A/N: You will very rarely see any A/Ns from me and this isn't relevant to the story, so feel free to skip it.

I've had the idea for this story bouncing around in my head for years now and made an attempt at it all the way back in 2019. After the first few chapters, life happened and it just sat on my hard drive for years. I've gone back to it now to see if I can make it work. I've done my best to remain canon compliant, or as canon compliant as you can be with this franchise, but if you know something I don't, feel free to point it out.

The way I'll be posting this is in story arcs. There'll be several weeks where an arc is posted, and then a break as I finish the next one or do whatever else takes my fancy. I'll only ever post when an story arc is completely finished since I like being able to go back and change details at my leisure without worrying about having to shadow edit. This first one is four chapters long. Each arc will be its own self-contained story, so they might vary in tone. Some will be serious and grim, some will be silly, but hopefully they'll all be good.

I'd like to thank Midjourney for doing most of the work on the cover. Took hours to edit it because I haven't messed around with editing software in ages, but I think it turned out pretty well. Just don't zoom in too closely.

Lastly, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my Beta, who will probably never see this since she's not all that interested in this franchise. But on the off chance that she does, love you Star.

So without further ado, we'll crack straight into it. I hope you enjoy reading about Hal's journey as much as I enjoy writing it.

P.S. Leave a review. It's the only reason I post on here. Or just be a freeloader and don't, that's perfectly fine too. Promise.

The Fourth Scion - Part 1

"Step to it, boys. They're only bullets."

- Sergeant Jainar of the 367th Jakarian Legion

As Hal stumbled out of bed—still sore and groggy from half-remembered revelries—he noticed with some bemusement that he had lost most of his clothes at some point in the night, leaving him with only his undergarments, a few tattered shreds of golden jacket, and a lot of questions he'd never find the answer to.

He went through the motions of his late afternoon routine as he always did. A quick jaunt through the auto-scrubber washed away the scent of vomit and Roirian Red. A button press summoned a servitor from a compartment in his dresser that styled his appearance into something that at least resembled a decent human being. A second biomechanical abomination swept through the room, its dozen legs tapping a frantic rhythm into the floor as it deposited a fresh set of garments onto his bed. The entire purpose of its existence fulfilled, it left as quickly as it had come.

He got dressed—one of the few tasks that he preferred to do himself instead of leaving to a servitor—and stopped in front of the small shrine by the door. The Rosarius around his neck tingled as he mumbled out the obligatory prayers to the Master of Mankind and prepared to leave to spend His blessings. Which was a fancy way of saying he was going off to gamble away his parents' money alongside his fellow drains on society.

As the door opened, he was greeted by the sight of crisp uniforms, shining buttons, and the stench of boot polish. Eight members of his father's personal guard stood on the threshold.

"Good afternoon, my Lord," said the commander, a portly man who was about as unimpressive as he was balding, which was to say, very. Still, he was the closest thing that Hal had to a friend. A thought that he tried hard not to dwell on.

The commander didn't wait for an answer to his greeting. "Your father, Imperial Lord Granbard, acting Regent of Hive Acatarn and Warden of Lais in the name of the Master of Mankind requests your presence in the Audience Chamber."

Hal racked his brain for any reason that his father would have to summon him. There were quite a few of them, now that he thought about it. "If this is about Lady Yasella…"

The commander shook his head. "Imperial Lady Granbard had that sorted out last week. Lady Yasella's bionic hand was located just yesterday."

"The flamer?" Hal said.

The commander shook his head again. "Repairs to the barracks are already underway and Sergeant Grael… Well, hair grows back eventually."

"The grav-car?"

The commander quirked his brow.

"Good, he hasn't found out about that one yet," Hal said as he stepped out of the door and allowed himself to be led to the Audience Chamber.

"I wasn't told the reason, my Lord," the commander hesitated. "But…"

"Spit it out, man," Hal snapped.

"You've turned eighteen standard years of age only recently. I believe your father, Imperial Lord Granbard, acting Regent of Hive Acatarn and Warden of Lais in the name of the Master of Mankind is trying to lay concrete plans for your future."

That wasn't a surprise. Hal had managed to avoid any and all responsibility up until now. He was the very epitome of mediocrity. As the fourth son, it wasn't like anything he accomplished would ever matter—which wasn't to say that he'd ever actually tried to accomplish anything. He was the backup of a backup of a backup, forever doomed to obscurity. And to be honest, he would have very much liked to keep it that way. Obscurity meant a stress-free, indulgent life, forever protected by House Granbard's name and fortune.

