws tapped against the panel's edge, and as soon as he withdrew his hand, the compartment sealed itself again—the shimmering panel reforming as if it had never been opened.

  His tail flicked sharply behind him.

  This ship didn’t have an Imperial medbay.

  It had something else.

  Something more advanced. Something designed to think instead of simply function.

  But it wasn’t just the tools.

  He turned his attention to a secondary station at the far end of the room. A medicae drone rested in its docking slot—sleek, compact, but damaged. Its outer casing bore no insignias, no serial numbers, only a smooth, unmarked surface. One of its manipulator arms hung limp, the lens of its scanning module fractured.

  It had seen use. And it had not been repaired.

  Servius crouched beside it, inspecting the damage. The drone had a self-repair system, that much was clear—traces of nanite activity clung to the broken casing. But something had stopped it from fixing itself.

  He exhaled through his nose, claws tapping against the smooth surface of the drone’s shell.

  "Praedyth," he murmured. "Why is this drone still damaged?"

  A brief pause.

  "System functionality reduced," the ship responded, its voice smooth. "Self-repair protocols limited."

  Servius narrowed his eyes. "Limited how?"

  "Insufficient data."

  His tail flicked sharply. Again. That same answer.

  Not an error. Not a malfunction. A deliberate restriction.

  "Can it be restored?" he asked.

  "Repairs possible," the ship confirmed. "Resource allocation required."

  Servius exhaled slowly, standing to his full height. He had seen enough.

  This was not a standard medbay. It had been built for something else. A different kind of crew. One that did not leave clutter, did not store crude chemical injectors, did not need to seal wounds with crude stitches and cauterization.

  Everything here was calculated. Purposeful.

  This ship had once belonged to something greater.

  But not anymore.

  He turned away from the drone, making a mental note of what needed to be repaired. Later.

  The engineering sector lay deeper within the ship, past the smooth, seamless corridors that whispered of a design long before the Imperium’s crude industrialism. Unlike the rest of the vessel—pristine, untouched, waiting—this area felt different.

  Servius stepped through the threshold, his sharp green eyes scanning the space.

  The first thing he noticed was the silence.

  Most Imperial vessels hummed with life, their engines groaning, their reactors pulsing with heat, their servitor-run maintenance stations constantly clanking and hissing with steam. Not here.

  The Praedyth did not breathe.

  Its core was silent, its power running in a steady, calculated rhythm that never faltered, never strained, never wavered.

  His ears flicked.

  The space itself was open, unlike any Imperial ship’s engine room. Instead of sprawling conduits and exposed cables vomiting across the walls like tangled veins, the chamber was smooth and layered in polished black alloy. The core itself sat suspended at the room’s center—a vast sphere, humming softly, pulsing with some inner energy that did not rely on plasma or raw fuel.

  Servius had seen plenty of reactors—standard fusion cores, temperamental plasma engines, even scavenged xenos drives barely held together by reckless heretics.

  This? This was something else.

  He stepped forward, boots making no sound on the smooth floor. As he neared, the core’s surface shimmered, reflecting the dim light in a way that felt unnatural.

  His tail flicked as he examined the surrounding structures.

  There were no heat vents. No coolant lines. No backup redundancies.

  It was as if the ship did not need them.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  "Praedyth," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Give me a breakdown of the core’s specifications."

  A brief pause.

  Then, the ship’s voice responded. "Insufficient data."

  His jaw tightened. "You don’t know your own reactor's function?"

  Another pause.

  "System operations remain within optimal performance range. Further information is unavailable."

  Servius flexed his claws. "Unavailable, or restricted?"

  Silence.

  He clicked his tongue against his teeth. That told him everything.

  The ship was hiding something.

  Not corrupted. Not daemonic.

  Just… locked.

  That was a problem for later.

  For now, he needed to confirm functionality.

  He moved to one of the engineering terminals, its interface glowing with an unfamiliar pattern of shifting, liquid-like symbols. No buttons. No mechanical levers or physical access points.

  Servius hesitated for only a moment before placing a clawed hand on the interface.

  Instantly, the ship responded.

  The console shifted, adapting—the symbols realigning into something more recognizable, something almost readable. Not quite Low Gothic, not quite any language he knew, but enough that he could understand.

  Power levels: Stable.

  Reactor efficiency: 100%.

  Damage report: Minimal.

  Maintenance required: None.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  None?

  That was impossible.

  Even the best-kept Imperial ships required constant maintenance—reactor overhauls, machine spirit appeasement, fuel injections. But this vessel did not require anything.

  His tail lashed once behind him.

  "Praedyth," he said, keeping his voice calm. "How long has the reactor been running without maintenance?"

  A pause. Then:

  "Current operational status: Unbroken."

  Servius blinked once, his expression unreadable.

  "Define ‘unbroken.’"

  "Reactor has remained at full efficiency since initial activation."

  He stood there for a long moment, staring at the display.

  The Praedyth was thousands of years old.

  That reactor had been running—untouched, unaltered, without degradation—for longer than some civilizations had existed.

  Servius exhaled slowly. The implications were enormous.

  A power core that didn’t require maintenance. Didn’t decay.

  A ship that never truly died.

  His claws flexed against the console.

  The Adeptus Mechanicus would slaughter entire planets to possess something like this.

  He straightened, gaze flicking across the rest of the engineering sector. No servitors. No repair drones.

  Just a ship that kept itself alive.

  His tail flicked once more before he turned toward the exit.

  This vessel—his vessel—was a relic of something far beyond the Imperium’s understanding.

  And yet, it had chosen him.

  That thought lingered as he left the chamber behind.

  The bridge was as silent as the rest of the ship.

  Unlike the command decks of Imperial warships—crowded with cogitator stations, servitor pits, and the ceaseless chattering of adepts interpreting machine spirit auguries—the Praedyth’s command center was eerily… empty.

