The Inquisitor stood, looking down at the covered corpse of her young nephew and the broken woman that was her sister and was surprised that she could feel a single tear rolling down her cheek.

During her training, as an interrogator under the esteemed Flamenor Recurse, Prasia had been taught to shed her emotions, to keep any sense of anger, joy or sadness under tight containment. Indeed, she had surprised her mentor by how quickly and easily she shut down her inner self in the pursuit of keeping the Emperor's Imperium free of heretics.

"What do I do now…" Feronnika asked then, not specifically to her.

"We find whomever did this,' she replied, 'and we punish them."

Gone were the decades of animosities between the two of them, a tension that had driven Prasia out of the spire all those years ago, and that had - or so it had been spat at her through numerous vid screens - threatened the legacy of the noble Von Stromms.

"Come," the Inquisitor said, her eyes still on the boy in front of her, now letting her feelings now surge to the front of her being. "Let us begin."

She knew that they had to host the funeral first, before anythign else could be done to find Titus' killer. It would be a grand affair, to be sure. It had to be. Feronnika had to show she still held power and influence in the hive. But it would put them back in contact with the Deacon of Iaxrak VI…

"Come," Prasia repeated, summoning the strength for what was next.

Later that day, with the chorus of the Ecclesiarchy ringing in her ears, she watched as her sister led the procession of the faithful. The masses had turned out - or more likely had been forced to come - lined the long pathway across a sturdy ornate bridge that led towards the massive gothic cathedral. Also present were the other great houses of the spire, gossiping amongst themselves in spite of the occasion.

Balphus Jaurvir walked beside the matriarch of the Von Stromms, his face stoic but very much aware of being seen, clad in even finer robes than he had been before. His mitre was almost comically large on his head, but Prasia barely noticed, instead her eyes locked on the crowd, watching for any sign of danger.

How she wished that Lucea was there. The Soritas' reaction to the attack had been exemplary, firing her bolter into the darkness of the hive without delay. The Inquisitor shuttered again with the shame of her own inaction.

"In the Emperor's light…" the Deacon droned, the smell of incense and unwashed bodies thickening the space.

There was light here, Prasia knew, and that's why she had come. To find out why. But now, with the murder of her nephew, that would have to wait. The inquisitor knew that she was falling off the path, but for the first time in her life, family would come first.


The stranger held out another of the precious purple fleshed fruits in front of her with his gloved hand, but knowing that nothing came for free, Auka refused.

"No, thank you," she answered meekly, keeping her eyes on the rusting grate below her.

All she wanted was for life to go back to the way it was, before the sun, before the attention. She had only realised recently how much she missed being ignored, how much freedom that had granted her. Now, everywhere she went, she was harassed or hounded.

"Very well," the stranger replied, moving nothing but his arm away from her.

Auka felt a shiver run down her body, and everything in her told her to run, but she stayed. She wasn't really sure where she was, and she hadn't seen the small room they were in before. Fleeing now would be foolish. For the first time in her life, there was no where to hide.

"Can I go?" she asked after a while, fighting to keep her voice steady and even.

If they knew how afraid she was, they might use it against her.

"Not yet," the stranger said.

The girl looked up. The man still had the hood drawn down over his face, but from what she could see, he was tall, thin and his body seemed somehow…different.

"This man…this person is trying to help us," a voice said then, and Auka turned to see a woman standing there, smiling.

Had she been there before? Auka didn't think so.

"Who are you?" she asked the newcomer.

"You can call me Kiri," the woman told her. "Like you, I'm from here."

So the stranger wasn't from here, Auka concluded.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing right now," Kiri said, bending down now to bring her face level to the girl's. "We want nothing but to keep you safe."

"And when the time is right," the stranger added, "to help us spread the word."

The word about what, Auka wanted to know. Everyone already knew that the sun had come out, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Things are going to change around here," the woman claimed, rising. "Things are going to get better."

"How?" the girl wondered aloud.

But neither of them replied. Instead, the stranger just held out his gloved hand again, offering the same purple fruit as before.

"It's ok, Auka," Kiri asserted. "You can have it."

It was only then that the girl noticed that the stranger only had four fingers.


"Oi!" the greenskin called out, "What you doin'?"

Graxrog Snubgrabba snorted and stomped towards where a pair of stringy grots were poking something. The wind whipped across the barren foothills in front of him, the landscape charred by the signs of battle.

"Look, Boss!" one of the diminutive greenskins chirped, "Look at dis!

The ork snorted again. He was no boss, at least not yet.

"Move out da way!" he shouted, sending the two grots scrambling.

"See?!" the other cried. "See what it is!"

Coming over the short rise, Graxrog put his massive hand to his thick forebrow, blocking the sun from his face, and tried to see what they were going on about.

"What is it?" the first grot asked, earning it a slap on the head from the ork towering above.

"It's a humie…" he laughed. "A dead one."

Looking down at the scene in front of him, Graxrog shook his head. While occasionally helpful, the lesser greenskins that scurried around the boys camp could also be as dumb as a krumped up squig.

"Um…Boss…we was talkin' about that!" the second grot risked, kicking his foot towards a metal object but already also holding his small head in anticipation of a blow.

"Give it 'ere," Graxrog demanded, his one good eye staring at what the fallen Guardsman was slumped over.

The two underlings stooped and, with some bother, hefted it up towards him. It was then that he saw it was a shoota of some sort, but beyond that...

"What is it?" the first grot asked again, its curiosity winning over its fear of another slap.

What indeed, Graxrog asked himself, turning the weapon over in his hands.

"Why's it glowin' blue?" one of the grots wondered aloud, but Graxrog wasn't listening anymore.

He realized then that this was a weapon of some power, and recalled having seen how the humies had used it to great effect the last time his mob had fought them. It could melt an ork into a blistering green goo with a single shot.

"This is mine," he said then, making sure it was clear to the grots below him.

"It's got a button…" one of the creatures squeaked, shaking with excitement.

So it does, the Ork smiled. So it does.

"Let's give it a try…"

Seconds later, the special shoota glowing hot in his hands, Graxrog looked down at the mess in front of him. He had all but evaporated the first grot, and had managed to clip the second one as it ran away, its body still twitching as it died. This, he knew, was a weapon to be valued…

"Oi!" a rough voice grunted from behind him, "What's that?"

A weapon to be feared.

[To be continued]