Ashen Prime revealed more the longer Ethan walked.
After finishing his drink and lingering for a while in the plaza, he followed a branching path that curved subtly toward the station's interior. The transit maps identified this area as a transition corridor between Civic Block 04A and Sector Tier 2, a route mostly used by maintenance workers, specialists, and other mid-clearance personnel.
The corridors here were narrower but no less clean. The air smelled faintly of sterilized surfaces and ion-filtered airflow. The lighting dimmed slightly as he walked, shifting to a cooler tone, more atmospheric than functional. The ceiling arched overhead like the interior of a massive artery, funneling both people and quiet energy deeper into the station's spine.
Eventually, the passage opened onto a checkpoint.
It wasn't imposing, no towering barricades or security drones hovering ominously, but there was no mistaking its purpose. A clean, glass-paneled gate, reinforced with polished metal columns, stood between Ethan and the next tier. Two Federation guards manned the access point, outfitted in sleek grey-blue armor with biometric scanners built into their bracers. A third officer stood behind a compact control terminal, calmly processing ID verifications from a slow but steady stream of civilians.
There was no shouting. No pushing. No complaints.
People waited, were scanned, and either passed through or were redirected with professional indifference.
Ethan observed quietly from a short distance. Above the checkpoint, subtle signs directed people toward Sector Tier 2 Residential and Mid-Level Operations. The next rung of Ashen Prime's vertical society.
Beyond the glass, he glimpsed gleaming towers rising sharply above the station floor, bathed in artificial daylight from panels that mimicked a golden hour sun. Private trams glided silently between buildings suspended on magnetic rails. Well-dressed officials, most wearing emblems Ethan didn't recognize, moved with purpose, each one flanked by assistants or guards. The guards there were sharper, more focused. Their gazes lingered longer on strangers.
It wasn't the kind of place someone could simply wander into.
It was entered. With clearance. With status. With intention.
Ethan didn't try to pass through.
He turned instead, following a branching corridor that led toward what station locals and guild regulars called the mercenary-adjacent zone. A cluster of blocks where the Mercenary Guild's Ashen Prime Branch had its offices, and where out-of-sector mercs congregated to unwind, trade intel, or kill time between jobs.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The lighting here was dimmer, tinged with a faint amber hue that gave the metal walls a warmer, worn-out glow. The air felt heavier, not dirty but infused with the faint tang of oil, sweat, and ozone from nearby weapon testing booths. Worn armored jackets, scratched helmets clipped to belts, and faded guild patches were common sights. The emblems were varied, symbols from different galactic sectors, different battles, different lives.
A few mercs stood in loose clusters near a recessed gear shop, its display racks showcasing upgraded visors, modular weapon kits, and ration-enhancing injectors. They talked casually, but their stances told a different story. Relaxed, yes, but always ready. Eyes moved just enough to track newcomers. Hands hovered comfortably near holsters or blades.
Ethan recognized the rhythm.
This was familiar ground. Different from Kynara, but the energy was the same: a shared language of experience, suspicion, and earned respect. A space where reputations moved faster than introductions.
Further down, Federation peacekeepers lingered near a wall-mounted terminal. Not in large numbers, but enough to be seen. They kept their distance, letting the mercs talk and barter, but their presence was a quiet warning.
This was still Ashen Prime, and order came first.
The whole area had a strange energy, not hostile, but quietly tense. As if everyone here understood that their place in the station was provisional. Functional. Watched.
Ethan didn't stay long.
Instead, he turned into a quieter side corridor, drawn by the soft sound of ambient music and low conversation. The corridor opened onto a modest café tucked beneath a simulated canopy, the ceiling overhead casting a warm, amber glow that mimicked the late-afternoon sky. Artificial vines curled around the support columns. A fountain bubbled softly nearby, its waters threaded with slow, glowing pulses of color.
He stepped up to the ordering terminal.
The same spiced beverage the old vendor recommended earlier was listed on the menu: Kessar Root Steeped with Rind Extract. He ordered it, paid with a quick credit scan, and found a table at the edge of the outdoor seating area.
The chair adjusted automatically to his height and posture. The holo-table activated, presenting a clean interface with access to public news streams, station bulletins, and personal datapad sync.
Ethan flicked through the headlines, sipping his drink.
"Governor Tallis Krell Set to Announce Expansion Initiative in the Ashen Sector"
"Federation Border Patrols Respond to Skirmish Near Outer Veil Star System between Pirates and Smugglers"
"Grizdo Interstellar Workshop Unveils New Ship Lines: Military & Civilian Models for Sector-Wide Release"
He browsed quietly, half-interested, letting the names and updates wash over him. The Federation didn't hide its structure, it showcased it. Every headline, every banner, every station announcement was a quiet flex of power. Efficiency. Progress.
Everything was layered.
Clearance.
Status.
Rank.
Influence.
He thought of Kynara. Of the dirt and the grit. The broken tech and corruption brought by the syndicate. But also the honesty. The reality of it all.
Ashen Prime was different. Here, he felt… measured. Categorized.
Accepted, but only because someone at the top had allowed it.
As he sat there, watching the crowd move through the simulated sunset glow, a familiar feeling settled in. A low, quiet ache that no battlefield ever left behind.
Solitude.
It wasn't the sharp loneliness of exile or grief. Just the quiet recognition that he could walk among them… but he wasn't one of them.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
He tilted his head upward. The artificial sky above flickered ever so slightly as the lighting program shifted from golden hour to pre-evening tones. The color deepened, stars slowly fading in. A simulation, of course, but an effective one.
Tomorrow, he'd meet Governor Krell.
Another private meeting. No intermediaries. No interference.
And after that… the real path would begin.
For now, he was content to remain a passenger in this self-contained world within Ashen Prime.
Sipping his drink. Watching.
Waiting.