AN: Hey people, wanted to let you know that I am still alive- had a bit of a sick moment for the past few months. And that I have been working on this during the wait, though I lost all the notes and things (including the previous version of this chap) in an accidental, medical moment. However, I managed to recover some of it and I think I remember where I was going with it. So I'm resolving to write what I think I was writing... at least to the best of my memory (which is getting shoddy).

Story is still on semi-hiatus.

I hope you enjoy this. If not, please let me know. Thank you to those who have left a review in my past chapters.

Please leave a review.


This was enlightening, Hamael thought as he stood beside the far wall of the courtyard. He listened meticulously to Siesta as she answered his inquiries. Her hands worked within the stone basin, scrubbing his master's garments under both torch and moonlight, a torrent of words, stories and local hearsay flowed out as easily as the spout of the open faucet.

They had an exchange going on, where one would ask and the other would answer; both speaking to the best of their knowledge. Though, Hamael has been asking more than answering.

One thing that Hamael found confusing during this was the lingua, the speech, spoken here. It was the one constant that he's noticed so far, a commonality between them all. Their mastery of fluent, modern-Imperial low gothic, the unifying language that bound the countless realms of man, as a local tongue. It is impossible to see this dialect spoken here, especially with their lack of contact with the Imperium at large.

Yet, despite the impossible, he was hearing it before him. The way they all spoke: the words, grammar and tone. It sounded as if he was still on an Imperial world; so lacking it was in the linguistic deviation and evolutions found in worlds or civilizations long-isolated and lost.

It was strange, a trivial anomaly best left for a scribe or some Mechanicum menial to investigate if it had ever piqued their curiosity. Yet, something nagged at him, tugging at his senses. It told him that there was something amiss. He would need more information from a formal, or learned source.

If he could find any, for his current one was… lacking. Well, not truly lacking. Siesta had proven to be adequate once she had stopped fearing him and opened up. Although, tinges of apprehension were visible underneath her veneer of friendliness.

Hamael will admit that it was not surprising. He wasn't the most social or charismatic of his brothers, not like his Chapter Master: Lord Dante, he who was noble beyond reproach, ageless and wise. And not even him, The Lord of Angels, leader of the Blood Angels, was a complete exception to the curse of separation between mortals and Astartes. Though he inspired awe instead, such was the price for their ascension

But, Hamael truly meant no harm to her and thus tried to keep as friendly a posture as possible; with his voice low and empty, open hands bared in plain view.

Disregarding her coloured view of the local political situation and recent history, with 'recent' defined as 'within the last few decades'. The accuracy of anything past that had dug up bare-bones, snippets of myths or, in her words, the rumours of a friend from a friend.

So scant little to go off of, yet there was much that was learnt. A rather surprising amount of information, in fact. Very few would pay attention to the menials, the unseen servants and the forgotten. A rich, untapped resource but one that required distillation, filtration and refinement, like aged Amsec.

Experience has taught him that. Observation has guided him. And so he continued to listen. His enhanced brain and trans-human intelligence working in dual unison between her and his internal formulations, sifting through the streams of information with great diligence, connecting fragments and rumours into an ever-shifting, ever-growing web of logical, illogical and impossibilities of chance.

From what he could surmise, he was currently positioned within the monarchical country of Tristania, a minor nation nestled between two bigger, more powerful entities, governed by a cardinal as regent in the name of the Crown Princess, Henrietta de Tristain. And whose society, he surmised, was at a mid-feudal stage, given the lack of any signs of industrial devices seen so far.

Then there are its neighbouring rulers. The holy Germanian Empire, a militaristic land of supposed barbarians, which lay towards his north-east, and Gallia, another major Kingdom in the south-west. Siesta also had mentioned a few other kingdoms in passing or reference, though in lesser detail: Albion, a kingdom on a floating landmass to the west; and to the far south lay Romalia, the holy empire, and the center of this Brimiric faith. When she went into detail upon being asked, it aggravated him.

This faith. This... religion. Hamael had almost lashed out at the mention of it. He nearly found himself boiling with rage, his blood simmering and his mouth in a taunt, stretched line, gauntlets clenching hard. An urge to flick a finger, to snap her tiny neck, grew once Siesta mentioned praises for this Brimnir, an ancient psyker that had once led the humans of this world long ago. And whose descendants then gave birth to the current system where the nobles, these uncontrolled, unsanctioned psykers, held reign and superiority over the common masses.

And that everyone had assumed he was one of his angels, Brimnir's herald.

That sickened Hamael.

A feeling of disgust bubbled inside. He detested this, all of this. He had studied the consequences of such political entities in the old archives, even seen them first-hand on the few reclamations and exploratory crusades that ventured into sectors unknown in his earlier years. It never ended well. They never ended well.

They never do.

Most of them resulting in their self-destruction, subsumed by the perfidious foes of the Imperium and left unsalvageable. Leaving only the ruined husk of worlds and stars. There were the rare exceptions... and they were the most dangerous ones. The rulers being hollowed out by their foul, daemonic masters in the warp, puppeting their bodies like malformed flesh-suits or bursting into reality like open cancer to corrupt and warp.

