Chapter 20

Eteren One Orbital Starbase

Mottmor System, Venddral Raidezel Sector

Date: Zeran 19, Year 4731

Rorgal’s Pub was one of the more popular spots aboard the Eteren One Space Station—a frequent stop for travelers passing through the Mottmor system. Inside, voices surged and faded, bursts of laughter rippling through the crowd and blending with the sharp clink of glasses. On the pub’s stage, electronic rhythms from a series of synthesizers pulsed steadily, the performance already in full swing.

The scent of alcohol mingled with the rich aromas of roasted meats and spiced stews. Each swing of the kitchen door brought a fresh wave of scents, drawing hungry glances.

The pub spanned two floors, the upper level dotted with smaller seating areas. Patrons leaned over the railings to observe the floor below, where species from across the Mottmor system—and beyond—mingled freely.

Interling Basic was constant among the heavily accented dialects of countless homeworlds. For anyone traveling the Karadolex Galaxy, a working knowledge of Interling Basic was essential, though translators were readily available for those who lacked fluency.

Smoke coiled over the gambling corner, where faces marked by desperation leaned into games of fleeting hope.

Some sat alone at virtual machines, their attention fixed on bright screens as they pushed a series of buttons, hoping to hit the right combination. Others gathered around a deep, rounded table, tossing dice that clattered against its surface. Nearby, a card game attracted a crowd, with players ranging from calm, calculating strategists to those cracking jokes in an attempt to unsettle their opponents while wagering considerable sums.

Various currencies changed hands, facilitated by a banker behind a secure area who converted them into the Galactic Standard. Beyond this, a door led to a private room where only participants were allowed entry, ensuring the high-stakes games within unfolded without distraction.

Waitstaff moved through the crowd, between tables. Humans, Sabons, Nsalron, Ottorin, and Uxians balanced trays with steaming plates and fresh drinks. The glassware varied as much as the patrons it served.

On stage, a Seleth ensemble performed a hypnotic blend of electronic instruments and stirring vocals. Each note, enhanced with delays and layered distortion, and other effects resonated throughout the room. Above the stage, a brightly lit sign declared: “Rorgal’s Pub - Nightly Entertainment.”

At a table along the wall, Garen Rivers, Conus Taylen, and Klamarez sat as a server cleared their empty plates, leaving behind small glasses filled with Starfire Whiskey. Garen savored the smoky tang of the amber liquor—a refreshing change from the harsh Camerian Rye of his exile.

The table, crafted from polished dark wood, was sturdy and immovable, its surface bearing only minimal scuffs. The matching chairs shared the same design. Garen, who had taken up woodworking during his time on Chiex, idly wondered what type of wood had been used to craft them.

For the moment, as they relaxed and enjoyed the atmosphere in Rorgal’s Pub, the burdens of their journey felt a little further away.

“Glad to hear the Rift Drive’s in good shape,” Garen said, relief in his voice.

Klamarez nodded, setting his glass down. “The IRD won’t give us any more trouble—assuming we don’t take another round of heavy weapons fire. The primary shields are now online, so that should help,” he said confidently.

“How’s the Sub-Space Dissipator holding up?” Conus asked, motioning toward his PDA. “I was reviewing some of the data you showed me earlier and noticed this,” he added.

Klamarez grinned as he glanced at the PDA. “Caught the issue and fixed it,” he said with a nod. “Tweaked a few systems and even brought a new system online.”

His vision for the Seeker remained far from complete, though his recent trip to Ynd’s Junk and Gems had brought that vision a little closer to reality.

“Sounds like you made good use of the time,” Garen remarked.

“What new system?” Conus asked. He recalled several designs from the data Klamarez had shared with him.

“The Rift Redirector,” Klamarez replied simply.

Garen didn’t comment. The name was unfamiliar, though he had a vague idea of its purpose. Hopefully, it’ll come in handy if we get into a tight spot. Then again, if we run into the Rheeavher again, no upgrade might matter.

“It’s online?” Conus asked. To him, the system sounded more theoretical than practical—not the kind of defensive weapon one would expect on an RDF or RSIA ship. But this was neither, and far from it.

Klamarez just grinned and nodded, offering no further explanation.

