Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Technically, she wasn't lying. The Nighthawks had started as a loose gang of outcasts—those too poor to survive in the cities, banding together out of necessity. But times had changed. After generations of maneuvering, backroom deals, and bloodshed, the Nighthawks had grown into something much larger. Now, their influence stretched across three major planetary sectors and dozens of smaller worlds. Any rogue, adventurer, or criminal worth their salt knew the Nighthawks' name.

Fortunately, the ones in charge weren't complete fools. They knew that an underground syndicate with too much fame became a target. Over the past few decades, the Nighthawks had begun cleaning up their image—abandoning more… problematic enterprises like human trafficking and narcotics. The organization was shifting toward something resembling a legitimate trade syndicate, focusing more on commerce than crime. But no matter how much they rebranded, they still held onto their elite strike teams—the kind that kept their enemies from thinking they'd gone soft. The small squad Kayvaan had run into—led by "Rathor"—was one of those groups.

"Oh? Just a mutual aid society for the downtrodden?" Kayvaan's smile was thin, his tone unreadable. "Tell me, then—do the Nighthawks have warriors as strong as the White Knight?"

"Of course not… uh, wait." Rhianna hesitated, eyes narrowing as she sorted through memories of people she disliked. Then, a name surfaced. Someone dangerous. Someone she hated.

"Well," she drawled, "there is someone. The Nighthawks are a massive network, and, well, some parts of the organization still handle… less-than-honorable work. Assassinations, for example. The strongest among them is Youlun. People call him 'The Executioner.' No one's ever survived once he's been paid to kill them. He's as strong as a daemon."

Kayvaan chuckled. "As strong as a daemon? That's quite the claim. Where can I find him?"

Rhianna scoffed. "You don't. He's a killer, not a gladiator. He doesn't sit around waiting for challengers to duel. He doesn't fight fair—he kills. And if you've got the coin, he'll kill anyone—even children." She grimaced, shaking her head. "Sorry, that was a bit much."

"No, not at all. What you said was quite useful," Kayvaan said, voice measured. "In fact, I think I have a rough travel plan now. Just one last question—how do I contact the Nighthawks?"

Rhianna hesitated for only a second before answering. "Nearest Nighthawk outpost's in Kronborg. Look for the Nighthawk Tavern in the lower city. Just mention my name, and you'll get in."

"Simple enough," Kayvaan nodded. "And how do I get to Kronborg?"

Rhianna was about to tell him to follow the main road when he raised a hand, stopping her. "I know the main road would be easiest," he said. "But my brother's size makes that… inconvenient. How about this—I'll hire you to guide me there. I'll pay a good price."

The group exchanged glances. Kayvaan needed a guide. The adventurers liked money. After some quiet discussion, they agreed—Rhianna would take Kayvaan to Kronborg, while the rest of the team carried on with their original mission.

At dawn, they parted ways. Rhianna, it turned out, was the chatty type. She had a habit of rambling, spilling bits of information without even realizing it. Not that Kayvaan minded—most of it was irrelevant, just the idle musings of someone who'd spent too much time scraping by in the lower city. Still, she had some insight into the underworld, which made her useful. By the third night, they reached Kronborg.

From a distance, the old fortress loomed in the dark, its gates standing wide open. Green vines had crept over the iron chains of the drawbridge, reclaiming the structure bit by bit. Kayvaan ran his fingers over the vines. "Looks like this gate hasn't been shut in a long time."

"Fifteen years," Rhianna supplied. "The Holy City doesn't rely on thick walls for protection. It's faith that keeps it safe. No planetary governor has ever dared declare war against the Vatican. If they did, their own armies would overthrow them first."

Kayvaan smiled. "A governor wouldn't dare cross the Ecclesiarchy, yet you thought sneaking into their territory to assassinate someone was a good idea. That's bold."

Rhianna stiffened. Her eyes went wide. "You—How did you—"

Kayvaan chuckled. "Come on. A group of armed rogues lurking outside the Holy City with murder weapons? You weren't hunting. You were stalking prey."

Rhianna swallowed, her expression flickering between panic and forced composure. Kayvaan tilted his head. "You're a sharp woman. Smart enough to fake fear. But tell me—are you really not worried?"

"Why should I be worried?" Rhianna asked, crossing her arms. "Mr. Kayvaan, you're my employer now. I assume you already figured out what my team was planning, but you didn't try to stop us. That means you're not on their side, but you're not against them either. So why should I think you'd do anything to harm me? As for the rest of them…" She shrugged, her expression indifferent. "They're scum. If they die, they die. Not my problem."

"But they were your comrades."

"Only temporarily." Kayvaan studied her for a moment before speaking. "I'll give you a piece of advice. If your friends are planning something inside the Vatican, whatever it is, they've picked the worst possible time to do it."

"Oh?" Rhianna raised an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

Kayvaan smirked. "Before we left, something big happened. Right now, the Vatican is more heavily defended than it's been in centuries."

Rhianna leaned back, unimpressed. "They'll manage. They knew the risks." Then, with a sly smile, she added, "Where's your giant brother?"

"'Giant' isn't the right word," Kayvaan corrected. "He's strong. And you don't need to worry about him—he can handle himself."

Rhianna scoffed. "I think you should bring him with you."

"Your concern is noted," Kayvaan said dryly. "But unnecessary."

Rhianna sighed. "You're my employer. I just don't want you getting killed before I get paid."

Kayvaan chuckled at that, but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. She might have acted indifferent, but there was a hint of unease in her tone. Maybe she did care about those so-called temporary comrades of hers after all.

The Nighthawk Tavern was exactly as Rhianna had described—well-known, easy to find, and right on the main street of the lower city. Even in the dead of night, it was still open, the warm glow of candlelight spilling out onto the dark stone road like an invitation.

With Rhianna leading the way, Kayvaan was granted immediate access to a private room on the second floor. Within minutes, a heavyset man waddled in. He was dressed in a worn black suit, the fabric stretched tight over his bulk. His round face carried a practiced, harmless smile—the kind a street merchant would wear while selling counterfeit relics to off-world nobles. "This," Rhianna said, gesturing lazily, "is the best pimp I could find. And not just in this city—the best in the whole industry. Meet Fatty."

Kayvaan arched an eyebrow. "Pimp?"

Rhianna grinned. "Not that kind of pimp. Fatty here doesn't deal in flesh—he deals in talent. Tell him what you need, and he'll find the right person for the job."