The saloon still stank of dust, sweat, and stale grain mash, but tonight it felt less hostile. Maybe it was the air itself, a little cooler after sunset. Maybe it was the way the locals glanced their way now—less suspicion, more curiosity. A few even nodded at Inelius when he passed through the batwing doors.

  He nodded back politely, keeping his shoulders relaxed. No point in flexing when your presence already unsettled half the room.

  The barkeep—a salty old d’moria named Drolv—looked up from cleaning a cracked mug with what might’ve once been a towel. He squinted. “Y’here for food or trouble?”

  “Neither,” Inelius replied, walking to the bar. “But if you’re out of both, I’ll take whatever’s left.”

  Drolv let out a dry snort. “Funny.” He reached for a bottle.

  The doors flew open again behind him and Brana thundered into the saloon like she owned the place. “Oi, Drolv!” she barked. “We brought you Union coin, give me an’ the girls a round of that sweaty ball-water y’keep pretending is whiskey.”

  A few of the regulars coughed into their drinks as Brolgar and Raine entered as well, followed by Aurania, Veolo, Amaryn, and the sisters.

  Drolv didn’t flinch from Brana’s candor. “Y’want it warm or lukewarm?”

  Brana walked over to a table large enough for them all to sit together. “Just whip it out and give it to me straight from the tap.”

  Drolv laughed quietly behind his large grey beard and started pouring drinks.

  Inelius walked over to join his team at the table, asking to no one in particular, “So she already start drinking?”

  Surprisingly, Amaryn answered him. “No, this is just how d’moria flirt.”

  “Oh,” Inelius said. He raised his brows, looking between Brana and Drolv, then decided not to inquire further. He sat down between Raine and Amaryn.

  The atmosphere in the saloon was lighter than the last time they tried socializing with the locals. After a couple weeks working in Boadicea, the people had grown more used to their presence. The lacravida were still getting some looks, but most people knew to keep their comments, and most importantly their hands, to themselves.

  The team relaxed for about ten minutes, sharing a couple rounds of drinks and just unwinding. Then people started getting hungry and Brolgar refused to eat what the barkeep had to offer.

  Drolv slammed a cast-iron pan onto the bar with a clatter. “If you don’t like the food, go chew on your own boots!”

  Brolgar stood up, one foot on his chair, the other on the table. “Boot leather’s got more flavor than whatever salted brick you call jerky!”

  Drolv leaned forward over the bar. “It’s dried meat! It’s supposed to be tough! Builds character—something your pampered Union gut clearly lacks.”

  “We’re independent!” Brana hollered. “LU wishes they could cook like me cousin!”

  Brolgar pointed a thick finger. “I’ve eaten gunpowder stew cooked over engine block fires, and it still tasted better than the war crimes you try serving people!”

  Drolv scoffed. “Oh look, a space dwarf with delicate tastes and no damn palate—”

  “I will gladly show you how to cook something edible,” Brolgar growled. “Assuming your…”

  Inelius tuned out the back and forth shouting match. Leaning over to Amaryn, he said, “Glad to see you out and about. Sorry our team gets a little rowdy sometimes.”

  “Oh, no worries,” she responded. “I was raised by d’moria, this is actually pretty familiar to me.”

  Brolgar stepped fully up onto the table then hopped down, heading towards Drolv. Whether it was to fight the barkeep or show him how to cook, Inelius didn’t really pay attention. He grabbed his drink, clinked it lightly against Raine’s glass first, then Amaryn’s. “To thick beards and thicker attitudes.”

  “Here here!” Raine said.

  Over an hour later the entire saloon was raucous with energy. Brolgar had performed a culinary miracle, drawing a crowd fighting to try his meal. Several of the local lazarco were playing instruments in one corner, Amalia was casually dancing with Amaryn, and the air was thick with smoke from d’moria pipes.

  Inelius leaned against a pillar, enjoying a drink as Aurania walked away, the two having just finished chatting.

  Cale sidled up next to Inelius like they were longtime friends. He swirled the drink in his hand, already halfway to a sloppy grin. “Man,” he said, nudging Inelius with his shoulder. “You must be living the dream.”

  Inelius gave him a slow look. “Okay?”

  Cale nodded toward the table where Veolo was arm-wrestling two men at once, Brana was laughing uproariously, and Raine and Violet were trading jabs in a playfully aggressive spar of words. “I mean—come on,” Cale said. “You’re surrounded by a buncha women who wear barely nothin’ and most of ‘em got tits the size of my head. How many of them you been with, anyway? You got ‘em on a rotation or somethin’?”

