The upper maintenance tunnels of Dock Nine were not designed for comfort or easy movement. They existed for engineers and repair crews who needed access to the station’s structural systems without interfering with the traffic flowing through the primary corridors below. Narrow metal pathways stretched along the outer shell of the station, weaving through clusters of power conduits, coolant pipes, and ventilation shafts that hummed steadily with the mechanical heartbeat of the aging structure.

  Odnar Zephyr crawled forward through one of those passages with Zerena close behind him. The space was barely wide enough for a single person to move comfortably, forcing them to advance slowly on their hands and knees. The metal plating beneath them vibrated faintly as the station’s emergency systems struggled to stabilize after the firefight that had erupted in the concourse.

  The alarms were still sounding somewhere below.

  Dock Nine had not experienced an armed assault in years. Most conflicts in frontier ports were brief skirmishes between rival crews or smugglers arguing over cargo rights. What had happened in the traders’ concourse was something else entirely. Organized soldiers wearing the insignia of Rhaegon’s empire had entered the station with a clear objective.

  They had come for Zerena.

  Odnar reached a junction where the tunnel widened slightly around a vertical maintenance shaft. He stopped there, leaning against the metal wall to catch his breath. The exertion of the fight and the rapid climb through the service ladder had begun to settle into his muscles.

  Zerena pulled herself beside him.

  “Do you hear them?” she asked quietly.

  Odnar listened.

  The distant echoes of boots and shouted commands drifted faintly through the station’s interior structure. The soldiers were spreading through the lower levels of Dock Nine, clearing corridors and cargo bays one section at a time.

  “They’re searching the station,” he said.

  “They won’t stop until they find us.”

  “That’s how professional hunters operate.”

  Zerena studied his expression.

  “You’ve dealt with people like this before.”

  “Not these ones.”

  “But soldiers.”

  Odnar nodded.

  He glanced down at his empty hands.

  During the fight in the maintenance passage he had used the station’s environment as a weapon—loose equipment, narrow corridors, and the sudden release of steam from damaged pipes. But the moment they fled into the upper tunnels, he had been forced to abandon the rifle taken from the fallen security officer. The weapon would have slowed their climb and made too much noise in the confined space.

  Now he carried nothing.

  No sword.

  No tools.

  No supplies.

  Everything he had brought from Virellion remained inside their ship, which was almost certainly under heavy guard in Dock Bay Nine.

  “You’re thinking about the equipment,” Zerena said.

  “Yes.”

  “We can retrieve it later.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Odnar pushed himself upright inside the narrow tunnel and moved carefully toward a small observation panel embedded in the outer wall of the station. The reinforced glass offered a view of the asteroid belt beyond Dock Nine. Dozens of rocky fragments drifted slowly through the void, illuminated by the distant glow of the system’s star.

  “Our ship is trapped,” he said. “And they know we’re here.”

  Zerena crossed her arms.

  “Then we adapt.”

  Odnar turned toward her.

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  For several seconds they remained silent, listening to the distant sounds of the search below.

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  Zerena eventually spoke again.

  “How did they find us?”

  Odnar shook his head.

  “Several possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your ship could have been tracked leaving Virellion.”

  “That seems unlikely. I took precautions.”

  “Someone in the station might have recognized you.”

  She frowned slightly.

  “I kept my hood up.”

  “Rhaegon’s network extends through most frontier ports,” Odnar said. “Dock Nine might not be as neutral as people think.”

  Zerena exhaled slowly.

  “Then we walked into a trap.”

  “Yes.”

  “And lost everything in the process.”

  Odnar nodded again.

  Zerena leaned against the tunnel wall.

  “I suppose this is the moment when most mercenaries would abandon the mission.”

  Odnar raised an eyebrow.

  “Is that what you expect me to do?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you accepted the mission knowing the risks.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And because you already had a life on Virellion that you willingly left behind.”

  Odnar considered that statement.

  “You’re perceptive.”

  “I had good teachers.”

