Silas's Shadow Looms

Silas Vance didn't get to be known as 'The Serpent' by being slow. His vast network of informants, a collection of twitchy-fingered data brokers and jaded guild exiles, was his venomous tongue, tasting the air for any hint of a threat. And lately, the air had been thick with the scent of something new, something… *unpolished*. A scent that emanated from the grimy corners of the mech-crafting scene, a place Silas usually ignored with the disdain of a king surveying a peasant market.

He lounged in his obsidian-plated command center, the holographic projections of his empire’s ledger shimmering around him like serpents of light. His fingers, long and unnaturally pale, traced the gilded edges of a crystal decanter filled with a liquid so dark it seemed to absorb the very light around it. His guest, a jittery man named Flicker, whose eyes darted around the room like startled mice, wrung his hands.

"…and they say," Flicker stammered, his voice a reedy whisper, "that this Will fellow… he’s churning out custom mechs like a factory. Not just any mechs, mind you. High-grade stuff. And the prices… absurdly low for the quality, but still enough to make a fortune."