Refuge Theta settled back into uneasy silence after the confrontation, but tension still lingered in the air. The mechanics and traders returned to their work, careful not to glance in Rust’s direction. His men spread out, refueling their weapons, eating in quiet clusters, and enjoying what little rest they could before the next slaughter.

Rust sat at a metal table in the outpost’s dimly lit bar, his boot propped on the edge of a nearby chair. His nanoblood-enhanced body didn’t need much sleep, but his mind required stillness—the calm before the next storm.

A grizzled info broker sat across from him, a cybernetic eye clicking as it adjusted focus. Rust had paid him well enough to be worth listening to.

The broker’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm against his holo-slate. His cybernetic eye whirred as he studied the information.

“Halric didn’t run far,” he finally rasped. “He’s holed up at Outpost Helix, an old mining station built into the ice and rock of Saturn’s rings. Remote. Defensible. He’s got men with him, but nothing compared to what you just tore through.”

Rust leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulder. Halric was close.

“How sure are you?” Rust asked.

The broker smirked, sliding a small data drive across the table. “Surveillance scans. He’s there. I even have the supply schedules—his men are expecting a shipment in two days. Could be your way in.”

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Rust took the drive, his fingers closing over it. A slow grin spread across his face. Two days was too long. He’d be there in one.

He pushed back from the table and stood. His men, spread out across the bar and nearby corridors, saw the look in his eyes and knew—it was time to move.

But before they could leave, Edric Varn stepped back into their path.

A Merchant’s Pride

The merchant still bore the marks of their last encounter. His throat was bruised, his pride shattered, but his arrogance? Untouched.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

Two black-armored enforcers flanked him, their presence unmistakable. They weren’t mercenaries. They weren’t hired guns. They belonged to a Duke.

Rust’s men went rigid, hands hovering near their weapons. Everyone knew what it meant to cross one of the ruling Dukes. Even among the nobility, the Dukes were untouchable.

Varn’s smirk returned. He rolled his shoulders, stepping forward like a man who had suddenly remembered his worth.

“You made a mistake" he said, his voice raw but mocking. “You thought you could lay hands on me without consequence.”

Rust’s grin was slow, sharp. “And you think standing next to two lapdogs makes you safe?”

One of the enforcers shifted, the movement measured. Their armor gleamed under the artificial lights, visors unreadable.

Varn chuckled. “It’s not just them. The Duke knows your name now.”

That gave Rust’s men pause. The Duke. No need to ask which one—Varn’s trade routes ran through Jupiter. That meant Lord Vext.

Rust’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes.

“I’m sure he does,” Rust murmured. “I’d be insulted if he didn’t.”

Varn’s smirk faltered.

Rust stepped forward—not with hesitation, but with purpose. He moved until he was a breath away from the merchant, close enough for Varn to feel the heat of something far worse than anger.

Varn had come here expecting fear. Expecting hesitation. But Rust didn’t hesitate. He leaned in.

“Tell your Duke I’m just getting started,” Rust said softly. “And next time you come at me with threats, bring an army.”

The tension crackled. The enforcers didn’t move, didn’t speak. They were just here to watch. To see what Rust would do.

And they saw enough.

Varn took a step back, jaw clenched, hands balling into fists. He wanted to say something, wanted to take back control of the moment—but the look in Rust’s eyes unmade him.

Rust smiled. The kind of smile that promised nothing but war.

Without another word, he turned and walked past the merchant. His men followed, boots echoing against the steel floors.

The hunt for Halric had begun. And now? So had something else.