Now he found himself at one of their exalted centers of learning; where the youths and juves honed their skills under the tutelage of their senior magic users. And uplifted on a presumed pedestal as a divine being under a false god.

Though they had made one error, he was a Blood Angel. He was an Angel of the Emperor of Mankind, He who sits on the golden throne, the true protector of Humanity. He was not an angel of Brimnir and never will be.

Never.

"Angel Hamael? Are you all right?" Siesta spoke, breaking off mid-motion of scrubbing a tough stain, and looked up at him with curiosity-tinted eyes.

He turned his attention back to her, chiding himself for his lapse of attention. He had focused too much on his speculations, who knows what he might have missed. "I apologize, I have been… in thought."

"Sorry, I think it's about my turn to ask you something. But you seemed to be… vacant."

"There is no need to apologize. Speak. If I can answer, I will, but it depends." Hamael spoke softly, but it came out like a simmering rumble through his vox-grate. It would be unfair if he persisted in asking, and it was her long, overdue turn. The answers pending the limits of discretion and secrecy, of course. Much can be answered, but more must stay concealed.

She paused in her work, "What is heaven like? Is it beautiful? And what was the thing you fought, is it a demon like what everyone has been saying?... and what about Brimir?"

This was a tricky one. He could be honest, tell her of his actual origin and the truth of not knowing Brimnir. That he was an angel in only the figurative sense, judging from the description Louise gave him: a being with two wings. The divinity being of another question. Though that would also play as a reason for him to not do so. She was a feudal primitive. The truth could be more detrimental than positive. Like a bolter round in an ork's chest, it would shatter her world's view and her beliefs. Quite also bringing some unneeded attention unto him and his… charge. He did not know how this world's religion would play out here, if it was even unified at all, but he had his suspicions that it would be like a certain ministorum.

Quite a conundrum. Perhaps a half-truth.

"Heaven…" Hamael paused in thought on what heaven was, then he reminisced of the one place he loved the most, the Arx Angelicum back on Baal, his home: Its vast array of murals, tapestries and effigies that lined its hallow halls and ancient chambers. The majesty and wonders within made by Blood Angels from long-forgotten times. Then the Dome of Angels in its full splendour and white, polished marble and gold or the twin towers that touched the clouds like unsurmountable peaks. He missed it.

"...is not where I live. For I am not the angels you think of, not that variety at least. My home lies within the Arx Angelicum, home of the Blood Angels, my brothers… my family. With halls of marble, gold and stained glass, rich in history and beauty. The legacy and tales of over ten millennia buried within the sands and stones. Representations of heroes, both new and old, occupy its sacred halls, wrought by the hands of my living and ancient brothers. I believe that if you were to see it, you would agree that it would be heaven-like. Though I have not been back for a while, I will admit."

"Then why not? Surely you should be able to," Siesta asked. "I may visit my family every few months for a few days. But you're an angel, you could just fly home."

That almost gave him a chuckle. What a childish, yet innocent, notion from a young mortal.

"I cannot. Because of my duties," he explained slowly. "Because of the Tyranids, that which you call the 'demon'. They are a ravenous, monstrous race, seeking to fill an unquenchable hunger, consuming all who lay in its path. We went to stop them under the command of Lord Dante, my chapter master, leader of the Blood Angels. Then I fell to the one which I had slain, only to be saved. And then given a task to serve a child."

"A child? You mean Louise?" she looked a bit confused. Perhaps overwhelmed with the information, Hamael presumed, or the lack of context with which to relate to. It doesn't matter. It was not confidential information, and it was true to a large degree. He also hoped that she had not noticed the lapse of an answer for one of her questions.

"Indeed, she has summoned me to be her... familiar. And I, in turn, swore to protect and teach her," Hamael bit out a reply. It left a distaste in his mouth like he had eaten gravel, or drank rancid, putrid blood.

"She's quite well known around here," Siesta commented, putting a soapy finger on her chin in thought, "Though most of it is not… nice, so to say. And the messes she makes gives the cleaning servants a small nightmare sometimes. You seem tentative about her."

"I begrudgingly accept this task but my feelings have little in regards to my duty. But, do say—" Before Hamael could inquire more into his charges reputation, a symbol on his display flashes in rapid succession, alerting him to the diminishing—already low—energy stores of his power cells. The outlook wasn't pretty. His suit's cogitator counted down the few hours remaining on the solar batteries, if he continued at the current levels of expenditure, powering only his auspex and vital systems.

He contemplated reactivating his suit's fuel reactors, bringing his systems to full life and recharging his batteries, but held off on doing so. There was no chance of resupply, though the pack should be good for months, if not years. He was still cut off from any Imperial presence and wary of needless usage. And he was unaware of the full extent of damages done towards the power pack, at least until further inspection could be done. Which left him the option of bearing the full weight of the armour once it became devoid completely of power. Not a gruelling task, so to say, it would be the equal of wearing a suit of plate, albeit more cumbersome. But it was still bearable.

As he was about to silence the alarm, making a note to inquire about a sunny location in the coming dawn. He saw something reappear on his Auspex, a minuscule dot that flickered in and out. It was alive. It was moving… and he knew it had been following him for some time or at least tried to. Now they were much closer. "Forgive me, Siesta, urgent matters have… shown up. Please take care of mas—Miss Valliere's clothes. I owe you a small favour for this and I shall answer your questions at a later date. Emperor guides you," Hamael spoke, bowing his head before stepping towards a shadowy corner.

