“...rift site.” Morvan’s voice, filtered through the herald drone’s speaker, resonated with a false magnanimity that grated on Nithos’s ears. The syndicate chief's holographic face, sharp-boned and arrogant, filled the cramped space of the hovel, making Syris tense beside him. Nithos’s gaze, however, was not on the taunting projection, but on the Veridian Core resting on his scarred workbench. Its sickly green glow pulsed, a beacon of untapped caloric potential. The rift zone was a death sentence, yet a sharp calculation stirred behind Nithos's eyes. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking: *Morvan, you fool.* [ALERT: S-RANK KRYK HOLLOWS DANGER RATING: CATASTROPHIC] [RECOMMENDATION: EVACUATE IMMEDIATE AREA. EXPEDITION FORCE MANDATORY.] Nithos felt the familiar, cold pulse of the Genesis overlay, its data stream now less a warning and more a prompt. The S-rank designation signaled a boss, an apex terror capable of yielding an unparalleled infusion of raw power. He had planned to scale his attributes in the shadows, to gather strength in anonymity. But Morvan, in his arrogance, had just presented him with an express ticket to high-tier devastation. The prospect of butchering a disaster-class entity right under Morvan's nose brought a thin, vicious curl to his lips. “The Guild has been… generous,” Morvan continued, his smile stretching. “Given your… unique skillset, you’ll be cataloging the fungal anomalies in the deepest reaches. A task perfectly suited to your scholarly aptitude, wouldn’t you agree?” His gaze flickered to the discarded librarian’s tunic near Nithos’s cot, then back to Nithos’s still-frail frame. The implication was clear: *You’re worthless, but I’ll find a use for you, even if it’s as a distraction.* Syris stepped forward, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sidearm. “Morvan, a Crypt-Archivist in the ravine? That’s an absurd deployment. He’ll be butchered before he reaches the first waypoint.” Her voice stayed flat, though her knuckles whitened against steel. She still saw Varek in him, Nithos realized with irritation, an unshielded casualty she needed to shield. “Officer Syris, your concern is noted,” Morvan said, his tone dismissive. “But this is a Guild matter. The Genesis directive is clear. All hands on deck. Even the… less martial ones.” He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. “Unless our esteemed archivist wishes to refuse? Perhaps a public apology, broadcast across the Academy comms, would suffice?” Nithos pushed a dry laugh through his teeth. “Refuse? You wound me. An opportunity to contribute to the Bastion’s preservation? To face the horrors of the sinkhole head-on? Who am I to deny such a noble calling?” He took a step closer to the drone, his eyes, usually shadowed, now burning with a cold, unsettling intensity. “I accept. With the utmost… enthusiasm.” Morvan’s smile faltered, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. He had expected pleas, perhaps tears. Not this chilling, sarcastic acceptance. The hologram wavered slightly as Morvan processed the unexpected defiance. “Excellent,” he said, recovering quickly, though his voice held a sharper edge. “Report to the main gate’s transport bay within the hour. Vanguard teams Rho and Sigma will escort you.” The drone whirred, then zipped away, leaving behind the stale air of the hovel and the lingering scent of ozone. Syris glared at Nithos. “Are you insane? The trenches will tear you apart. This is an execution order, Nithos.” Her hand still rested on her pistol, her stance defensive. “And what if he is?” Nithos countered, his voice flat. “Am I to cower in this rusted hole forever? Perhaps I’ll find a rare tome, a lost recipe for survival, eh? Don’t waste your concern, Syris. I’m a librarian. I know how to navigate dark places.” He snatched the Veridian Core from the table, its eerie glow now hidden in his pocket, and strode towards the doorway, Rix slinking out from under his cot to follow. The scrap-lizard’s internal processors whirred excitedly, sensing the impending hunt. Syris watched him go, then her gaze hardened. *Varek wouldn’t have let a single soul face that alone,* she thought, a phantom ache in her chest. *Especially not a civilian.* “Wait!” she called out, striding after him. “I’m coming too,” she snapped, stepping after him. “My unit, 7-Beta, will provide auxiliary security.” Nithos paused at the entrance to the alleyway, turning slowly. He noted the stubborn clamp of her jaw, the familiar maternal reflex that had always grated on Varek and now rankled Nithos. *Always trying to save the worthless, aren’t you, Syris?* he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. “You’re volunteering for suicide,” he said, his tone biting. “Don’t follow me. You’ll only get in the way.” “It’s a Genesis directive, Nithos,” Syris replied, refusing to budge. “Peacekeeper assets can be assigned to high-risk syndicate operations. My presence, and that of my squad, is standard protocol. Consider it an official escort.” They reached the main gate’s transport bay, a cavernous space where heavily armored vanguard teams were already boarding a massive, reinforced dropship. Morvan stood on a raised platform, flanked by two lieutenants and a dozen elite guards, his presence radiating cold authority. He watched Nithos approach with a thin smirk, then shifted his gaze toward Syris and her small squad. His smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl. Syris caught his eye and gave a curt, challenging nod. “Syris,” Morvan said, his voice dropping low. “A sudden surge of ambition, it seems?” “Standard regulatory protocol,” Syris replied without blinking. “Asset preservation. Given the S-rank designation, my unit’s deployment is authorized.” Morvan’s eyes narrowed, but he merely gestured towards the dropship. “Board. Both of you. And try not to impede the *actual* vanguard.” Nithos climbed the ramp, Rix a faint bulge beneath his tattered coat, Syris and her squad following close behind. The interior of the dropship was utilitarian, rows of armored seats facing a central cargo hold. The air thrummed with the whine of charging engines. As the heavy transport doors hissed shut with a final, metallic clang, Morvan leaned in and whispered to his lieutenant, “Make sure neither of them come back alive.”

The Hollow Invitation