Endryd Haar – The Riven Hound

The air aboard the void barge was stale with age and silence, clinging like dust to the inside of Endryd Haar’s rebreather grille. The ancient corridors groaned under their own neglected weight—dead augur arrays, hollow deck plating, and rusted pict-feeds that hadn’t broadcast a soul in decades. And still, someone had chosen this place as the meeting ground.

He didn’t like games. He didn’t like ghosts. And this entire setup reeked of both. Yet the facts were harder to ignore than his instincts: weeks now, someone had been slipping him useful things—crates of undamaged munitions in fringe ports, intel on patrol routes before they even launched, and coordinates for convoys primed to be hit with minimal resistance. Haar had cut down too many would-be informants to trust easily, but this… this had been precise. Clean. Effective. They knew how he operated.

Now, finally, the whispering sender had agreed to meet. No names. No affiliations. Just coordinates pinged to his vox relay and a single word: "Alone." Haar moved with all the sound of a storm behind walls—power-armored boots echoing with menace down the abandoned halls, chainblade sheathed but close, bolter slung low and humming with readiness. His crimson-plated gauntlet brushed over a cracked blast door before wrenching it open with a growl of hydraulics.

Dim lumen-strips flickered overhead.

There was someone already there. Shadowed. Waiting.

"You've got my attention," Haar rumbled, voice like iron dragged across gravel. "Now you'd best explain why I shouldn’t scatter your spine across this hull."

His fingers flexed once on the haft of his chainblade. Not a threat—a promise.