The merchant Moab Kryptmel sat in the dank cell, hands and feet bound, and felt rather sorry for himself. Ever since Kiri turned on him, declaring that he, along with his kind, would be washed away in the uprising, he had been here.

In the beginning, he had shouted at those who had imprisoned him. Then he had tried to threaten them, then he tried to bribe them, and then later he begged. Then he had given up and was left alone. And so it was, until finally, after a few days, or weeks - it was hard to tell in the perpetual darkness - he once again had company.

"Get in there," a gruff voice shouted, and the merchant found himself retreating from the intense light that spilled into the small space in which he sat.

Suddenly, a body was shoved forward, and came down hard beside where Moab was huddled.

"What? Who are you?" he asked, panicked, after the guards or revolutionaries or whatever they called themselves, had left.

"Who are you?" the newcomer asked back, obviously not used to the darkness.

In time, they would. Or he would, judging by the tone of the voice.

"Moab!" the merchant said, his voice coming back to him now, now that the light had gone.

"Moab? The flower man?" the man challenged.

"Yes. Do I know you? Have they gotten to you?"

It seemed these so-called revolutionaries were moving fast.

"I was attacked. The entire Arbites squad," the newcomer replied. "I was knocked out…"

Moving very fast.

"I'm Plirk," the man added then, shifting in the dark, his frame scraping against the hard stone floor. "I know Kiri and–"

"Kiri? That traitorous whore!" the merchant spat.

In an instant, the man was upon him, pounding at him blindly, and Moab had to use what little energy he had to fend him off.

"Take that back!" the man shouted, still attempting to get the upper hand in their struggle.

"She is the one who put me here!" Moab cried. "She betrayed me. She betrayed you!"

Suddenly, the assault stopped, and the merchant could hear the man move backwards, toward the opposite wall of the cell.

"I swear to you," Moab continued. "She is working with the rebels. I swear to you!"

"She…but she…"

"She is lost."

The merchant could hear the man start to weep. We are all lost, he thought to himself then. Lost and alone.

The Aeldari sat on the dakiilithyli and scanned the horizon, the sleek jetbike humming beneath her.

"Such a waste," Celdaen Soh murmured, the charred landscape stretching out in front of her, the eddies of ash the only movement amongst the burnt out buildings and broken down vehicles.

It was clear that the Mon-keigh and the greenskins had fought here recently, as the bodies of both lay dead and drying out in the sunlight.

"Come," she whispered to the wraithbone construct and the bike zoomed off, away from the spire in the distance.

To her people, this planet was once known as Primh-Mial, and was a lush, verdant world where countless generations of seers, singers and sages worked and dreamed. And, eventually, fell to the Sai'lanthresh, the ever-thirsty god.

Such sorrow, Caeldaen mourned. Such suffering.

As the farseer raced past the arid terrain, she tried to imagine what it might have looked like, full of trees and flowers and creatures of all sorts, not just the corpses of the upstarts of the galaxy or the misguided mistake of the Old Ones.

While there were of course many green spaces on her craft world, at least there had been many before the The Great Devourer attacked Iyanden, there was nothing like a real forest, or grove, or meadow. It had been many years since she had felt grass under her feet, or seen a bird fly free across a cloudless sky.

Eventually, as the sun began to set, Caeldean decided to end her search for the day and found a place to rest for the night. It was a small cave, cut into the rock by millenia of wind and rain, and proved suitable for her needs. Cozy even.

"Shea nudh Asuryanish ereintha Asuryanat," she prayed in the fading light, asking for the Phoenix King's protection. Beside her, she could feel the wraithbone of her bike responding, joining her across the space between their souls.

It would be a long night, she knew, and they could use any help they could get.

"What were you thinking?" The Inquisitor shouted, once they had settled into the comfortable sitting room, one of many that populated the Von Stromm's vast residence.

"You told me to stop feeling sorry for myself," Feronnika replied, peeling the thick skin off of a rich purple fruit, one of many that filled an ornate bowl on the table across from her. "So I got out."

"And incited a mob?!"

