Aventis Secundus – Exile Stronghold

  Legatus Varro Marcellis stood at the central terminal, one gloved hand flipping through a string of field reports. Supply lines. Fleet movements. Off-world disturbances. It all blurred together.

  None of it mattered.

  Just more noise in a galaxy burning itself alive.

  He paused, keyed in a search request, and narrowed the filters to flagged intelligence updates.

  Valeria Zhukov.

  Valeria’s profile filled the screen. Her platinum blonde braid was pulled tight, her eyes forward and unreadable. That same cold stare she always had right before she killed someone.

  Behind him, Draconius leaned in just enough to catch a glimpse.

  “When are you going to introduce us?” he muttered.

  Aurelian snorted. “She’d eat you alive.”

  “She doesn’t dine on fools,” Varro said, scrolling through her activities. “She buries them.”

  Draconius smirked. “Might be worth it.”

  Aurelian didn’t miss a beat. “She might be one of the most beautiful humans in the galaxy... but I think she might actually be more terrifying than Blackhand.”

  A flicker of a smile touched Varro’s face.

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Aurelian added.

  The chamber door groaned.

  Blackhand entered the room dragging a limp, bloodied man by the collar. His uniform was torn, one eye swollen shut, ribs visibly broken.

  “Speak of the devil,” Draconius muttered with a smirk.

  Without a word, Blackhand threw the man forward like a sack of meat. He was a walking wall in black armor, blood on his gloves, a cracked chain trailing behind him.

  “Brought you a gift, father,” he said. Not reverent. Just familiar. Like it was a joke between them.

  “This one squeals loud.”

  Varro didn’t look impressed. “You drag filth into my sanctum like it’s a kennel and call it a gift?”

  Blackhand shrugged. “Supply runner out of Seraphis Reach. One of Orion’s fronts. Slippery bastard ditched his transponder and tried to vanish into the trade lanes, but I caught him boarding a hauler bound for the Shatterspan. He screamed before I even asked questions.”

  He glanced toward the terminal still active beside Varro and grinned.

  “Oh. Bro’s girlfriend?”

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  Varro turned slightly. “My niece and not anymore, remember?”

  Blackhand gave a lazy shrug. “Yeah, yeah.” He said kneeling beside the prisoner and pulling a pair of blackened, bloodstained pliers from his pouch.

  The man started to panic again, limbs shaking against the chains.

  “Go ahead,” Varro said quietly. “Let’s hear what he knows.”

  Aurelian folded his arms, watching in silence.

  Draconius dragged a chair back with a scrape and sat down. He knew better than to interrupt.

  Blackhand forced the pliers into the man’s mouth, clamping down on a molar.

  The begging and screaming was instant.

  He barely reacted. “Knock it off dog. What’s your name, rank and who paid you.”

  The prisoner shook his head, teeth already rattling. “I… I just moved cargo. I didn’t ask—”

  Blackhand twisted.

  “Lying’s bad for your teeth.”

  The molar cracked free with a wet pop. Blood poured down the prisoner’s chin. The tooth bounced across the floor like a piece of candy.

  The man howled in pain, then started to speak—rambling through sobs, spitting blood with every word. “Please, no more! I’ll talk, I’ll talk. Seraphis Reach, I moved crates, I didn’t know—”

  Blackhand cut him off without a word.

  He grabbed the back of the man’s head and slammed it into the floor. Bone hit stone with a dull, crunch. Front teeth burst through his upper lip. Blood sprayed across the floor in a wide arc.

  The prisoner sagged, choking, and coughing up teeth and blood, his eyes wide with shock.

  Varro rose from his chair slowly, gaze fixed on the scene like a disappointed teacher.

  “You really are nothing like your brother.”

  Blackhand gave a bitter snort but didn’t look up. “Yeah, I know. He was the golden one, right? Smarter, quieter, faster, the perfect little weapon. Got all the praise, all the attention, even after he ran.”

  “He will return.” Varro said calm but cold, taking a step closer. “You were built to shatter bones. He was built to shatter worlds.”

  Blackhand’s jaw tightened. “Yeah? And when will that be? How many more years?”

  Varro didn’t reply.

  Blackhand nudged the prisoner. No reaction, so he grabbed a fistful of hair, lifting the man’s head just enough to see his face.

  Blackhand let him drop.

  The prisoner whimpered, blood pooling beneath his cheek. Whatever he had left was buried under the pain.

  Blackhand cracked his knuckles. “Shame. I didn’t think he’d fold that fast. He was just starting to talk.”

  A soft chime pulsed from his wrist console.

  He glanced at it and let out a low whistle.

  “Well. Looks like your little shiny dagger of a niece is headed to Kelthar-3.”

  Varro stopped mid-step. “How do you know that?”

  Blackhand didn’t even bother hiding it. “You thought you were the only one with spies? I pay half the rats in Arx Solis more than they’re worth just to keep tabs on… certain people.”

  Varro’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused. “Interesting. Maybe you’re not just a dog after all.”

  Blackhand stared at him for a moment, then yanked the prisoner’s head up by the hair and slammed it into the stone with enough force to crack granite. The skull split on impact, caving in with a wet crunch. Blood spread in a slow, creeping pool.

  He stood, looked down at his gauntlet, and gave it a flick.

  A brain debris clung to the knuckles like wet tissue.

  He flicked again. Still stuck.

  “Ugh,” he muttered, annoyed. “Sticky bastard.”

  He yanked the glove off with a grunt and tossed it to the floor. Beneath it, his bare hand was blackened and raw-looking, the flesh twisted by heat, experiments and surgery. The bones seemed wrong beneath the skin, too rigid, too segmented, like it had been rebuilt for something other than human use.

  Blackhand flexed his bare hand once, then wiped it off on the dead man’s shirt

  Varro glanced once, then smiled faintly.

  “I want him back,” he said, voice low. “Not dead. Not gutted. Not scattered in orbit.”

  Blackhand didn’t answer.

  Varro’s eyes narrowed. “Keep Valeria from killing him. If you have to break her legs to slow her down, do it.”

  Still nothing.

  So Varro stepped closer, tone sharp as razors now.

  “He’s mine, Lanius. Not her little crush. Not the Senate’s infamous wanted specter. Mine.”

  He let that settle.

  “You’ll obey,” he added, softer now. “Because deep down you know you were built to follow. You’re a hound, Lanius. Mean, loyal, and happiest with a leash in your mouth.”

  Blackhand didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

  Then he gave a slow, mocking salute and grinned.

  “Woof.”

  Varro turned away and gestured once, dismissive.

  “Take your trash with you.”

  Blackhand didn’t argue. He reached down and grabbed the corpse by the ankle and dragged it behind him

  The body made a wet scraping sound as he dragged it across the stone, limp and broken, leaving behind a single, thick smear of blood from the center of the room to the door.