Wind dead. Cloud cover absolute. Illumination zero.
Harsk Fenward dropped silently from the high branch of a rotting blood-oak. Boots hitting the damp soil without a sound. Weight perfectly distributed. Shadow-cloak absorbing the ambient thermal drift.
Target locked.
Two miles ahead, moving slowly through the treacherous, jagged foothills of Sector Nine, a massive supply caravan ground its way through the mud. It was an unauthorized route. No Imperial merchant marine manifest existed for this transit. No faith-warden checkpoints.
Scent heavy. Mud. Exhaustion. Old blood.
Harsk began his approach. Distance closing.
The new Director of Whispers had provided the coordinates. Sera Myrvalis had bypassed the rotting bureaucracy of the capital and handed Harsk raw, uncorrupted Alpha-Prime intelligence. A Korthane supply column. The Arbiter was moving contraband through the eastern grid, utilizing the displaced Rootist migration routes to mask the thermal signatures of the cargo.
