The world of Seraphis Secundus was a forgotten mining outpost, its sparse population of colonists offering easy hunting grounds for Drukhari raiders. Tonight, under a sky streaked with violet clouds, the hunt had been good.
Blood was still drying on the flagstones of the main square. The piercing laughter of the Kabalites echoed, mingling with the muffled moans of their new "acquisitions" piled into energy-slaver cages. Their leader, a second-rate Archon named Xylos, adjusted the belt from which the still-damp scalps of his victims hung. His warriors moved with the feline arrogance peculiar to their kind, some already sharpening their blades on the bones of the dead.
"A mediocre harvest, but entertaining," Xylos hissed to his lieutenant, his voice a whistle of pleasure. "Their screams were... rustic."
Suddenly, one of the warriors, near the skeletal trees bordering the square, froze. His back stiffened.
"Xylos..." he whispered. "We are being watched."
A contemptuous laugh answered him. "Watched? By these vermin? They don't even dare to breathe anymore."
But Xylos felt the warning. His instinct, honed by centuries of betrayal and cruelty, made his skin crawl. This wasn't the fear of humans. It was something else. A cold, patient presence. The fleeting impression of being... stalked. Like prey.
"Silence!" he ordered.
The group fell quiet. The Drukhari strained their ears, peering into shadows that suddenly seemed thicker, more menacing. The wind blowing through the abandoned buildings carried only the scent of dust and blood.
Then, a soft click.
A mechanical, alien sound. It came from the roof of the adjacent factory.
All eyes turned upward. Nothing. Only the dilapidated silhouette of the structure against the night sky.
Then, a shape moved. It wasn't a natural movement. It was as if the air itself shifted, tearing open to reveal an immense, stocky silhouette, far larger than an Aeldari. Primitive black armor, woven dreadlocks, and a facial mask with glowing red eyes. In its hand, a weapon of unknown technology, a crude plasma caster.
Before anyone could scream or fire, a high-pitched whistle split the air. A triple-bladed spear, attached to a barely visible wire, pierced the throat of the Drukhari who had given the warning. He was yanked backward into the darkness with terrifying speed, his body vanishing before it even hit the ground. Only a choked gurgle marked his departure.
Stupor paralyzed the group for a second. A second too long.
New forms emerged from invisibility. They were everywhere. On the rooftops, in the alleys, behind them. Their rough cries, guttural "Ruchirrrr!" sounds, replaced the silence, a cacophony of predators announcing the assault.
Xylos screamed an order, his splinter pistol spraying poisoned needles. They embedded themselves in the wall where a Yautja had just been, the dodge made with disconcerting speed.
The hunt had begun. But for the first time in a very, very long time, the Drukhari were not the hunters.
They were the quarry.
The Yautja were not seeking to capture. They were not seeking to torture for pleasure. Their violence was methodical, efficient, and terribly physical. They tore off limbs, decapitated with their wrist blades, and impaled their victims with their spears. Their optical camouflage made them ghostly, appearing to strike before melting back into nothingness.
Xylos, his heart hammering, looked up at the roof. The first Yautja, the one who seemed to be the leader, was staring right at him. It didn't move. It observed. Like a hunter letting his hounds work.
And in the predator's glowing red gaze, Xylos saw no gratuitous cruelty. He saw an assessment. A judgment. The eye of a superior being evaluating the quality of its prey.
For the first time in his long, dark existence, the Drukhari Archon knew an emotion he had only inflicted on others: a pure, primal, and icy fear. They were no longer the Shadows. They were the hunted.