  The faint hum of the station’s engines vibrated through the tunnel as Dock Nine slowly rotated to maintain its artificial gravity field. Outside the observation panel the drifting asteroids continued their silent orbit.

  Odnar pushed away from the wall.

  “We can’t stay here long,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Maintenance tunnels are the first place professional search teams check.”

  Zerena looked toward the ladder they had climbed earlier.

  “They’ll reach this level eventually.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  Odnar moved toward another corridor branching away from the observation point. This tunnel descended gradually along the outer ring of the station toward the cargo bay sectors.

  “We go deeper,” he said.

  “Toward the docking bays?”

  “Toward the engineering levels.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because soldiers rarely enjoy fighting near power cores.”

  Zerena allowed a faint smile.

  “That sounds promising.”

  They began moving again through the tunnel, advancing carefully along the narrow metal walkway while the sounds of the search operation below continued to echo through the station’s structure.

  After several minutes Zerena spoke again.

  “You said earlier that you used to work across the frontier.”

  “Yes.”

  “In situations like this?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What kind of situations?”

  Odnar paused briefly before answering.

  “The kind where people hire you to solve problems that official authorities prefer not to acknowledge.”

  Zerena studied him.

  “That’s a polite description of mercenary work.”

  “I wasn’t always a blacksmith.”

  “Clearly.”

  They reached another vertical ladder descending toward the engineering sectors of Dock Nine. Odnar tested the first rung carefully before beginning the climb downward.

  The metal shaft was darker than the upper tunnels, illuminated only by faint emergency lights spaced along the walls. The smell of heated machinery grew stronger as they descended, mixed with the scent of coolant fluids circulating through the station’s main power systems.

  When they reached the bottom of the ladder Odnar stepped into a wide chamber filled with massive generator units and thick power conduits running along the floor like mechanical arteries.

  The noise here was constant.

  Low.

  Heavy.

  The deep mechanical rhythm of the station’s power core.

  “This area will hide our movements,” Odnar said.

  Zerena looked around the chamber.

  “And the soldiers?”

  “They’ll avoid firing weapons near the generators.”

  “That gives us an advantage.”

  “Temporary,” Odnar replied.

  He walked slowly along one of the power conduits, examining the surrounding corridors branching away from the engineering chamber.

  For the first time since leaving Virellion, he felt the absence of his equipment in a way that was more than inconvenient.

  It was personal.

  The sword he had forged himself remained aboard their ship.

  So did the tools that had accompanied him for years across the frontier.

  Without them he felt incomplete.

  Disarmed.

  Zerena noticed the subtle change in his posture.

  “You’re thinking about the sword,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll make another.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Or retrieve that one.”

  Odnar glanced toward the ceiling where distant footsteps echoed faintly through the structure above them.

  “Right now I’d settle for any weapon at all.”

  Zerena stepped toward one of the engineering tool racks mounted along the wall.

  The station technicians had left several heavy metal implements hanging beside the generator controls—maintenance wrenches, cutting torches, and reinforced pry bars used for opening sealed cargo containers.

  She lifted one of the pry bars and handed it to him.

  “It’s not a sword,” she said.

  Odnar took the tool.

  The metal bar felt solid in his grip.

  Balanced enough.

  “It will do,” he said.

  Zerena picked up a second tool for herself.

  From somewhere above them the sound of boots echoed again.

  The soldiers had reached the engineering levels.

  Odnar tightened his grip on the improvised weapon.

  “You see?” Zerena said quietly.

  “What?”

  “You’re not unarmed.”

  Odnar looked at the heavy bar in his hand.

  Then he nodded once.

  “No,” he said.

  “I suppose I’m not.”

  Above them the search teams of Rhaegon’s soldiers continued moving through the corridors of Dock Nine, closing in on the engineering chamber where their targets had taken refuge.

  And for the first time since the ambush began, Odnar Zephyr prepared to fight without the weapons he had always relied on.

  The war had stripped him of everything familiar.

  But it had not taken his resolve.