It was clear to the head of the Spire's most noble household that her sister was angry. Good. She should be. She should be as mad as I am.

"And what's worse," Prasia continued, barely pausing to breathe, "you put the lives of my men in risk in order to rescue you!"

"Your men?" Feronnika almost laughed.

The thought of her sister commanding men seemed silly to her, despite being an Inquisitor.

"How dare you!?" the woman screamed before slamming the door on her way out of the room.

The Von Stromm matriarch settled back then, her snack finished, her heart tired. She knew she was being unfair to Prasia, and that, if she were anyone else, she would have been hauled down into a dungeon for her disrespect to a member of the Holy Ordos. But she wasn't anyone else. She was her sister.

And she was tired of waiting.

"Excuse me," she said later that day, to the unkempt looking man standing outside her apartment.

It was clear that Prasia had left her 'men' to protect her.

"My lady," the soldier replied, dropping to his knees.

"Oh get up," she snapped, grabbing the man by his armour and pulling him up.

He was a head shorter than she was, and while he was dirty, he was not unpleasant to look at.

"Come with me," she ordered, and dragged him into the room. And then into a bath.

And then into her bed.

The Deacon swirled the Amasec in the glass in his hand and sighed. Uprisings. Upheaval. Unrest. He should have been thrilled, but he found himself morose. There were opportunities presenting themselves each and every day, and yet he did nothing. Even Rulf Naxxis was ready to play.

"Balphus," the man had said. "There is change in the air…"

But it wasn't the air that the Ecclesarch was concerned with. It was the sun.

"I want her found!" he had demanded of anyone who would listen, and still nothing. No one brought her to him, regardless how much he offered.

He had even considered going to the Novamarines, and demanding they take up the search. But that would be foolish, he knew. To involve the Astartes was no small matter. While he was a mouthpiece of the Emperor, they were his mailed fist.

"You're grace," someone said then, and the Deacon finished the liquor in his glass before rising from his desk to open the door.

Standing before him was an unexpected face.

"Come in," he smiled, welcoming his guest, pouring the woman a drink.

Balphus had not seen her in a long time, and wasn't even sure she had come back into the Hive.

"I have news," she told him, taking the Amasec and downing it in one gulp.

"Do tell," he cooed, refilling her glass.

She had been one of his favourite agents, and had served him well, especially during the fall of House Orsil and the chaos that had caused. And, as a reward for her service, he had given her what she wanted - a life outside of the hablocks and manufactoriums.

And so had allowed her to join the Imperial guard.

"Well, what have you learned?"

The scout looked at him then, her expression bright as always. She could hide an army inside her smile, and could be equally deadly.

"There are xenos here…"

Balphus spat his drink across the desk.

"What?!" he demand.

He felt fire burn inside of him, all thoughts of the sun and the girl banished.

"What?" he demanded again. "Where?

"I don't know, exactly," she replied, unmoving."But I have a reliable report from one of my old contacts."

The Ecclesarch mind reeled at this news. Of all the things he had heard over the last few days, this was…

"What is it?" he asked, gritting his teeth.

"People say it is tall, and pale. Skin almost blue. It was spotted at the attack on the Arbites last–"

But the Deacon wasn't listening anymore. An Aeldari, he asked himself. Perhaps. But blue…

"Supposedly, it was seen talking about some sort of wider good. Or greater good maybe."

"Tau'va" Balphus interrupted, spitting the words.

He picked up the bottle of Amesec and rinsed his mouth with it, banishing the filthy language for his body.

"You know it?" the woman asked, obviously bemused by his response.

Yes. The Deacon did know it. And he despised what it represented.

"Find it," he snarled at her then, his eyes aflame.

"I am under the service of the Inquisitor," she told him, finishing her own drink. "It might be hard for me to get away again. And besides, I–"

"FIND IT!" he shouted.

He stared down at the woman, and eventually she nodded.

"I will, Balphus Jaurvir." she acceded.

She always called him by his full name when she was put out with him. Like it mattered. But she could go places he could not, and so he needed her. And so he played her game.

"Thank you, Helsha Naar." he replied.