Their attention drifted toward the stage, where the Seleth ensemble performed. Six musicians worked an intricate array of keyed pads and touch-sensitive surfaces, with foot pedals on the floor. All of this was guided by a central computer system that created a seamless blend of sound. The haunting vocals swept through several octaves, distorted and layered with effects.

A soft, unusual melody wove through the pub, carried by a steady drumbeat and a tightly looping electronic bassline. The lead vocalist adjusted a series of dials, shaping his voice into a distorted, mesmerizing cadence.

“Beyond the Kardolex . . . where few have tread,

We find empty realms . . . where no one longer lives.

We traveled so far . . . seen so many ruins,

Searching the path . . . to the origins, . . . where it all began.”

As the vocalist’s voice swelled, more instruments joined in. The drums surged, driving the rhythm forward. Harmonized vocals from the other musicians layered over the melody, deepening the sound.

“Pathway . . . to the Org . . . ins,” they chanted in unison.

The soundscape filled the room, radiating from uniquely shaped speakers, no two alike, each calibrated to amplify specific frequencies. Their cables twisted, connecting to a central control board. The music seemed to draw the pub’s patrons into a shared moment.

From his seat, Garen caught snippets of conversation from nearby patrons. “They’re a big deal in the Mottmor system,” someone said. “Lucky to catch them live.”

“What’s the band called? Tetra onRix?” Klamarez asked, recalling the name he’d overheard earlier. Leaning back in his seat, he added, “Camerian music doesn’t sound anything like this.”

Camerians preferred simpler arrangements—string and wind instruments, often in solitary performances.

“They rearranged the letters of their homeworld, Rixon Tetra, for the name,” Conus explained.

“Oh, I see. What are they singing about? The Origins?” Klamarez asked, leaning forward slightly.

“The Seleths believe they’ll find a pathway to the Origin Galaxy,” Conus replied. “And, along the way, they hope to discover valuable worlds beyond the known galaxy.”

“A fun myth to discuss,” Klamarez said with a small shrug. “The Camerians have a slightly different version, but it’s basically the same story.”

“I agree; it’s probably just a story,” Garen interjected, setting down his glass. “But don’t you find it interesting that most cultures across the galaxy have similar stories? Different in the details, sure, but with common threads and ideas woven throughout.”

Klamarez paused, considering Garen’s point. “I suppose you have a point. Do you think it means anything?”

In all their years together, Klamarez had never heard Garen mention the Origins or show any interest in it. However, he had heard no shortage of stories from Garen about the myths and legends of countless civilizations.

“I don’t know,” Garen said simply. But he did know—or at least he believed he did. From his experiences, conversations about the Origins rarely led anywhere productive.

“The Seleths think they might find it through exploration,” Conus added.

Garen made a sound of amusement. “If there is a pathway, it’s in the Kardolex Galaxy,” he said.

Conus paused, surprised. “You sound awfully certain about that, General.”

“Just my personal belief, based on things I’ve read,” Garen replied casually.

Behind the bar stood Rorgal Fornis, the human owner whose jovial voice often rose above the performers. He served with effortless charm, punctuating his quick wit with the flick of a toothpick dangling from his mouth. A stringy goatee framed his chin, while a thinning crown hinted at his age. Yet his energetic demeanor seemed untouched by the years.

Garen had overheard that Rorgal hailed from the Frontier Territories, a star system near Rhyus within the Seven Worlds’ domain. With its sparse population and RDF protection, the region offered a life of simplicity and isolation—a lifestyle that had never suited Rorgal. The humans of the Frontier Territories were known for their appreciation of peace, security, and access to the Seven Worlds’ advanced technology, all while embracing the system’s slower pace of life.

Rorgal, however, had left the Territories as soon as he could, striking out on his own as a young man. From what Garen had gathered, Rorgal had been running the pub since the station’s earliest days, back when it first came into operation six years ago.

Rorgal’s tales and jests echoed through the pub, sparking bursts of laughter and drawing curious glances from nearby patrons unfamiliar with his ways. Beside him stood Cipher, a synthetic with a mild stutter and an unexpectedly contagious mechanized laugh.

Amidst the lively atmosphere, Garen’s skepticism about the RDF’s role in the Mottmor system lingered. He’d seen harmony mask hidden tensions too often. While Rorgal’s patrons mingled peacefully—aside from the occasional curse from the gambling tables—whispers of raids, violence, and deaths on the system’s fringes were constant.