"My Lord, there's…" The commander tapered off, as if unsure of whether he should keep speaking or not. He looked around, making sure no one was listening before he whispered near Hal's ear. "Last week, I overheard your parents discussing having you inducted into the Laisian 5th alongside one of your brothers."

Hal missed a step, almost falling flat onto his face as his heart rate spiked. "The fracking-"

Several pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, reminding Hal that they were not alone. They were never alone.

"Bleeding Throne, man. Why didn't you tell me?" Hal whispered. Laisian regiments were well-known around the sector. Mostly for their horrific casualty rates and predilection of the aristocratic officer corps to trip and fall onto friendly bayonets.

"It didn't seem likely to happen," the commander said. "Lady Granbard was opposed to the idea. Rather violently so, truth be told. Said one son in the Guard is bad enough for her health, to say nothing of her son's…"

Well, that explained the black eye that his father had sported for a few hours last week. Hal felt a rush of affection for his mother.

"So then the topic moved on to the Navy," the commander said. "And Lady Granbard seemed less opposed to that idea."

The rush of affection ended as quickly as it had come.

Hal could hardly keep his outrage contained as he moved up to the overbearing slab of golden metal that was the entrance to his father's Audience Chamber. Nothing boiled his blood like the thought of his days of nothing being interrupted.

"Just be ready, my Lord," the commander said. "If this is to be the last time we meet, may the Emperor guide your steps."

The ancient gears of the door rose with a deafening screech as Hal approached. The commander did his best to announce his arrival over the din.

"The Young Lord Halphorian Granbard, Fourth Son of Imperial Lord Granbard, acting Regent of Hive Acatarn and Warden of Lais in the name of the Master of Mankind has arrived."

The Reception Chamber was a wide, spacious room, made of the finest off-world marble, engraved in the finest off-world metals, and draped in the finest off-world fineries. The chamber was probably unique in the galaxy, in that it somehow managed to be both tastelessly extravagant and horribly dull at the same time. Much like its owner.

Hal's father sat upon one of the two thrones at the chamber's far end. The man was well over a Terran century old, but the rejuvenat treatments he regularly subjected himself to granted him the appearance of a 20-year-old man. Tall, baby-faced, and a little too thin for his height, the Imperial Lord was the spitting image of his fourth son.

At his father's side sat Hal's mother, a stern-looking woman whose kindness only ever seemed to extend to her sons. Approaching her sixties, she'd forgone any sort of rejuvenats and looked the part.

Hal prepared to have a bellowing match with his father, as was their custom, but movement in the corner of his vision drew his attention. The Imperial Lord had a pair of visitors. One of them was a woman that looked to be in her mid-twenties. "Looked" being a very important word. It was difficult, if not impossible to tell a person's true age among the wealthy and highborn.

Hal's gaze was immediately drawn to her eyes. They were a bizarre shade of crimson, and were all the more striking since they were the only real source of color on her entire person. Blinding white hair flowed like moonlight around a pale face with soft, delicate features that were unheard of among the inbred highborn of the Spire. Her alabaster uniform fit her form perfectly and was adorned with silver embroidery that glinted in the light. A heavy revolver hung from a shoulder holster under her arm, and a sleek power saber was sheathed on her opposite hip. A large silver medallion was pinned to her chest, its surface engraved with a strange, jagged hieroglyph that he couldn't make any sense of. There was an intense air of authority about her. She was someone accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed, and he got the feeling that she was, at the very least, several decades old.

Hers was the sort of extraordinary, enthralling beauty that drew the eye and commanded attention, no matter the setting, and she would have been the center of attention in the chamber were it not for her companion.

It was the first time Hal had ever seen an Astartes. He'd already known that they were big, but this… The servos built into the joints of his intricately embossed silver armor whined as they actuated, and the power pack built onto the back hummed faintly as the Space Marine turned to watch him. He stood over eight feet tall, and judging by his deep wrinkles and gray hair, was old even by their standards. Under the rigid gaze of this tower of scar tissue and ceramite, Hal felt truly small for the first time in his life.

The woman spoke, her voice pleasantly deep and her High Gothic impeccable. "So, this is the Fourth Scion. Scrawnier than I thought he'd be. What do you think, Armyn? Can we make something of him?"