Siesta looked up again to give a curt nod and reply but stopped halfway. Her eyes pausing at where Hamael once was, an empty wall and some scuffed gravel the only sign of his missing presence. "Emperor… guide you?"


"Are you sure you saw it?" Kirche, or Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst in more formal terms, whispered. Although with the near-silence it was as audible as a shout in an empty auditorium.

"Yes. Over there." Tabitha tilted her staff towards the distant courtyard.

Kirche and Tabitha were on a mission, or at least Kirche was. And it could be considered more of idle curiosity, to be honest, with Tabitha as a guide to her goal.

To see if Louise had summoned an Angel; to know if it was alive or dead. She had either hidden him, which was especially unlikely knowing her personality, or her familiar, the angel, had been killed. And judging by what she saw, it stood a good chance of being true.

At least until Kirche had spotted him in the dead of night on one of her nightly forays. The angel gazing out a window, lost in thought. Then she went and brought Tabitha, if only for support and that her room was on the way here. She clearly remembered how the summoning ceremony went, especially with Louise, or what everybody else referred to her as: the Zero. But, recently, she gained a much newer and unforgiving title: the Death Summoner, and then the harshest: Angel Slayer.

Kirche could recall the following day as easily as she crept through the grass—an unnecessary action due to Tabitha casting silencing magic earlier. It was… bizarre and unnerving to see. No one spoke to Louise. No one acknowledged her, besides slight glances from the corner of their eyes. Whereas before they would at least be aware of her existence, needling with slight insults and jabs or mocking laughter at her efforts. Now after she had supposedly killed a divine being, it was as if a curtain had fallen upon her existence. A taboo that left only the hushed whispers to stab into her. Even the Academy staff had kept quiet, though probably out of surprise or uncertainty.

She had seen Louise's face. How her eyes, strong and stubborn, now carried a worried glint to them. The ego she had once proudly boasted, despite failing to upkeep, was now a flickering shadow. It was very… unValliere-like.

Kirche couldn't stand it. Louise was supposed to be stubborn. She was supposed to be prideful. She was a la Valliere. It was their entire reasoning of existence, the flare and oomph!

And it was also one of the key reasons for their rivalry, besides her being a Von Zerbst, which meant a literal blood-rivalry with the Vallieres anyways. It was a feud where one cannot lose to the other, and she found it immensely entertaining. To have her spiral up like a bonfire, her remarks and slight insults acting as fuel, and to see it rage against her and others in a bright, and messy, blaze. And despite the somewhat antagonistic nature of her actions, she cared for Louise.

Now Louise was a flickering ember.

Under the bright moonlight, she could make out where Tabitha was leading her towards: A laundry courtyard, past the main building of the academy, hidden from plain view by a large, vibrant garden. Oversized decorative hedges and fields of flowers blocked the image of servants washing laundry, though all should've been sleeping by now.

Kirche stepped onto the gravel path soundlessly, Tabitha following closely behind her, emotionless face the same as ever. Both walking together beneath the towering shrubbery, clouded moonlight making them seem more unnatural now. Once artistic, and sometimes tasteless, pieces of art now seemed hostile and dark. It was soundless, missing the noises of life and activity.

What would an angel be doing here, here of all places, Kirche thought to herself. She eyed the darkened trees, the shadows seemingly stretching out towards her on their silent journey. Surely an angel would prefer a more… holy place. Or at least more light.

As she was about to turn towards the subtly, hidden path that would lead towards the entrance to the yard, Tabitha grabbed Kirche by the shoulder causing her to turn around in surprise.

"Someone's watching," Tabitha said with an emotionless tone. She glanced around slowly, trying to spot the person, freehand grasping onto her staff with a hard grip.

Kirche gave a look of surprise then placed her hand on her wand, ready to whip it out in a moment's notice. "Where? Who is it?" she whispered to Tabitha.

"Don't know."

"Then how do you know that someone is watching?"

"Because she is correct," a voice spoke out, it sounded barely human, more artificial, if it was a thing, but it was strong and Kirche could feel her ears vibrating. It came from around them, never in one place or one direction, and she darted her head around to search. She saw nothing. "I am surprised. To see juves, children, being able to notice me so soon." Then it grumbled, "I must be losing my edge."

"Who said that? Come out! I am Kirche the Ardent, and I demand that you come out here." She flicked her wand out in the open, banishing her growing unease, and swept it over the looming shadows and shrubbery.

Tabitha, holding onto her staff, stood by her side. her face expression-free but her eyes held a tinge of alarm dwelled within the deep, still blue.

"Demand? Who are you to demand of me?" it asked. "If anything, I should demand of you. Why do you seek me? Do not think you have not been noticed, I've been keeping track of you. At first I thought it was a mere coincidence but now I stand corrected."

Kirche paused for a moment, her mind racing. Had she found Louise's angel? He, or it, wasn't angel-like. His voice was too harsh, deep and crass like a man speaking within a heavy helm. This was not what she imagined. Where were the heavenly tones of a soothing, silky voice? "Are you the Angel?" she asked warily.