  Servius stepped forward, his claws clicking softly against the polished black alloy beneath his feet. The room was spacious, almost minimalist in design. No extraneous control panels. No redundant interfaces. Just a singular, curved console built into the forward section, seamlessly merging with the structure around it.

  The command throne—if it could even be called that—was sleek and slightly reclined, positioned before an expansive holo-display that spanned the entire forward viewport. Instead of showing raw numbers and data streams, the Praedyth translated information into something far more refined.

  Tactical readouts. Threat assessments. Warp distortions mapped in fluid, shifting currents of deep blues and pulsing violets.

  Servius had never seen a system like it.

  His tail flicked once behind him as he moved toward the throne, running a clawed hand along the armrest. The surface was smooth, responding to his touch with a faint pulse of warmth.

  He lowered himself into the seat, allowing the ship’s systems to react. The holo-display brightened, refocusing its projections as if aligning itself to his perspective rather than presenting raw output.

  It adapted.

  Servius exhaled slowly. The more he saw of this ship, the more he understood just how different it was.

  "Praedyth," he said, voice level. "Display all sub-systems."

  The interface responded immediately, a cascading stream of symbols and translated data appearing before him.

  Primary Systems: Fully Operational.

  Reactor Output: Stable.

  Propulsion Efficiency: Optimal.

  Weapon Systems: Standby.

  Navigation: Limited Information.

  Jump Systems: Offline.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. "Limited?"

  A brief pause. Then: "Last navigational scan date unknown."

  Servius sat in the pilot’s chair, his sharp green eyes fixed on the central display as it flickered in front of him. The Praedyth’s bridge surrounded him, its systems alive with potential as the ship seemed to settle into a tentative rhythm under his control. The shattered remains of the Ebon Claws’ corrupted voidcraft floated outside the viewport, their broken husks scattered across the warped, swirling landscape of the Immaterium below.

  "Praedyth," Servius said, his voice calm but firm. "Can you scan the wreckage? I need to know if the Claws left anything useful behind—locations, logs, anything."

  The ship’s response was immediate, its tone mechanical and precise.

  "Scanning. Initiating data extraction from available wreckage. Estimated time to completion: two minutes."

  Servius leaned back in the chair, his tail flicking slowly behind him as he stared out at the grotesque scene beyond the ship. The fragmented vessels, once tools of slaughter and corruption, now drifted lifelessly in the Warp’s endless chaos. Their surfaces, once emblazoned with blasphemous symbols, were now blackened and torn apart by the Praedyth’s weaponry.

  Good riddance, Servius thought, his claws tapping idly against the armrest. The Ebon Claws were no more. But their presence here—so entrenched in the Immaterium—meant they must have known something. And if they had known something, perhaps their data could give him a clue about where to go next.

  The ship chimed, interrupting his thoughts.

  "Scan complete. Data retrieved: 63% intact. Fragments indicate multiple designations of stable Warp destinations. Reviewing for relevance."

  Servius sat up straighter, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Stable Warp destinations? Define."

  The display flickered as a series of symbols and warped glyphs appeared, accompanied by rudimentary maps of the Warp’s ever-shifting currents. The Praedyth processed the information, translating it into something that Servius could more easily understand.

  "Analysis indicates the existence of semi-stable regions within the Immaterium," the ship explained. "These regions correspond to localized Warp activity influenced by residual gravity wells, ancient constructs, or phenomena originating from consumed stellar objects. Designated as ‘anchored zones.’"

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply. Anchored zones—places within the Warp that had become stable enough to be treated as temporary destinations. Planets, colonies, or other massive objects that had fallen into the Immaterium but hadn’t been entirely consumed. He had heard of such places in whispers before. They were often havens for scavengers, Chaos warbands, or worse.

  "What’s the closest one?" he asked.

  The Praedyth paused briefly before responding.

  "Nearest anchored zone detected: Designation Sarynth Expanse. Distance: 4.7 Warp intervals. Scans indicate planetary fragments and localized energy surges consistent with active habitation or structural remnants. Risk level: high."

  Servius smirked faintly. High risk wasn’t new to him. "Sarynth Expanse," he murmured, testing the name on his tongue. "Sounds like a good start."

  He studied the display, his claws tracing the map as the Praedyth provided additional details. The coordinates weren’t absolute in the way realspace navigation worked. The Warp wasn’t bound by linear distances or fixed positions; it shifted and changed, its currents dictated by the will of the Immaterium itself. But the Praedyth’s ancient systems seemed adept at interpreting these chaotic flows, highlighting a path that would take him close to the Expanse without veering into the most dangerous Warp rifts.

  "Can you calculate a route?" Servius asked, leaning forward slightly.

  "Route calculation in progress," the ship replied. "Path through the Immaterium optimized for minimal interference. Travel time: approximately four hours based on current Warp flow conditions."

  Servius nodded, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. Four hours in the Warp was practically nothing compared to realspace travel. In those few hours, the distance traversed would have taken years at sublight speeds. But even a four-hour journey could be fraught with danger if the ship encountered daemons, anomalies, or psychic disturbances.

  "Prepare the engines," Servius said, his voice cold and deliberate. "And keep monitoring those currents. If anything shifts, I want to know immediately."

  The Praedyth responded without hesitation.

  "Sub-light engines initializing. Current trajectory aligns with stabilized currents. Estimated travel risk: moderate."

  Servius tapped his claws against the armrest, his mind already racing with possibilities. The Sarynth Expanse could hold answers—or it could be another dead end. Either way, it was a step forward, a chance to unravel the threads of the Warp.

  And continue the hunt.

  https://youtu.be/8FW9VaqUT2k?si=znuZ2-zyXP7C6on7