  Inelius blinked twice, trying to figure out if he heard the shorn correctly. Then he set his drink down and turned fully toward Cale, squaring his shoulders up.

  “Were you born this fucking stupid?” he took a step forward, forcing Cale to take a step back. “Or do you work at it every day to stay the best?”

  Cale froze, grin flickering. He stood there for a second too long, staring like he wanted to come up with a comeback. But whatever spark he had fizzled out before it caught. His shoulders slumped slightly.

  “You look at them like they aren’t even people, don’t you?” Inelius couldn’t keep the venom out of his voice. He glanced over to a table of shorn playing cards. “Hey Tarnik! Come take your boy home before Drolv needs to replace more furniture.”

  Tarnik looked up in surprise, then set his cards down and walked over quickly. Before Tarnik could say anything to him, Cale skulked out, muttering something under his breath.

  Inelius picked up his drink and took another slow sip.

  Tarnik looked like he wasn’t sure what to do, then hurried out of the saloon after Cale.

  Raine came up to Inelius as he turned back to the entertainment. “Everything ok?” she asked.

  He smiled at her and put an arm over her shoulders. “Everything’s great, Babe.”

  They spent another hour with the energetic locals before Veolo finally started itching for a fight. She strode into the center of the room, arms held wide with her palms up, and dared anyone to throw down fists with her. When no one stepped forward, she had to sweeten the deal to get her fun.

  “Really? No one?” she said in a loud, disappointed tone. “Alright, I know you all been staring, how about this.” She turned in place, trying to cast eyes on as many faces as possible. “Any one of you can beat me in a scrap, I’ll ride your dick til the sun comes up.”

  The crowd exchanged glances then half a dozen chairs scraped as challengers jumped to their feet.

  A broad-shouldered shorn with a smug grin stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll go easy on you, sweetheart.”

  Veolo tilted her head. “Aw, thanks boo. You win, I’ll go easy when I shove my finger up your ass.”

  The fight lasted three seconds. He swung wide, she ducked, drove her knee into his gut, then elbowed the back of his head as he doubled over. He hit the floor gasping.

  She stepped over him casually. “Thanks for the warmup.”

  A younger lazarco swaggered up, shirt already off. “I’ve studied martial arts on three planets. You sure you’re ready for this level of—”

  Veolo head-butted him mid-sentence.

  He dropped like a sack of bricks, blood already trailing from his snout.

  She exhaled through her nose. “Quit barking.”

  A d’moria walked up and spit a toothpick out. “You hit plenty hard. Let’s see if you can get hit, too.”

  They circled for several seconds, traded a few feints, but he never stood a chance. As she held him up by his beard, slung over her shoulder like a sack of vegetables, he tapped aggressively anywhere he could, signalling forfeit.

  Veolo dropped him casually, then winked down at him. “Hey, you at least lasted longer than the others.”

  Looking back around the crowd, Veolo smiled. She was warmed up and ready to brawl. “Feel free to pair up if you think it’ll give you a better chance.”

  “Hey!” Drolv shouted out. “Take it outside, I don’t wanna spend the night boarding up the windows.”

  Veolo shrugged then started walking towards the door. “You heard him boys, let’s go roll in the dirt!”

  She walked out the front of the saloon, followed by what felt like half the town.

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  The next morning, Inelius stepped into The North Wing, closing the heavy door behind him. The old building smelled like stale meat, gun oil, and sweat. The silence was thick except for the occasional thud from Veolo’s fist hitting her punching bag—and the strained grunt that followed each impact.

  Duff was lashed to the back of it, his arms half-limp and his face drenched in sweat. His shirt had been removed at some point, and he flinched with every blow, bracing for one to miss. Veolo didn’t miss, not unless she meant to.

  Amalia was across the room doing side stretches with one hoof on a bench, Riza’s cannon slung across her back like it was a gym weight. She looked far too cheerful for someone hanging out in an ad-hoc torture den.

  “Morning!” she chirped. “Have fun last night?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so,” Inelius said, walking over to the workbench. He unloaded his sidearm and field-stripped it. He hadn’t had to fire it recently, but he wanted to make sure the planet’s red dirt wasn’t building up inside.

  Amalia pulled NMW off her back and walked to the door. “See you guys later!” She jogged out into the daylight.

  Inelius glanced toward Veolo. She jabbed the bag again—left hook, uppercut, palm strike. Duff whimpered. A tiny fleck of blood dripped from his snout onto his chest.