The RDF kept Eteren One stable and the planet below safe, but the rest of the Mottmor system was another matter entirely.

The pub’s doors slid open, and a delegation of Krylans strode in, their bulky frames and slate-grey skin immediately shifting the room’s energy. Known for their raw strength and quick tempers, Krylans had a reputation for taking even casual remarks as insults. Patrons instinctively stepped aside, stealing wary glances as the imposing group approached the bar.

“Drinks, Rorgal!” one of them growled, their guttural voice strained.

“Now, wait your turn,” Rorgal replied, entirely unbothered as he poured a drink for another patron without so much as glancing up.

One of the Krylans let out a low, guttural roar, but Rorgal didn’t flinch. With his usual confidence, he approached them, locking eyes with their leader. Whatever he said—his words swallowed by the surrounding noise—triggered a sudden burst of laughter from the group.

“Krylans,” Conus remarked, watching as the group received oversized tankards, which they wasted no time clumsily downing with varying degrees of accuracy.

“Strong as they come,” Klamarez said, studying them. “Strong enough to pull the arms off… well, anyone with arms. Though, honestly, I’m not sure why anyone would want to go around pulling arms off.”

“Pulling arms off?” Conus asked, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head.

“Just something I heard once,” Klamarez said. “I hear things like that, and I can’t seem to forget them.”

Garen smiled to himself.

The Krylans dropped carelessly into their seats. Nearby, a group of Nsalron, with deep blue skin, chatted animatedly. One of them flagged down a server with a wave.

At a distance, a cluster of Sabons—short, green-skinned beings with eight arms—huddled together. Their laughter was low and sporadic as they scrolled through PDAs, sharing jokes and sly remarks. The devices seemed as much a part of their conversation as they were.

The pub’s energy shifted subtly as a new group entered. Some patrons exchanged knowing glances, while others regarded them with cautious curiosity. Leading the ensemble was a Loquar male with coarse black fur. He walked with calculated steps, his confidence teetering on arrogance.

At his side strode a Krylan woman, with dark grey complexion and athletic build. Her sleeveless shirt highlighted broad shoulders.

Trailing them was a slender Netraxian male. His eyes swept the room briefly, lingering on two women. One greeted him with a warm, familiar smile; the other fixed him with a frosty glare.

Last came a human woman who hung slightly behind the group. Medium-length red hair framed her youthful face, but her eyes betrayed a depth of experience far beyond her apparent age. Her dark jacket hung open, revealing a flat, toned stomach beneath.

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The Loquar approached the bar, surveying the pub as if cataloging its patrons. He leaned against the counter with his back. The Netraxian busied himself with ordering drinks for the group, while the human woman mirrored the Loquar, her eyes scanning the room.

After a moment, her gaze settled on Garen, Conus, and Klamarez. Garen watched as she leaned toward the Loquar, her posture shifting subtly as she gestured toward their table with a slight tilt of her head. The Loquar’s eyes followed the motion, locking onto their table. One by one, the rest of his group mirrored the action, their attention settling squarely on Garen’s table.

There was something about the quartet that demanded attention. “Colonel, you see that group that just walked in?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut through the pub’s noise.

Conus shifted slightly, stealing a quick glance. “Yes, General.”

“They keep looking this way,” Garen muttered, narrowing his eyes.

A brief exchange of glances between Garen and the Loquar left no doubt—their focus was unmistakably on his table. Garen’s grip tightened around his drink.

“They’re talking about us,” Conus confirmed, his enhanced ear catching snippets of conversation.

Klamarez leaned in, looking at Conus augmented ear. “You can hear that? With all this noise?” he asked. His proximity was uncomfortably close, but Conus didn’t flinch.

“What do they want?” Garen asked, his voice low.

“They’re looking for Klamarez,” Conus replied.

“What could they want with me?” Klamarez blurted, his ears flattening as his claws instinctively extended.

The group began to move toward them.

“Looks like we’re about to find out,” Garen muttered.

The Loquar led them. As they approached, they stopped close by their table. The Krylan woman stood rigidly at his side. The loud crack of her clenched fists was audible even over the busyness of the pub. The Netraxian moved casually to the opposite side of the table, leaning against a support beam. The human woman moved closer, lingering just behind the Loquar. Their proximity left no doubt about their intent.

