The umbral abyss that sat in the palm of Anras's hand stretched on to infinity, its sheen reflecting the visionary's pale visage back at him. He did not like what he saw.
If it were not for the position you held in this warband, I would have killed you centuries ago…
The Savory Wound had entered the Immaterium two days ago and those words still stubbornly clung to the edges of Anras's mind like chiropteran predators on the wall of a cave, waiting for unsuspecting prey down below to ambush.
If there was a hell, Anras had every intention of dragging Pyotr into the fires with him when his time came. Damn that despotic fool.
…And yet, they cheered for him. They spat at his feet in one moment and were singing his name with tears in their eyes the next. Anras never had such a resounding show of devotion directed towards him. He had followers, yes, but… none were as… fanatical as Gargahl's servants. It almost seemed as if they accepted his claim as lord of the company out of mere obligation rather than any true belief.
It's because they don't value you, Anras thought. The words were spoken in the harsh, domineering voice of the lord discordant. They simply value your gift.
Anras ran his fingers over the Widowmaker's serrated edge. He did not like these thoughts. Up until recently, he'd always been sure that he was followed due to his prowess and competency, not because of the ghost of his father's hand on his shoulder. But now… he was not so certain. He couldn't help but wonder if he was nothing more than a personification of the old ways that some of his brothers desperately clung to in an effort to escape the truth.
And what was the truth? Had things truly changed at all? No. Surely not. Their mission remained just as it always had been: They had been charged with bringing the Imperium to its knees by the Warmaster and rightful heir to the Golden Throne himself before his demise. They were Night Lords, their name was dread, fear was the dagger they'd use to burst the hearts of their enemies. That had not changed—and who better to carry out that mission than one who carried an aspect of the Primarch himself in his soul? Anras was an heir unto himself; a Prince of terror where the Night Haunter had been a king. He was destined to rule.
The reflection within the blade frowned. Those words were not satisfactory. The visionary could not understand why.
A whimper pulled Anras from his thoughts. He looked up at the slave strapped into the excruciator. He was a wretched, miserable thing, trembling and failing to hold back the tears in his eyes. Anras stared down at him, the chamber filled with the smell of rancid waste and gore from previous excruciations. He had plucked this one from that sty the little vermin called "Scab City," intending to elevate his mood with some light torture.
He'd yet to even begin cutting the man.
Anras looked down at the blade in his hands again. The weapons his father had held in his life were finite and ever-dwindling. That made this particular relic even more profound. And… Anras was going to use it for his own idle amusement…
He had wanted the Widowmaker as a symbol of authority, to further solidify his claim as the company's head. So why did it feel as if holding such a thing would only be doing the opposite? Why did he feel like a child running to tug on the leg of his father to make the other children listen to him?
Anras's lips curled upwards as he bared his teeth. Anger snapped and howled within him and his grip on the knife tightened. This… this was Pyotr's fault. Of that, he was sure.
Another sound, this time a sob. Anras glared at his prisoner. "I will get to you in a moment," he hissed. Such impatience.
"P-please…" the slave whimpered.
Anras sighed and sucked on his teeth. He tipped the blade downward and allowed its edge to lightly tap against the pathetic thing's cheek. "What is it?"
The man's lip quivered and Anras smelt a new wave of human emiction entering the chamber. "I didn't… didn't do anything, my lord! I-I swear it!"
Anras allowed one of his eyebrows to quirk upward. "Oh? You swear it?"
The slave nodded eagerly—or, as much as he could while strapped within his gruesome throne. "Y-yes, my lord! I would never betray the laws of my gods! Never!"
The enthusiasm that Anras had begun to build vanished once again like a shred of meat in a raptor's den. The visionary had been the one responsible for setting that honorific into motion. Once, it had seemed fitting for the lesser men to refer to their betters as gods—for how could they not be by comparison? But now… it felt hollow and perhaps even desperate.
"What is your name?" Anras found himself asking.
"M-my lord?" the creature asked hesitantly.
"I highly doubt that. Do not lie to me, slave."