"I am and I am not. The title which you refer to me as is one that is both accurate and inaccurate, but that was not what I wanted to know." A monstrous, humanoid figure emerged from the depths of a shrub. It towered over both of them. And as one, Kirche and Tabitha raised their respective magical focuses at it with tense anticipation before lowering unknowingly.

When the figure showed himself, the clouded moonlight became clear again as if signalled, bathing the entire field with its luminous glow. Dark shadows melted away to illuminate damaged, majestic, golden armour and wing motifs, an open crack on its broad chest revealing healing, pink flesh and folded wings on its back. A mask of a man, expression set in a roaring challenge, made of pure gold with obsidian eyes and dark tubes extending from his cheeks, was superimposed where a face would've been. And a tear-drop ruby, so large and blood-red, that she deemed it to be worth a fortune, enough to live in sheer luxury for decades.

He, or it, stared at them, clashing with their surprised and shocked looks. And he stopped before both of them, mere feet away, and Kirche—one of the tallest students in her year, or perhaps the school—had never felt so small and worthless before.

So this was what it felt like to be Louise-sized, she thought, her jaws ajar. Though she couldn't help but be mesmerized with the sight.

"You seek an angel. Now, one has appeared. Speak. I am curious as to why you seek me. Why have you slinked in the shadows like a rodent to do so?" he demanded.

The awe and surprise Kirche had was washed away by the insult. "I do not slink like a rat," she snapped back.

"True. Rats would at least try to hide," Hamael countered, before lowering his voice. What was once a boom lowered to a rumbling that was almost reminiscent of a building thunderstorm. "Now lower your sticks, I doubt you could poke through ceramite, and if I meant you harm… you would be dead. Now tell me, Kirche The Ardent, what it is that you seek and why?"

What did she want to ask, Kirche had no reply. She spent a few seconds pondering, what should she ask? Should she see if said person was an actual angel, and not a commoner wearing fanciful, yet elaborate, oversized armour—though no one grew that big, no golem capable of speech, and she doubted Valliere could afford a ruby that large—or perhaps why he was walking around at night. All were good questions, she supposed. Just whether or not it was the right one was the question.

"... Who?" Tabitha asked first, much to Kirche's surprise and chagrin.

She mumbled in annoyance. "He was asking me."

There was another slight pause, he stood in place before he spoke. "Who, as in who am I? I am Hamael. Unless you are asking me who or whom I belong to, then I am a Blood Angel of the ninth legion, Sanguinary Guard, warrior of the Emperor and currently… the familiar and protector of Louise de la Valliere," he answered bluntly, looking directly at Tabitha. "Was that your question?"

Tabitha gave a slight nod, her face as passive as ever.

"Now, who are you? Your friend has given me hers but not yours," he continued.

"Tabitha. Student."

"Hmm, not much of a speaker?" Hamael asked then Tabitha gave another nod. Hamael turned towards Kirche. "I can assume you are a student here as well, Kirche The Ardent"

"Yes, and my full title is Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst," she recollected herself, then gave a correction, forcing a sly wink, "though you could just call me Kirche." She had expected the angel to say something in reply, though it was like throwing water at a wall. Hamael continued to keep his impassive stance against them, still as a statue.

Then he gave a slight nod, tilting his head ever so slightly down. "Very well, Kirche. Now what did you want from me?"

It took a few moments to recall her main goal, now a bit wary of his nature and wanting verification, she decided to ask a question of her own. "Are you actually Louise's familiar?"

"I had sworn an oath to protect and teach her. So the answer is… yes. You are her fellow acquaintances?" Hamael answered, a tinge of annoyance laced within.

That surprised Kirche a bit. Could angels even feel annoyance? Were they not supposed to be emotionless beings of light, although, the fresh wound disproved the last part. The scriptures being off the mark on that. However, now that she noticed, how had he survived that? Something that would have killed any man, and now he stood before her in near-perfect health. "Yes, you can say that we are the best of friends, almost like we think alike. Like… sisters." She spoke, confidently, though Louise would without a doubt say otherwise. But she wasn't here, was she?

"Hmm. Very well, Kirche and Tabitha, friends of Louise. I have a question for you and I expect an honest answer. Why did you follow me?"

"Curiosity," Kirche said. That was true.

If the angel had a working face, at least if she could glimpse underneath the golden mask, she would've thought the man had quirked an eyebrow; his head shifting upwards a bit as if amused.

"Curiosity. Curiosity is what made you so bold to stalk me? You, Kirche, are confident, that is most clear. However, curiosity without caution is a room without a door or roof, a folly."

"Well, it isn't every day that we see a dead familiar… or an angel walking around?" Kirche commented in a curious tone, hoping to get his attention.

"Dead?" Hamael focused on her. She felt a tingle on her neck from the intensity of the gaze, his black eyes narrowing on her like prey. He was certainly interested in what she just said, though whether that was good or bad is up for debate. "You. You two saw where I fell, did you not. You've seen everything. That is why you are interested in me?"

"The familiar ceremony," Tabitha spoke. "Everyone there. Saw you and that after the dust."

