The Drifting Ember descended through the low clouds of Panthera with a controlled burn that scattered seabirds in panicked spirals.

  Below, the city of Shor’kai rose from black granite cliffs like a carved fortress.

  The sea struck the rock in white explosions, foam carried upward on warm, mineral-thick wind. Tiered terraces cut into the cliff face stepped downward toward the ocean—markets layered in stone, color, and movement. Ships docked along the upper ridge ports with cargo cranes swinging in slow arcs as they lowered containers toward the trade lanes below.

  Ember’s voice rippled softly through the bridge.

  “I detect elevated particulate salt levels. I don’t approve. I never approve of landing here.”

  Ironbelly snorted.

  “You don’t approve of most things. And we got a big shopping list that won't fit in a shuttle.”

  “I approve of structural integrity.”

  “Then don’t rust.”

  The landing struts touched down with a deep mechanical thud.

  Below, the pantheran bazaar roared.

  ***

  Ironbelly walked down the ramp bare-chested.

  No boots.

  Only dark trousers and a heavy belt of reinforced leather. No weapons. Just a dangerous beast of tooth and claw.

  His black fur drank the sunlight. Old scars cut pale lines across broad shoulders and ribs. Two white whiskers caught the wind.

  Pantherans noticed. They always did. But they didn’t stare. They recognized one of their own.

  On Shor’kai, armor was for outsiders. Weapons were for those unsure of themselves.

  Confidence was worn on the fur.

  Thimble hovered at shoulder height on her anti-grav boots, muttering at a handheld scanner.

  “The humidity is an assault,” she said. “I am being personally attacked by atmospheric density.” Her hair had evolved into a large stringy bush as if every single strand was trying to escape.

  Ironbelly ignored her.

  The market lanes were loud—vendors calling out in layered dialects, metal striking stone, scent of oil and salt and cooked meat heavy in the air. Lantern glass chimed in the wind.

  A massive spotted pantheran with gold-banded braids inclined his head as Ironbelly passed.

  “Old Whiskers.”

  Ironbelly did not break stride.

  “Tarka.”

  “Well met,” the dockmaster replied.

  That was greeting enough.

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  ***

  They had not gone fifty paces before Thimble stopped mid-hover.

  “Cap.”

  He turned.

  She was staring at a vendor stall carved directly into stone.

  On the heavy wooden table sat what remained of a probe.

  It had once been sleek.

  Now it was butchered.

  Its antenna array was gone — snapped clean.

  The gun mount housing had been removed entirely.

  The focusing lens had been replaced with a cheaper crystal — cloudy, misaligned.

  Panels lay open like ribs. Wiring exposed. Chassis scarred by impact.

  A pantheran armorer stood behind the table, arms crossed.

  “Came down in the surf three nights ago,” he said. “Strange metal. Strange wiring. Not local.”

  A bullet-sized hole punched clean through the chassis suggested otherwise.

  Thimble drifted closer, eyes flickering emerald.

  “That’s not strange,” she whispered faintly. “That’s proprietary.”

  Ironbelly approached slowly.

  He crouched beside the table. The scent was faint. Ozone. Burnt circuitry. And something else.

  “Functional?” he asked.

  The vendor shrugged. “No fly. No bite. Crash hard.”

  Thimble was already pulling tools from compartments in her cybernetic arm.

  “I want the hard drive,” she said briskly. “And all memory cores.”

  The vendor’s ears twitched. “Sold separate.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Thimble straightened to her full three feet.

  “No.”

  Ironbelly did not interfere.

  The vendor studied her.

  “High-density alloy casing. Rare components. Weapon mount adaptable.”

  “It's gutted,” Thimble snapped. “The antenna array is missing. The primary optic replaced with a substandard lens. You have degraded it.”

  “I improved it.”

  “You vandalized it.”

  The vendor’s ears shifted back slightly.

  “I also want those damaged antenna fragments.”

  “Those washed out to sea.”

  She stared at him.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Probably.”

  Ironbelly rested one large claw on the probe’s frame.

  It was heavier than it looked.

  “Get her everything she wants.” Ironbelly said calmly.

  “Double.”

  “Fine.” Ironbelly growled. He did not sound fine.

  The wind howled against the cliffs.

  ***

  “Well, look who dragged themselves in! The mighty wolf killer finally run out of ways to scratch?”

  The old calico stood up carefully. Bobbed tail not helping her balance at all in the substantial armory.

  Metal racks of guns and ammunition lined the walls, wooden barrels filled with swords and staves. Glass display cases of full armor sets, mana infused jewelry, and bandoliers hung everywhere.

  “Now get down here and give this old molly a hug.”

  Thimble never tired of seeing the captain reduced to a kit every time they came here.

  Ironbelly carefully lowered down on one knee and embraced her gently. When she let go she licked a paw and ran it over his forehead a few times.

  “You waited too long this time, boy.”

  “Missed you too, Rasha.”

  Rasha shook off her shawl and went behind the counter. Pantheran's and their hate for small talk, she got down to business.

  “Now, what do you need this time?” she asked, donning a pair of spectacles and opening a thick tome.

  Thimble gave her their handwritten list. Rasha hated computers and would only work with pen and paper.

  Magitech reinforced plating for Ember’s forward hull.

  Kinetic-absorbent armor for boarding teams.

  Conventional ballistic ammunition — heavy caliber.

  Mana-charged rounds.

  Two collapsible grav-stasis fields.

  Shock pikes.

  Flash void charges.

  A crate of anti-phase shackles.

  Three crates of standard armor repair paste.

  Spare shield emitters.

  Overpressure hull seals.

  Eyebrows raised. “You know the war is over, don't you?”

  “Add two crates of static grenades. Paralysis grade.”

  “For trade?”

  “For weather.”

  “Storm coming?”

  Ironbelly’s gaze drifted briefly toward the sea.

  “Something like that.”

  ***

  Thimble hovered alongside porters hauling their purchases toward the dock lifts.

  “We're preparing for a protracted engagement,” she observed.

  “Something coming. We gonna be ready.”

  Ironbelly glanced at the sack she carried with the broken probe.

  “Captain,” Ember’s voice murmured through his commlink. “I detect residual transmission signatures embedded in the probe’s casing.”

  Ironbelly did not slow.

  “Active?”

  “Dormant. But not inert.”

  He nodded once.

  Storm winds carried salt across his bare chest.

  Far below, waves crashed against black stone.

  “Strip the probe,” he said quietly. “Every memory core. Every shard.”

  Thimble’s voice was delighted and sharp.

  “Oh, I absolutely intend to.”

  Ironbelly lifted his gaze to the horizon.

  Shor’kai was no threat to corporations or noble houses.

  Which meant the probe wasn’t sent here for Shor’kai.

  It was fishing.

  And Ironbelly knew exactly what they hoped to catch.

  “Load everything,” he barked. “We're late.”

  “Late?” Thimble asked. “What are we late for?”

  “A fight.”

  Shor'kai’s wind carried the scent of war.