  “You strung him up yourself?” Inelius asked, more for conversation than anything else.

  “Sure did,” Veolo said. “Balanced the weight so if he shifts too much, the bag twists and he’s more likely to get in the way of my swings.”

  “Riza approve this setup?”

  “She said, and I quote, ‘Keep him miserable but intact.’ I’m getting real creative with the spacing.”

  Another thwack, this one landing a little closer to Duff’s ribs than the others. He gave a strained yelp.

  Inelius picked up a brush and started cleaning the barrel of his weapon. “You hit him yet?”

  “Not recently,” Veolo said. She drove her knuckles into the bag again like a sledgehammer.

  Duff had been their guest for going on two days now, always kept guarded by someone on the team. He hadn’t been allowed to eat anything, but Riza had ordered Brolgar to cook all meals within The North Wing to make sure Duff could smell them. She hadn’t done anything to harm the man, but the only thing he’d been allowed to consume since arriving in Boadicea was half a glass of water every 12 hours.

  Inelius glanced up from the workbench. “So, any of the boys last night manage to put you on your ass?”

  Veolo snorted. “Please. Not a single one. But gods, you could smell how bad they wanted it. Kind of flattering, in a way.”

  He gave a half-smile. “You weren’t in the mood to give any of them a consolation prize?”

  “Nah,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “None of them bathe enough. Still—” she rolled her shoulders, flexed her fingers, “—it’s been a minute. Wouldn’t mind finding someone to tangle with.”

  Then she paused and looked at him with a contemplative expression. “Hey, is Raine open to sharing you?”

  Inelius paused, caught between choking on air and pretending he didn’t hear that. “Oh, uh… I don’t know, you’d have to ask her.”

  Veolo looked at him for a moment longer, expression innocent. Then she turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “HEY RAINE!”

  Raine’s distant voice called back from outside the building, off in the direction of The Ghost of Mandachor. “YEAH?!”

  “CAN I FUCK INELIUS?”

  There was a long silence. Inelius wasn’t sure if he should even breathe.

  Finally Raine’s voice rang out again: “LET ME THINK ABOUT IT!”

  Amalia popped her head back in through the open door, face flushed from jogging. “Wait—Inelius is up for grabs?”

  Inelius threw his hands up. “Now hold on a minute—don’t I get a say in this?”

  Veolo just shrugged. “Well of course. Are you not interested?”

  All Inelius managed to respond with was, “Uhhh—”

  And then something yanked Amalia back outside and the door opened wider. Riza stepped in. She looked at Duff, then Veolo, and finally Inelius.

  “Help,” he said.

  “I suppose that could be fun to torture Duff with,” Riza said casually. “We already made him watch us eat.”

  “That’s not helping!”

  Riza just laughed and turned to Veolo. “Stop beating him for a moment, I think he’s ready to talk.”

  Riza pulled a chair across the concrete floor and turned it around, straddling it backwards as she sat. The scraping sound alone made Duff flinch.

  She looked at Veolo. “Your contributions to the cause are appreciated. He smells like desperation marinated in regret.”

  Veolo gave a small salute with her taped-up knuckles and stepped back, wiping sweat from her neck.

  Riza said nothing for a long moment. She just looked at Duff—no glare, no smile. Just calm and clinical, like a predator before the kill.

  Duff didn’t speak. Or maybe he couldn’t. He sort of looked like he might start crying, but wanted to preserve his fluids.

  Finally, Riza spoke, voice low and smooth. “How long have you been on Mol’eyne?”

  Duff blinked weakly. “…Couple years.”

  Riza nodded once. “You were born on Antros.”

  He hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “You came here two and a half years ago. But not Boadicea, you were way over in Verdigris Falls.”

  Duff’s eyes widened a little. “How—how do you—?”

  Riza tilted her head slightly. “That wasn’t a question.”

  Duff looked around the room like he could find a door where there wasn’t one.

  “So, what?” Riza cocked her head to the other side. “You found yourself in hot water over there, somehow fell in with outlaws in the next hemisphere over? That about right?”

  He tried to hold his expression steady, but it started to crack. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  Riza waited a breath more. Then she finally took a tone. “I’ve run out of patience Duff. Either talk or I’m going to have Veolo cut your goddamn balls off.” She pulled her dagger from its sheath. “Then we’re just gonna go raze that raider camp to the ground.”

  “I—I don’t know names!” he blustered, fear in his eyes. “They don’t tell me names. We get pings. Route changes. Not much. Just enough to know when a convoy’s gonna be late… or detour. That’s all I know.”