Kirche was about to agree with Tabitha when she noticed that Hamael seemed much closer now. She could hear faint sounds coming from his suit, a 'whirring' sound like a fine grindstone or a cog of a watch, and before she could ponder on the source, she was forced to look up at him, face-to-chin. He took another step, his giant foot sinking into the gravel pathway with a rocky crunch.

He spoke once more, but his tone changed, a intensity lay in it alongside relief. "Then you must've seen my weapons, my relics, and who has taken them? Where do they dare hide them from their true owner? Tell me."


'Cursed primitives mortals.' Hamael swore quietly. He stomped down the stone halls, his steps like miniature quakes. All need for subtlety felt lost for him now. The desire to be reunited with his belongings sung in his heart, it was like clean water to a Baalite salt-miner, and he craved it. Following the rough instructions given to him by the friends of his charge, Kirche and the quiet one, Tabitha. Hamael had rushed past them at a steady pace, ignoring their surprised squawks, as they had finally given the necessary information or assumptions towards a treasury of sorts.

And he entered the main building of this academy, moving into the elaborate halls and up the long spiralling stairs and past many empty classrooms.

He could feel and sense the place waking now. It's servants and menials began to stir for their morning duties as dawn began to rise. He had even stormed past a few, gasps of shock or surprise left in his wake as a golden blur.

A glimpse of something green flickered at the edges of his eye, just for a split second, when he passed the final corridor. But it was waved away, blurred by his focus and deemed as a distraction.

Turning his gaze back ahead as he moved up the torch-lit stairs, he made out what he could assume to be a pair of guards in their green uniforms standing by the only door on the floor, their spears raised and trembling as he raced towards them. Quite possibly in alarm by his arrival, the halls did little to muffle his quick advance and the light, although scant, revealed him fully now.

Hamael saw them as little to no threat. And he resolved to make sure they at least were unharmed, pending their cooperation.

He did owe this place favour for treating him, after all.

Hamel could hear one of them whisper to the other, though, it seemed to be more of a panicked shout now.

"Wha- what is it? Do… Do we run? What do we do?" breathed one of the guards.

"I don't know. I don't know," the other rasped loudly. It was clear to him that these men, these guards, were probably more used to shepherding truant students then dealing with charging Astartes. Though to their benefit, not many have had experience with a charging one either. At least only those who survived said encounters did. 'Maybe it's a prank? One of the students trying to scare us with a golem like last time?"

"It's c-coming this way."

"This is a hall. There is only one way to go!"

Hamael slowed down as he neared, skidding and leaving cracks in the stonework as he decelerated, his shock absorbers hissed like a viper. Coming to a stop, he gave a glare, raising his arms in a passive gesture and moved slowly towards the men. An action that caused them to balk even more so as the duo, fully realizing the size difference, saw him in much greater detail now; his face coming into full view.

One raised his spear in a pathetic attempt then lowered, debating on which was the correct decision before he kept it up. He shouted, stuttering his words, "H-h-hold it right there. This is academy grounds. A-and you, my l-lord or la-lady, are n—"

The other parroted that action of the first. He hissed at his partner in disguised alarm, "what student gets that big? It's a golem, that's what I think."

Hamael was not amused. "I am not a golem, nor am I a student. My name is Hamael, and I mean you no harm." He spoke, glaring at them, and gaining their undivided attention. Moving up to them until their spears were within an arms' reach of his cracked plate. "I have come to retrieve what does not belong to you, and I demand that you return them to me with due haste, for they are cherished relics of my chapter."

"I-I can't do that. No one is to go in without a key," the stuttering guard answered back, sternly. Or at least his best attempts to act so if his legs weren't shaking. "A-and no one is to enter this door beside the headmaster himself. Or someone that has the Headmasters p-permission."

"Then go get the key," Hamael ordered. "Or the headmaster, whatever works for you mortals. Be quick about it. My patience runs thin, though I have been lenient enough as of late."

"I don't take my orders from you… whatever you are." said the second man. He raised his spear, bracing it and ready to stab forward in a notice. "And nothing in here belongs to you. Everything in that room is the property of the Academy. So get the headmaster or show some proof, golem." A man with a spine for once... or at least trying to show that he did, Hamael thought. However, he wasn't in the mood.

"So… you admit to coveting my belongings?" Hamael warned.

"It's. Not. Yours. Until —" A sound of crunching metal caused the second guard to stop, and he stood stunned. Finding that the end of his spear was now encased within a golden fist. In a nonchalant manner, it slowly opened, like a blooming flower. A ball of mangled steel dropped down, swinging limply on strings of sinewy wood that was once the upper-shaft. The stuttering guard gulped at this display, eyes wider than saucers as he glimpsed between Hamael then at his own weapon.

Hamael spoke slowly, stressing the words that dripped with poison. "What did you say? I confess that I must have undergone a lapse of attention. Please, repeat it for me."

Empty silence answered him. Both guards, unable to voice what they wanted to speak, kept silent for fear of saying the wrong things and unleashing his wrath. Both stood stock still, only their panicked breaths showing any signs of life within them.

"Leave. Now. Mortals. Lest I show you my fury." Hamael hissed. A rage pulsated out from him, and the men shrunk lower beneath him like wilting paper.

