The simulated dawn slipped into the suite like soft gold through a perfectly calibrated filter. Ethan blinked awake to the gentle chime of the environmental system shifting toward daytime parameters. The room had already begun adjusting, air temperature incrementally rising, ambient soundtracks easing into quiet instrumental tones designed to rouse without jarring.
He lay still for a few seconds, staring up at the ceiling. Then, with a long exhale, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. No stiffness. The mattress had done its job. So had the silence.
He moved into the bathroom, engaging the cold water presets on the adjustable shower. The spray hit like a sheet of glass, sharp, bracing, perfect. He stayed under it longer than necessary, letting the water ground him before facing the day.
By the time he stepped out, shaved, dressed in his lighter fieldwear with armored lining beneath, and had his boots strapped on, breakfast was already waiting. Room service had delivered a fresh spread: synth-pressed Zarellian grain toast, protein-spiced root stew in a ceramic bowl, and a mild stimfruit compote paired with a foamed citrus beverage.
It wasn't hearty like the Kynaran dishes he'd grown used to, but it was balanced, refined, and almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.
As he finished the last bite, he tapped his datapad and linked with the local dock grid.
"Iris. Status check on the Obsidian Wraith."
Her voice came through the suite's integrated speaker system, unmistakably calm and level.
"All systems stable. Hull integrity confirmed. Core temperature within optimal range. External diagnostic sweeps are clean. Internal calibration holding steady. No unauthorized proximity events during the night."
"Anything from the hangar logs?"
"Only routine maintenance fly-bys. No red flags."
"Good," Ethan murmured, rising from the table. "Keep the passive defense net up. I'll be gone for a few more hours."
"Acknowledged. Travel well."
He slipped on his jacket, secured his datapad to the side strap of his belt, and exited the suite.
The Ashen Prime Mercenary Guild branch stood like a polished blade in the mid-core civic zone, one of the most trafficked and tightly regulated sectors of the station. Federation peacekeepers were posted at major intersections leading to it, subtle, but unmistakable in their authority.
The Guild HQ itself was a tower of black alloy and silver trim, rising from the deck like a shard of obsidian embedded in circuitry. Blue-lit sigils ran vertically along its structure, marking its identity in the Federation's official language and several widely used trade dialects. Just above the main entrance, glowing faintly through a transparent holo-emitter, hovered the iconic emblem of the Mercenary Guild. Two crossed laser swords, stylized and symmetrical, their blades humming with faint light.
It was the same symbol etched above the rusted entrance of the Guild Branch in Valeris City, Ethan recalled. Cruder there, weathered by sand and time but no less meaningful.
But Ethan didn't head straight into the tower.
He turned instead, following a branching corridor that led toward what station locals and guild regulars referred to as the mercenary-adjacent zone. A sprawl of surrounding blocks where out-of-sector freelancers congregated between jobs. It was here, in the shadow of the monolithic HQ, that the real texture of mercenary life could be felt.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The lighting turned dimmer, tinged with a faint amber hue that softened the sharp metal walls into something older, more lived-in. The air was heavier, not unpleasant, but saturated with the tang of oil, sweat, and ionized ozone drifting from gear shops and live simulation booths. Worn armored jackets and scratched helmets hung from shoulders or packs. Faded guild patches stood out across chests and sleeves, symbols from distant sectors, survivors of contracts that had left more than just scars.
A few mercs clustered outside a recessed storefront, hands gesturing toward weapon mods and ration enhancers. Their conversation was relaxed, laced with dark humor and casual profanity, but their posture told a different story, always aware, always armed. This was a space where everyone watched without watching. Where silence spoke louder than introductions.
It wasn't Kynara. But it spoke the same language.
This was reputation territory, where respect wasn't earned through formal commendations but through presence. Through how others moved around you. Through the weight you carried just by being there.
Ethan lingered for a few minutes, taking it all in. The layout. The body language. The quiet unspoken alliances. No one paid him much mind, not yet. And that suited him just fine.