  Riza nodded again, slow and unreadable. She casually tossed the dagger in the air. It twisted once, and she caught it again.

  Duff licked his cracked lips. “It comes from town. That’s all I know. Comes from town.”

  Silence.

  He shifted slightly, wincing from the chafing of the ropes and the bruises forming under his ribs.

  “Not all of us wanted this Union shit,” he added, almost defensive. “Some folks… they think they’re helping. Think they’re keeping things the way they were. But not all of us signed up for what it turned into.”

  Riza stood. She didn’t say anything for a full three seconds. Then she sheathed her dagger. “Veolo. Cut him down and feed him.”

  Veolo nodded without complaint and moved to untie the straps holding Duff to the punching bag.

  Riza turned and started walking toward Inelius. She smiled at him lightly and said, “Come on, Loverboy, you’re with me.”

  She walked out of the room without looking back.

  Inelius holstered his sidearm and followed, pausing only to glance back at Duff—slumped and dazed, but no longer defiant.

  They found Aurania near the bridge, overseeing some Boadicea locals working away. The wind carried the smell of dust and something faintly metallic. She didn’t turn as they approached.

  “Got something,” Riza said simply, stopping next to her and watching the workers.

  Inelius stepped up beside Aurania as well. “Duff talked. Sort of.”

  Aurania tilted her head slightly, listening.

  Riza crossed her arms casually. “Says the raiders are getting pings. Timed route changes, convoy delays, minimal info. But he did confirm it’s coming from inside Boadicea.”

  Aurania finally looked at her. “You confident in his answers?” Then after a moment, she said, “Wait, dumb question, it’s you.” She looked out over the workers again.

  The air was thick with the clang of hammers and the grind of stone against metal as workers anchored a fresh section of platform into place.

  Shuffling footsteps behind them caught Inelius’ attention. All three of them turned to see Brana making her way toward them—no. Making her way to move past them, to go over toward the bridge. She had sunglasses on and looked to be nursing a headache.

  “Finally,” Aurania said to her. “I been standing around with my teeth in my mouth waiting for you to get out here. Where you been?”

  Brana grumbled something but didn’t look at them, still shuffling past.

  “Brana?” Aurania called after her, like a mother after a child.

  “Holy shit,” Inelius muttered. “I’ve never seen a hungover d’moria before.”

  Brana stopped shuffling for a moment. She turned her head to speak over her shoulder, but didn’t actually look at them. “Please don’t let me sleep with Drolv again.”

  She started shuffling away.

  Inelius, Aurania, and Riza all started snorting, holding back laughter.

  “Come on,” Aurania said with a smile, then turned to walk away, “Let’s go talk to Venlin.”

  Venlin Dread was in his office when they arrived, back turned, admiring some imported bottle of dark liquor on a dusty shelf like it was rare art. His long coat swayed faintly as he turned toward them, face composed, expression polite.

  “Aurania,” he greeted. “Inelius.” His gaze lingered on The Ghost of Proxinara a moment longer than he likely meant to. “R-Riza,” he said nervously. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Riza didn’t waste time. “We confirmed the convoy ambushes are being timed from inside Boadicea. Raiders are being fed schedule updates and route info—someone here’s helping them.”

  Venlin didn’t blink. “You’re certain?”

  Inelius spoke up. “Confession’s loose, but genuine. We’ve got motive, behavior, and detail. It holds.”

  Riza folded her arms. “We’ve got two options to get to the bottom of this. Interrogate everyone in town, or just go hit the raider camp and drag answers out of them.”

  “Which one are you leaning towards?” Venlin asked, voice shaky.

  “We’ll hit the raider camp tomorrow.” Riza sounded almost bored when she said it.

  Venlin’s lips pressed together in a measured way. He looked at Inelius. “Didn’t you say they had over 30 men?”

  “Mayor, you know Riza’s confirmed kill count has five digits, right?”

  Venlin’s brow tightened, and he glanced at Riza.

  “Almost six,” she corrected.

  Aurania stepped forward, her tone cordial but edged. “You don’t mind if we go and wipe them out, right?”

  Venlin hesitated—just for a breath—but it was there.

  “I don’t object to defending this town,” he said, voice smooth. “Just—try to limit the collateral. I assume you'll brief me before you leave?”

  Aurania nodded once, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Of course.”

  They exchanged no more words. Riza and Inelius followed Aurania out in silence until the office doors shut behind them.

  Once outside, Riza muttered, “Guess he’s not gonna crack.”

  Aurania kept walking. “Let’s call his bluff then.”

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