They ran screaming.


Hamael came to a halt, stopping in front of an enormous iron door reinforced with wide bars, the thickness of a mans' limb. A large bolt ran across the middle, stabbed into holes within the arches of the door and deep into the thick walls of rock. And an iron padlock combined the assembly, binding them together and locking out whoever lacked the key.

It was easy to guess that this was the so-called treasury, obvious with the sheer amount of security. The directions given were correct, at least five floors up and with a large metal door, and if the guards weren't a dead giveaway also. Admirable in his opinion. A lot of security for a treasury in an academy, especially one of learning for juves.

Hamael scoffed at it. This would probably deter the local thieves or curious students, but it would be child's play for him. He put his hand over the padlock, his hand dwarfing it, and he clenched.

He wholly expected to hear the crunch of metal, the metallic shriek and then the snap, the sweet sound that would part the only obstacle between him and his weapon. However, instead, he found that the lock was still whole, his hand meeting resistance in place of destroyed metal. Moving it away, he gave a surprised look. The lock was still whole, almost undamaged besides a visible imprint.

Perhaps he had erred with his assessment of the local population. The fact that they had made something that could resist a space marines strength is interesting and this had some ramifications.

However, those didn't matter for now. What mattered was that he should try again. With more force.

With a snarl, Hamael clenched again, putting his full unaugmented strength into it. He felt the lock push against him, resisting against his attempts to crush it, and It felt like he grasping onto a compressed block of sand: The metal giving way for seconds before rehardening, it, in other words, felt alive to him. But, it was giving way as it should.

At least that was his thoughts until he found his hand forced open by a small expanding ball of energy emanating from the lock. Launching his hand behind him with such intensity that it would've dislocated any mortal's limb.

It was just minor discomfort for him.

Hamael closely scrutinized the lock, a misty haze covered it. His opticals revealed that it showed signs of greater, if not severe, damage, actual hand-prints in it from clenched superhuman fists. The metal distorted and bent, but still strong, to his annoyance. Then to his shock, the thing began to repair itself, albeit at an incredibly slow pace as if wounded.

"Warpcraft." Hamael declared to no one. It shouldn't surprise him, he was in a so-called academy of magic, though he had seen no signs that had implied such things. But, now, he couldn't help but seethe at it.

The lock mocked him, it belittled his attempts with its enchantments and curses, slowly hiding that his efforts were for naught.

He shall prove it wrong. The knowledge of Warpcraft and its intricacies is a field that requires years, if not decades or centuries, of study. And not to mention that it requires one to have the aptitude of a psyker and ability to survive it, like his Librarian brothers.

He lacked all of them. However, there was another way. One which had a moderate degree of success by his opinion and much experience in.

The way of force and brutality.

If the strength of a sole Astartes was not nearly enough, then, perhaps, one with his power armour fully activated should suffice.

He whispered a quick benediction to his armour, blessing it for a swift, and bountiful, activation. To be unharmed from his previous battles. To grant its service, and for forgiveness; at his crime of not soothing its wounds before such a task. And then, finally, the litany of activation.

A second passed in utter silence. He hoped that his action was enough to sate the spirit.

Then his ancient suit purred loudly in reply, the backpack microfusion reactor surged to life as the much weaker solar batteries deactivated. Main systems stuttered in his helm display, flickering with hazy static, before becoming whole again. Broken wires sparked with potent electricity before the suits safety rituals redirected the wasted motive-energy to other alternative sub-systems, bringing it to almost peak efficiency. The lenses of his death-mask, shaped into eyes and once ebony black, burned with a brilliant, vibrant emerald.

His machine-spirit, ever loyal and strong, was alive once more. It was fierce and it sang its beautiful song.

Then Hamael felt his right hand burn and sensed something was wrong. Something slammed into him. Not on a physical level, but on a mental one.

A marines armour, in the opinion and feelings of many marines, was a second skin, especially once interfaced with their Black Carapace: an under-layer of material inserted beneath the skin and the spinal cord, which allowed the user to obtain a direct interface with their suits system. To have something inanimate become like an extra nerve or muscle, a skin of metal and ceramite. Almost instinctively and quite literally as one. And when combined with the decades of experience, it would've been a near-facsimile to the actual thing.

But it lacked the actual feel, the senses of a biological organ or touch. His suit was able to register an impact, an awkward tilt of uneven ground and an array of various external stimuli. However, he wouldn't be able to feel any of it, beyond the scope of numbers, intuition and the built-in sensors.

Now it felt like it was quite literally part of him. A limb that was experiencing the sensation for the first time. It felt like he could feel it all, the knowledge pumping into him: The caress of cold air, the wearing of its damaged and fatigued parts, and the surge of power acting like the coursing flow of blood. It was as if he became intimate with armour, intertwined as one with the machine-spirit in a union akin to that of what he imagined to be similar to the Princeps of the Titan Legio; embracing him and whispering its pains, strengths and knowledge.

And despite all this, he did not feel fear. Fear was a non-existent emotion for Astartes, long ripped from them by hypno-indoctrination and gene-therapy. Instead, however, he felt unease, an uncomfortable welling within his psyche. But, as if by instinct, he knew that this was not a thing to fear.