Eventually, he turned and made his way back toward the main tower entrance, boots echoing softly on polished alloy. The monument loomed ahead again, sleek and controlled, a contrast to the raw edges of the world it managed from above.
He stepped through the reinforced archway into a spacious, climate-controlled atrium. The ceiling arched high, lined with pulse-light runners and shifting data panels displaying contract successes, ranked merc leaderboards, and sector mission graphs. The interior gleamed with modernity. Sleek, efficient. All angles and precision.
Gone were the old wood-paneled halls and gritty camaraderie of Valeris City's Guild HQ. Here, everything felt clinical. A well-oiled recruitment machine wrapped in layers of security and protocol.
He walked past automated security turrets embedded into the walls, their optics scanning each passerby. His ID synced automatically to the system. Clearance: Verified.
Inside, the space divided into multiple levels. Elevators ran along transparent shafts, revealing activity on each floor:
Lounges filled with mid-tier mercenaries reviewing tactical footage, bragging about kill counts, or quietly downing stim shots.
Briefing rooms with live war maps, tactical forecasts, and seated squads being debriefed on hostilities in certain parts of the Ashen sector.
A row of VR combat simulators, their glass domes glowing faintly as kinetic feedback rigs mimicked zero-G battlefields and shipboard boarding operations.
Upper tiers, likely housing private meeting rooms, negotiation offices, and the Guild Branch Master office. All of it was restricted, of course.
At ground level, Ethan moved toward the mission board.
It wasn't a simple display. It was a full holo-ring, projecting available contracts in an augmented space. Categories scrolled on command, color-coded by risk and location.
Corporate Protection Gigs
Short-term escort jobs for trade ships running between Ashen Sector systems, or occasionally out toward the bordering sectors. High pay, high formality.
Border Patrol Assist Roles
Join up with small-scale Federation scout groups to track or intercept pirate vessels. Some required spaceflight dogfighting skills. Others were more about recon and salvage security.
Bounty Hunting
Active warrants for criminals operating in and around the Ashen Sector. Most weren't high-profile, but a few names had multi-sector flags.
Missing Persons Retrieval
More common than expected. Disappearances in remote systems, fringe colonies where communication tech often lagged or failed entirely. Civilian risks. Emotional paydays.
Courier & Transport Ops
Mid-length travel runs for encrypted data packages, rare item delivery, or urgent diplomatic communiqués. Low action. High discretion.
Ethan circled slowly, absorbing the range. It was… a lot.
And that was just Ashen Prime's slice of the action. He knew every major Guild Branch had a similar node. This one just happened to sit at a crossroads.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
The voice came from nearby, young, confident, curious.
Ethan turned to see a lightly armored mercenary, no older than his mid-twenties, standing with a datapad under one arm and a stylus in the other. Guild insignia pinned cleanly to his vest.
"First time at a large Guild branch?" the guy asked casually.
Ethan gave a noncommittal nod. "Just getting a feel for the place."
"Don't let the polish fool you," the merc said, tapping on his screen. "It's still about credits and contracts, same as anywhere else. But here? It's a competition. Everyone's either climbing the ladder or guarding their position."
"Doesn't leave much room for quiet jobs," Ethan said.
The man snorted. "Depends on how useful you are to someone. Or how invisible you're willing to stay."
With that, he moved on.
Ethan stayed a moment longer, observing how mercs clustered by specialty. Small fireteams wearing matching marks. Lone wolves, scanning jobs on their own. Eyes sharp. Posture confident. Or cautious.
There was an edge here. A sense of performance. Of judgment.
Even standing still, you were being measured.
Back in Kynara, mercenaries earned respect by protecting the people, by surviving against the odds. Here, respect had a price tag. And an audience.
Ethan turned away from the board.
He didn't take any contracts. Not in a place like this, where every signature came with subtext.
There was value in watching. In learning the terrain before putting his name on any job that might be seen as a political play or a faction endorsement.
He'd seen enough to know that the Mercenary Guild in Ashen Prime wasn't just a network. It was a proving ground.
And while he wasn't here to prove anything…
He also wasn't here to be underestimated.
Not anymore.