“Is there something you need?” Garen asked, his voice direct, addressing the Loquar.

Conus’s augmented eye scanned over each of them, looking for concealed weapons but finding none.

The Loquar’s focus lingered on Garen, as though measuring his composure. Slowly, his eyes shifted to each of the trio before he finally spoke. His voice was low, laced with amusement.

“I’ve heard the three of you are new to Eteren One. Welcome to the station.”

“What are you, the welcoming committee? And what business is that of yours?” Garen shot back, his tone sharp as he took a sip of his drink.

“That’s rude,” The Loquar said mockingly. “Anyone who steps foot on this station is my business. I’m Kaelar. And your names are?”

“Garen Rivers,” came the quick reply. “Still haven’t told me why you’re bothering us.”

“I didn’t realize we were bothering you,” he said. Kaelar and His companions exchanged quick glances, their amusement evident. He motioned toward the human woman. “Mira.”

She nodded and retrieved her PDA.

Garen, unsure of the significance but certain it meant something. “Well, you are,” Garen said firmly, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Get to the point. We’re not here to make new friends.”

The Krylan female stepped forward, her boots thudding against the floor. “Watch it, human, or I’ll tear your arm off and beat you with it,” she growled.

Klamarez shot Conus a wide-eyed look, his claws retracting as his hands instinctively moved to touch his arms, as if ensuring they were still attached.

“Settle down, Idara,” Kaelar said sharply, though there was no true annoyance in his tone.

Idara stepped back, her posture rigid. She remained fixed on Garen, daring him to make a move.

“Our concern isn’t with you, Garen Rivers,” Kaelar said, his voice pointed. His eyes shifted deliberately toward Klamarez. “The issue lies with your companion here. He has an unresolved debt.”

Klamarez stiffened. “My debt,” he said quietly, almost to himself. The Vanicktus Syndicate.

Kaelar nodded, as though savoring the tension. “You have an outstanding debt, Camerian. A substantial one. One that’s garnered some attention.”

“I made the last payment two months ago. It was a little late, sure, but I made it,” Klamarez shot back, frustration threading his voice. “The next one isn’t due for another month. I’ve been paying on time—except for that one. It was only a couple of days late.” he said almost rambling.

Kaelar’s demeanor remained steady. “Your late payment incurred additional costs,” he replied. “This was clearly stated in the contract.”

“I paid Vossen and his associates at Calio Landing, just like we agreed,” Said Klamarez

“‘You did pay,’ he said with a cold smile. "But late payments come with fees—you knew that."

Klamarez’s composure began to crack, his voice rising. “I’ll pay the next installment now—before it’s even due. That should settle things, right?”

Kaelar’s smile grew colder. “That’s not how this works, Camerian. We don’t loan credits as favors.”

“I said I can pay now,” Klamarez repeated, his tone firm but edged with desperation.

Kaelar’s face darkened, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Very well,” he said. “But I must insist you accompany me, Klamarez. We’ll reassess your repayment strategy. Considering your current assets—including the vessel docked here—we may need to seize collateral or enforce repayment through other means.” The threat in his voice was unmistakable. “Come with us. Alone.”

Garen stood abruptly. The scrape of his chair against the floor sliced through, drawing attention from all corners of the pub. He stepped forward. Around the pub, conversations faltered, attention shifting toward their table. Other voices hushed entirely. Cautious glances turned into outright stares.

Idara matched his motion with equal force, lunging forward. She looked down at him, muscles taut

“I don’t like your attitude,” Garen said, his voice calm as he locked eyes with Idara.

“What? I don’t like your attitude, Human,” Idara shot back, her guttural tone thick with mockery.

At the table, Conus and Klamarez exchanged a quick nod before rising. Conus shifted slightly to the side, his augmented eye tracking Talon, the Netraxian lingering behind them.

“Klamarez has settled his dues,” Garen asserted, his voice loud enough to turn a few heads. “He’s made his payments—even offered to pay early. He’s not going anywhere. This matter is finished.”

Kaelar’s tone dropped. “I’d advise caution, Human. Think carefully. The safety you cling to here is thinner than you realize. The so-called security of this station? Nothing more than an illusion. Interfere, and you might find yourself on the wrong side of Eteren One.”

Garen took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “It’s been years since I punched out a Loquar,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with challenge.