The Astartes spoke, his voice as venerable and resonant as anyone would have expected. "I'm sure we can whip him into—" the Astartes eyed him up and down, obviously unimpressed with what he saw. Not that anyone could blame him. "—well… something."

"Whip?" Hal said, locking eyes with his mother.

The woman's brow furrowed apologetically. "It's a figure of speech among voidsmen, Hal. They don't mean a literal whip." She turned to the odd pair. "Do you?"

Both of them shrugged.

"What the bloody Warp is going on here?" Hal said.

"Language, boy!" his father snapped. He seemed pleased about something, and that never boded well for Hal. The Imperial Lord gestured to the white-haired woman. "If the Lady-Captain would be so kind."

The woman nodded, turning to Hal and giving him a dramatic and obviously mocking bow. "Greetings, Young Lord. I am Lady-Captain Arabelle Malterro of the Rogue Trader ship Silver Sojourner. Through circumstances beyond either of our control, you're to be placed under my command. Effective immediately."

A Rogue Trader? That was even worse than the Navy. As far as he knew, the Rogue Traders were hardly more than sanctioned pirates.

"This isn't happening," Hal said, already searching for an escape route. He'd hide out amongst the numerous noble's dens of the Spire until this whole thing blew over. The door he'd come in from was out of the question. It was open, but the commander and his squad would be waiting.

Captain Malterro chuckled, a sound that Hal might have found charming if the circumstances had been different. "I'm afraid so, Young Lord."

Hal continued looking around. He knew of an emergency system built into the thrones that would whisk its occupants away to a waiting grav-car, but he wasn't confident that he could pull his father off his gaudy chair.

"It's either this or the Navy, boy," his father said. "Not that you have any say."

"Quiet, you," his mother snapped, eliciting a flinch from the lord. She turned to Hal, fully aware that her son was about to make a run for it. "We just want you to be something, Hal. If we leave it up to you, you'd just keep causing mischief for the rest of your life."

The window! It was less than a two-story drop onto the artificial flower beds below, and his personal grav-bike was less than a hundred-yard run after that. It would be just like the holodramas.

The commander poked his balding head through the doorway. "Apologies, my Lords. I've received an urgent complaint from the Enforcer's Department addressed to Imperial Lord Granbard, acting Regent of Hive Acatarn and Warden of Lais in the name of the Master of Mankind. They're saying that the Young Lord plowed a grav-car through the front of the local station. Several times…"

Normally, Hal would have clarified that he'd only done it twice—and the first time had been accidental—but as everyone's eyes turned to the commander, Hal saw his chance. He made a mad dash for the window.

And hadn't even taken a single step when he heard a low thrum. His feet came off the floor, legs still swinging mid-stride. Held by the collar of his jacket, he was raised up until he was at eye level with his assailant. Armyn the Astartes had been nearly 15 yards away when Hal had begun to flee and had closed the distance in less than a second.

It took him a moment to process what had just happened, and when he returned to his senses, Armyn had slung him over his pauldron like a sack of grain and was carting him to the chamber's entrance.

"We'll be on our way then," Malterro said, falling into step beside the Astartes. Most of the chamber's occupants were still staring open-mouthed at the spot where the Marine had been, and nobody made any move to stop them.

"You can't just sell me off like this!" Hal yelled at his father.

"Sell you off?" Malterro said, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Why would you assume that we paid for you?"

"I still don't see a reason to trust the words of a witch," Armyn said, hissing the final word out as if saying it was physically painful. "The fourth son four times over. Utter nonsense."

"I mostly agree, old friend. Mother puts too much stock in such things, but it was her personal request," Malterro said, smirking up at Hal, who was now throwing every curse in his repertoire in his father's direction. "Besides, even if the soothsayer was just full of it, it's not like anyone will have lost anything useful. Isn't that right, Fourth Scion?"

Hal wasn't listening to them and would have had no idea what they were talking about anyway. He was focused entirely on screaming obscenities at his father.

"Don't be so dramatic, Hal," his mother said, having to yell over the sound of his incoherent shrieking. "I'm sure you'll have fun. Take care of my boy, won't you dear?"

Malterro's grin only widened in response.

The last words his mother said before they left the Chamber resounded in Hal's ears.

"And no whipping!"