It was actively trying to help him, Hamael thought. It must be a sign. A blessing or a gift from felt stronger. More alive.

Though, it felt alien.

Now with renewed vigour, he grasped the lock and squeezed once more. The surrounding area, illuminated by torches and burning pitch, shone now with much greater, golden illumination, a halo above his helmet crackled to life above momentarily.

Then the once-resistant object, giving scant opposition before fingers dug in deep, then parted into shrieking metal, shattering into wrecked scrap. He chucked the salvage behind and then forced his way into the unlocked doors, slamming with his shoulder, and walking inside.

The room was… underwhelming, and yet, bizarre. Unlit by torch, he had to work his way using his helm's night-sight. It must've been a decently sized room, for a human. But now the place was cramped, filled to the brim with material. He had expected to see metal weapons, crates of supplies and even what mortals would deem to be valuables; gems, gold or trinkets and archeo-tech of ancient origin- not that he expected the last bit.

However, instead, he saw only piles or racks lined with staves and staffs of strange designs: most were constructed of wood but some examples were of a metallic nature, bearing signs of ornate, and arcane, decoration. Tiny sticks of straightened wood, metals and jewels, similar in make to those on Kirche, lay in disorganized heaps atop of velvet pillows or soft cloth beside rows of cloaks and robes.

This room was almost anything but a treasury except in name.

If Hamael was not aware of the nature of this place, he would've assumed he had stumbled into a feral armoury of the most primitive society or a haphazard storage room. Though it was obvious, now, that these were all similar to the psychic-foci used by psykers. And he had half a mind to destroy all of them before he spotted what he had come looking for. Sitting at the furthest end of the room, placed atop a giant slab on a table in a haphazard manner, ill-bereft of its hallowed, ancient nature.

Slowly walking towards it, navigating the mess with surprising agility, he reached out for it. And he felt whole once more. Axe now clenched in hand again, the Angelsteel blade still immaculate and pristine as the day he first received it. A smudge of dried byzantine the only evidence of where it once was lodged in.

A weapon of the angels, brutal and efficient, yet elegant in design. It belayed a more primitive, primal, feel under its ornate nature, to cut and tear forward without pause.

Mag-clamping his sidearm, his inferno pistol, to his thigh, placed near where his axe had been. He noted that it was not a slab that his weapons were resting on, but rather, a strange, wooden chest: rectangular in shape, almost the length of his entire arm and about as wide. The thing was also out of place within the room, where a thin layer of dust coated most of the things here. This one bore a thick coating that hid its wooden make, only the disturbed portions where his weapon touched revealed the truth.

Curiosity had peaked his mind momentarily. It was in front of him, he just needed to raise the lid and see what lay inside. But before he could make a decision. Hamael heard someone or something enter the room, the rustling of grinding stone louder with the beat of heavy steps. Not the sound of a human, but something else entirely.

He spun around towards the noise, a misshapen, near-humanoid figure charged awkwardly at him; throwing racks and crates over, scattering their contents and crushing them underfoot in its frenzied rush. His helms vision revealed the true appearance of said thing. Broad, blocky shoulders and bulky flailing arms, thick like promethium drums, swung wildly like a wild flail. The skin resembled the stone and mortar of the nearby walls. It was like a piece of clay formed by a child trying to recreate a pseudo-dreadnought or a hulking figure.

Hamael knew that this was no living thing anyways. There was no heat. No signs of technology. Its movement unnatural and forced, like a puppet on strings. It was a servitor of rock and earth that barreled at him, an object of magic, he thought. And it was obvious that it bore no friendly attention.

Perhaps it was most likely a security device, but he had no time to postulate.

The automaton swung its fist at him as it neared, an oversized hunk of granite that whistled in the air. He swerved to the side easily, dodging the clumsy assault. It smashed mere inches from the wall, hitting a haze of air that cushioned the impact, and its arm bounced backwards in reply.

Hamael snarled loudly at the thing, though surprised by this turn of events. He was all but willing to take advantage of its momentary weakness. His axe bit forward at it. Bright light covered the head and blurred. The field did its job as it melted into earthen limbs, an arm dropped to the ground in response.

The thing gave no cry of pain, cementing his belief in its nature, and he kicked out to push it away from him in the cramped room.

Armoured legs crushed into its rocky chest, slamming into it with the force of a sledgehammer, puncturing through it instead of the intended goal. The earthen material morphed around his leg, holding it fast in a vice-like clamp, and catching him by surprise. Then it twisted to its left with its entire frame, hoping to hurl him to the side or flip him over

Or at least it tried too.

It strained to move the space marine's bulk, twitching in heavy pulls of no use. Then it surged in the opposite direction, using the momentum to swing its sole arm towards Hamaels head.

Hamael responded back with his own.

A roar exiting his throat, coming in volume like a rocket engine alongside his right punch. Nature and magic collided with power armour and superhuman strength. Nature was found wanting, shattering into broken fragments and a spray of dust that coated the room. Then he ripped downward with his trapped leg, actuators hissing like a viper, tearing free of his earthy trap and shattering its waist and groin. Another punch was launched as it jerked back from the violent disembowelment, upper-cutting it upwards.