Kaelar sized Garen up, then closed his eyes briefly, as if daring him to strike. “Try it, Human,” he said, his tone between amusement and warning.

Inside, though, Kaelar’s mind was calculating. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially so openly. Not here, not in Rorgal’s Pub, where his role as an enforcer for the Vanicktus Syndicate thrived on a carefully cultivated reputation of fear and respect. He could feel the room’s eyes on them, waiting for his next move. I can’t afford to look weak.

“Try it,” Idara echoed, her fists clenched.

Talon, the Netraxian, glanced at Idara, irritation flashing across his face as she echoed Kaelar's words.

“Keep talking, and I just might,” Garen said. “I’m tired of your yapping. I’ve dealt with beings like you before—you don’t intimidate me.” He leaned in slightly. “All you’ve done since you walked in here is run your mouth. I’ve had enough.”

Before Kaelar could respond, Garen motioned casually toward Conus. “And just so we’re clear, I’ve got a Colonel here with me.”

Kaelar laughed “The RDF does not concern me,” he said dismissively.

“No?” Garen countered. “Take a closer look.”

Kaelar’s studied Conus more closely for the first time, noting the unmistakable signs of augmentation. Conus’s enhancements stood out in a way uncommon among augmented humans, whose modifications were often subtle and, at times, hard to notice. The faint lines tracing the right side of his face hinted at extensive integration beneath the surface.

“It changes nothing,” Kaelar said, his patience visibly wearing thin. He turned his attention back to Klamarez. “Your debt stands at thirty-eight thousand standard credits.”

Klamarez’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s double—almost triple—what I owe!”

“The terms were clear and non-negotiable,” Kaelar replied. “We facilitated your acquisition of crucial components—components that, from what we’ve heard, proved vital during the Vorcon onslaught at Calio Landing. Your defenses held only because of what we provided. Refuse to settle the full amount, and your options are simple: surrender your ship, repay through service, or return the parts.”

“He’ll pay early. He’s good for it—I’ll see to that.” Garen Snapped.

Kaelar’s eyes swept the room. "If I let your friend off here, what will the others think? What message does that send?"

“That you’re smart enough to avoid unnecessary trouble,” Garen replied without hesitation.

Kaelar’s lips tightened into a thin line, his expression carefully neutral as if he hadn’t heard Garen’s remark. “I’ll consider it,” he said, referring to Klamarez paying early, “but I must insist he comes with us—alone—to work out the details.”

“This discussion ends now,” Garen said, leaving no room for negotiation.

Kaelar stared at Garen, unblinking. The tension between them thickened. Then Mira, the human woman, stepped forward, held up her PDA. She presented the screen to Kaelar, who glanced at it briefly.

Kaelar’s demeanor cooled. With a faint nod, he said, “Apologies, General. Enjoy your evening.” He gestured to his companions, and without another word, the group turned and retreated toward the exit. Yet, the way he carried himself made it clear—this retreat was more of a promise than a concession.

As the quartet left the tavern, a few patrons continued to watch them, their hushed conversations speculating on what had just transpired. Gradually, the atmosphere began to return to normal.

Garen, Conus, and Klamarez stood near their table, forming a tight circle.

“Engaging with the Vanicktus Syndicate was a mistake,” Klamarez said, his voice heavy with regret. “Those parts were critical, but I should have found another way.”

“The Vanicktus Syndicate thrives on exploitation,” Conus said.

“This isn’t the last we’ll see of them,” Garen said, his voice hard. “But if they come again, they’ll have to deal with me first.”

“And me,” Conus added, his tone resolute.

Klamarez gave a faint nod, his ears straightening slightly as he wrung his fists. “I’ve fought tougher than them,” he said with a weak attempt at humor. “Not saying I won, but I fought them—and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

Conus smirked, tilting his head. “How many Loquar have you punched out, General?”

Garen gave him a dry look. “None. Never fought one before,” he admitted.

“You notice he called you ‘General,’” Conus pointed out.

“It didn’t go unnoticed,” Garen replied. “Here’s the plan: I’ll consolidate our accommodations into a three room suite for the night. We set off in the morning as planned.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the soft chime of Garen’s PDA. He glanced at the screen. “A message from the Uxians. My tactical outfit has been delivered ahead of schedule,” he said with mild surprise.