The slave gulped. "T-T-Tomer, my lord!"
Anras nodded, then pulled the Widowmaker away from what was supposed to be his plaything. "Are you truly without sin, Tomer? Think carefully now."
Another spritz of waste-stench filled the room. "I-I-I… don't know, my lord."
"You don't know?" Anras tilted his head. "Are you saying you cannot understand the difference between right and wrong?"
"No! No, my lord! I… I… Yes! I have sinned! Forgive me! Please, please, please forgive me!" Tomer devolved into a mess of sobbing and babbling at that point. Anras watched, something rising within him that he was not able to name.
The sobs became shrieks and desperate pleas as Anras raised his hand again. It took the little flesh-thing several moments after Anras had released him from the excruciator for him to realize he'd been set free. Once he had calmed down, he looked up and blinked at Anras in confusion.
"You bore me," was the only response the slave received as the visionary turned and left the room.
Artemis would have liked to believe she had not given up. She would have liked to believe that her plan had not been a failure, only that it needed… re-strategization. She would have liked to believe that.
In actuality, her will and resolve felt like a guttering flame in a hurricane. She held on to the feeblest of hopes that what she'd set into motion was salvageable. The gods had given the order for the ship to slip into the Warp, yes, but there was no guarantee that they were following the route that Artemis had planned. She couldn't leave it all to chance.
And yet she was so tired.
The thoughts and her treachery weighed on her, making her steps back to her chamber from the bridge leaden. She couldn't do this alone. At best, the Savory Wound went to Kleos and she got lucky and managed to find a way off the cruiser and sneak back home in the middle of a warzone. She couldn't afford 'lucky.' She needed a massacre.
Rubbing the heels of her hands over her eyes, Artemis tried her best to banish the desire for sleep that weighed around her cheeks. Oh, what she would have given to taste recaf again.
Minutes later, she was at her chamber, pressing the door activation. She intended to stumble inwards and rest for as long as time would allow her before having to return to the bridge, but instead she froze as she saw what lurked within her quarters.
The god, Pyotr, stood in the room, holding Orion's cruiser-in-a-bottle and inspecting it with an expression of disinterest. He glanced at her, then placed the bottle back from where he had gotten it from with a gentleness that Artemis hadn't realized was possible for a being such as him.
"You took longer than expected," he said curtly.
"The bridge tends to get busier while traveling through the Warp," Artemis replied, attempting to keep her voice even. She failed miserably—despite their previous conversation, she couldn't help but feel like a lamb locked in a room with a lion whenever one of the Astartes spoke to her directly.
Pyotr nodded, accepting the answer. "I wished to inform you that your petition was accepted by the rest of the warband. We now follow the algorithms that you laid out for us."
Artemis blinked. That was… good, wasn't it?
"Why?" she found herself asking without thinking. "…My lord."
The ceramite-clad figure looked down on her, prompting Artemis's heartbeat to quicken, before he raised an eyebrow. "I assumed you would be pleased to know that your efforts are being utilized."
"I… am, my lord. I simply wonder why you took the time to tell me, as opposed to tending to other, more important duties you may have."
Pyotr watched her for an uncomfortable number of moments. For a second, Artemis almost believed she saw something in those dark, cold eyes of his, but whatever it was had been too insignificant and fleeting for her to make sense of.
"Perhaps I had a second reason for my visit," the Astartes stated. "You have impressed me, Artemis Maralli. I would have use for your talents as my personal slave."
The god said the words with such flat intonation that Artemis almost didn't process what the words meant. Once she did, she gaped in surprise. "My lord, I…"
"You do not have a say in the matter," Pyotr said. It was not a condemnation, but rather a reminder or repetition of an obvious rule. "You will continue to serve on the bridge, but otherwise will attend to me when I have need for you."
Artemis took another moment to process, then forced herself out of her stupor with a formal nod. "Yes, sire."