The creature flew back, slamming into the sidewall, tearing down what little racks remained and scattering its contents in a rain of shards. It stumbled up again in defiance of its injuries: the gaps and wounds closing with impossible speed, the earthen flesh flowing like water. The stump of its arm growing back into its malformed, sledgehammer shape, albeit at a much slower rate.

Hamael felt a tinge of excitement at such a foe, then it was disdain. Acidic spit pooled before he swallowed, the burn coursing down his throat. There was no honour in fighting an automaton, and with its clumsy, predictable nature. It was a servitor in all but name: a poor quality one, if he had to compare.

In fact, if any, he was in the wrong. His intrusion into this… treasury had probably activated it.

Then he thought of another thing, sprouting in his mind.

Something felt off to him now. If it was a security measure, why had the guards not used it earlier? This servitor, this golem, was trying hard to push him away from the chest. Was there something in it that it wanted none to know about? Or was it protecting it?

In any case, the pseudo-servitor began to move again. It took step after step, unyielding in its unthinking nature. His attacks proved to be negligible against the writhing earthen muscle, its injuries non-existent in mere moments.

The bane of fighting something that never lived and never could. He had experience with similar entities, the daemons of the warp and those possessed by them. And there was one way to disrupt their hold of existence.

The method was simple: To utterly destroy the body, to rend it to such a degree that its hold on reality was untenable.

And he had a ready solution.

Raising his Inferno pistol towards his advancing target. His masks machine-spirit communing with its brother spirit, notifying him that its will be his, its rage ready to be dispensed. The golden halo above his head crackled to life, burning bright against the darkness and in anger.

"Feel His wrath!" Hamael hissed.

Then with a squeeze of a finger. The angel brought his wrath into existence and unleashed the heat of a burning star.


Longueville- or as known by a much different alias to a few- made a mistake.

Correction. She had made an incredibly big mistake.

Instinctively yelping and jumping back from the instant wave of searing, heated air and molten wall that sprayed out near her. The pulsating inferno reddened her pale skin and curled her hair in a near flash. Her uniform, once clean for another days' work, was now crisping as she fled further away from her original spot in a near-panic.

Swishing her wand out and quickly casting a cooling spell on herself, the rush of cold relief halting the burnt sensation that lingered like a taint. The residual pain still remained but it was manageable, if not still noticeable in a visual and physical manner. She took a breath and then regretted it as the tang of smoke and burning fabric tasted heavy in the air, coating her throat and lungs.

And then her heart ached, her vanished connection with her earth golem put aside. It was pointless to try that. What was she to control when there was nothing remaining?

Something else took a much higher precedent

The walls of the treasury, once protected by the enchantment of a potent square mage- something she found out the hard way- had melted into lava and ashes. A shimmer of air, the smallest of flickering sparks, and then a wave of hissing fire.

Then she saw that all was gone: what was left of the treasury and it's unbroken contents from the melee… and perhaps even that.

Like the fires of perdition had been brought to life, the fury of hell itself unleashed into reality. It horrified her. This was the fury of an angel, a demigod on earth unleashed… and she attacked it, at least, by proxy.

Again, it might've been a mistake to have assumed that a golem would've distracted, or at the very least forced aside the thing so she could rush and grab what was in front of him. It was the only thing that fit the description, her goal just out of hands reach.

So close, yet so far. A fat apple that hung on the lowest branch for a starving man, and barely out of reach. She swallowed to moisten her parched throat.

With the angel having cleared the major obstruction, removed the guards- who ran past her in stark terror- and the teacher on duty having slacked off as usual. Not that it was a surprise that they would've done so.

No one would ever expect anyone to successfully break-in past the enchantments after all, not without at least wasting valuable time or alerting the entire school.

That thought had not even fazed the angel, besides the surprisingly brute entry. It was almost akin to an unlocked door to him.

And then the angel had even stumbled upon it, by sheer accident of all things… she thinks. Fortunately, being the ever-cautious person, she had decided to use a golem, formed from the nearby walls and floor and sent it in. A good decision instead of going herself and donning her true persona.

It proved to be a great decision.

Her face paled at the actual consequences if she had done otherwise, looking at the dripping, liquid wall down the hall as the example. How it bubbled and blackened, the distorted air of intense heat and black smoke. How little of it remained. And how little of her would've been left also if she had just been nearer by a couple of feet.

Footsteps echoed out, coming back from the way she fled. Then she saw the angel emerge from the burning fog. A giant of gold emerging from the black clouds and red blaze as of emerging from the depths of hell.

And he was different now, not that it may have been a good thing. When he had rushed past her, she recalled darkened orbs of black for eyes. Now she can see them vividly despite the distance. They now burned with a piercing, emerald green hue. A burning halo of pure ethereal-like gold hovering behind his golden head, like the rays of a rising sun, outshone the surging fire and remaining torches. With a burning blue axe of living blue-thunder and steel in hand, his gun-like wand in the other. Both were at the ready, as if in anticipation of another attack.

Not that one would come, at least not from her. She motioned to run until she felt something and looked back once more.

The angel turned his eyes on her. She swore they narrowed for a split second, and fear crawled over her as he approached, step by step, with a backdrop of fire and smoke and light.

"Oh shit."


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