Conus raised an eyebrow. “How’d they know your room number?”

“That’s curious,” Klamarez added.

Garen considered this, piecing it together. “Once I booked the rooms, my details were logged into the station’s system. I’ll head out to collect the order. It’ll be fine.”

Conus hesitated. “General, I’m not sure…”

“Maybe we should all go together,” Klamarez suggested.

Garen shook his head. “They’re after you, Klamarez. You’ll be safer staying here.”

Unnoticed by the trio, Rorgal Fornis—the pub’s bartender with a toothpick hanging from his mouth—and Cipher, a synthetic with a stuttering voice, had edged closer.

“Tut-tut-tut,” Rorgal began, his deep voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Which one of you managed to draw the Vanicktus Syndicate’s eye?” He chuckled, flicking his toothpick onto the floor and replacing it with a fresh one, punctuating the gesture with a playful wink.

“Be… car-car-care-ful,” Cipher stuttered.

Garen nodded toward Klamarez. “My friend here.”

Rorgal clapped a heavy hand on Klamarez’s shoulder. “Now, what’d you go and do that for? Lose a bet? Cheat a Krylan at cards?”

“This is serious,” Klamarez said, the weight of the situation clear on his face.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Rorgal said, brushing it off. “I’m sure it’ll all work out. How about a bowl of soup—on the house?”

“Free soup?” Klamarez echoed, blinking.

Cipher tilted his head, his synthetic features attempting something close to a proud expression. “F-f-free… s-soup-ip!” His mechanical laugh jittered through his vocal module.

Klamarez shrugged, shaking his head. “Well, I guess so.”

Rorgal turned to Garen and Conus with a mock-serious look. “You two have to pay.”

Conus opened his mouth to respond, but Rorgal cut him off with a laugh. “I’m kidding! Free soup for everyone. Consider it an apology for that little incident earlier—you shouldn’t have had to deal with that in my pub. By the way, Cipher made the soup,” he added.

The trio exchanged glances before shifting their eyes to Cipher.

“It ta-tastes gr-gr-great-great to meee!” Cipher stuttered, his vocal module grinding painfully on the final syllable.

Rorgal’s expression softened as his tone grew more serious. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Really, though, you don’t need to worry while you’re here. With the RDF’s tight security, this station’s as safe as they come. The Syndicate has a presence, sure, but it’s limited. They can’t flex much muscle here.” He paused, brushing a hand through his thinning hair. “But out there in the rest of the system?” He shook his head grimly. “That’s a whole different story. Be careful when you leave.”

Cipher shifted slightly, his glowing optics narrowing, as if to underline the warning.

Rorgal continued, “Their favorite tactic? Ambushing ships as they leave the system. They’ve got vessels lying in wait to pounce on anyone who looks like an easy target. Don’t underestimate them.”

“Appreciate the heads-up,” Garen said, nodding. “Thanks, Rorgal.”

“I like to keep my customers alive!” Rorgal replied with a laugh that sounded almost forced. With that, he stepped back toward the bar, clapping Cipher on the shoulder as the synthetic trailed behind him.

“Free soo…up,” Cipher echoed, his stutter dragging out the words.

As Rorgal and Cipher returned to their routine, the bartender’s laughter echoed across the room.

“This won’t take long,” Garen said, glancing at Conus and Klamarez. Their subdued expressions didn’t escape his notice. As he stepped away from the table, he felt an uneasy tightening in his chest.

Garen paused near the pub’s entrance before stepping into the quieter corridors of the station. The promenade stretched out before him, less crowded than earlier. He stopped at a large viewport overlooking Eteren. A passenger liner glided smoothly into view, aligning for docking. Farther out, a squadron of Verta-class fighters moved in tight formation.

Arriving at his quarters, Garen keyed in his access code. The door slid open, and he stepped inside, the door sealing shut behind him.

The room was modest but practical—a compact desk by the bed, an entertainment console in the corner, and a small washroom tucked away. His eyes swept across the space, searching for the package he’d been expecting. It wasn’t there. A bad feeling began to coil in his gut.

He scanned the room quickly, his gaze darting over every surface for anything that could serve as a defensive tool. Nothing.

Then came the soft whoosh of the door reopening.

Garen spun, adrenaline surging. A shadow shifted in the doorway. Someone was there.