Pyotr weighed her with his gaze once more, then nodded himself. "In other warbands, my brothers like to give tokens and baubles to their slaves as a sign of protection. We do not do that here." He disattached something from his armor and held it out for Artemis. The thing was so diminished in Pyotr's massive fist that it took her a moment to realize that it was a stub revolver.
She took it cautiously, looking from the weapon then back up at Pyotr in confusion.
"Many of my brothers who were alive back when we were called the 51st Company came from a specific gang on our homeworld," Pyotr explained.
"The gang had a tradition; every new initiate was assigned a mentor. That mentor provided them with a gun like the one you hold." He inclined his head towards her hands. "The apprentice would be instructed to never fire their weapon unless no other options presented themselves. If they died with even a single round still left in their weapon, their mentor was punished for the disgrace their pupil brought upon the gang."
Artemis frowned as she took that in. "Are you saying this makes you my mentor?"
The god shook his head. "No. The tradition has changed since those days. The old ways are still sometimes used between a new Astartes joining his first Claw and a veteran who takes an interest in him, but for slaves it is to provide you with a way to defend yourselves while also marking you as your lord's responsibility."
Artemis examined the gun as she listened, finding either side of the barrel engraved with differing Nostraman glyphs. One denoted her own name, while the other was Pyotr's, along with the number six. She then released the cylinder from its locking mechanism, finding that there were only five chambers, each one loaded with a bullet.
"When do I get more ammunition?"
"You don't," Pyotr said flatly. "That is why it is meant to be used sparingly. A lesson between both mentor and apprentice. One to teach responsibility, the other to teach prudence."
Artemis barely noticed the casual expression of thoughtfulness and curiosity that grew across her face. "What happens if an apprentice uses all of their shots, then?"
Pyotr softly grunted in a way that was impossible to decipher. "If all bullets were deemed to have been used sensibly, the apprentice is promoted to a full member of the gang."
"I presume that doesn't apply here?" Artemis exhaled through her nose in amusement. Pyotr didn't seem to sense or understand the levity in her statement, as his expression remained unchanged.
"Correct," he said. "Should you use all of your ammunition responsibly, you will be rewarded with a weapon customly made for you by the artificers and tech adepts."
Artemis raised an eyebrow at that, her interest piqued. "Really?"
Her new master nodded, but eyed her cautiously. "However, if you use this pistol needlessly, you will be executed as punishment in a manner befitting to the reason and justification of the weapon's usage."
"Oh." Artemis found her precarious comfort in the conversation shattered, returning her to the sobering cold of dread and fear. "And would you be punished if such a thing occurred?"
Pyotr paused. "In a manner of speaking…"
Thoughts and ideas began to race through Artemis's mind at this new knowledge. Was there potential here? A way she could use this to her favor in order to escape? Perhaps. She needed more information to be sure.
"You… seem to know this tradition deeply," Artemis said tentatively. The Astartes before her nodded. "Were you in this gang?"
"No," Pyotr said slowly. "I was not. I only took a passive interest in their ways upon joining the company." He then declared the abrupt end of their conversation by making his way to the door. "The ammunition within that pistol are referred to as 'Man-Stopper' rounds. They should pierce most armored combatants."
Artemis looked down at the gun in her hand once again, then—against her better judgment—at the midnight ceramite of her lord's chestplate. Pyotr caught her eye and understood her silent question.
"I would not recommend it," he said simply, then vanished through the chamber's entryway.
That left Artemis alone, holding a weapon that had been gifted to her by the creature she hated most, feeling utterly and completely baffled. The creaking whine of the ship's metal and the flickering of her quarter's already dull lumens forced Artemis out of her frozen state. That… had been unusual. But unusual, eerie things tended to happen while in the Warp's embrace.
Thrusting her nerves into the back of her mind, Artemis quickly began to take stock of what had just occurred since she'd returned to her chamber.
The gods had decided to go through with her idea, the one who she had approached about it was seemingly impressed enough by it to deem her worthy of his further attention and her personal servitude under him, he had also given her a weapon, and she maintained her position amongst the bridge crew. All these things put her in a unique position that presented many opportunities, but with many risks. She would be incredibly close to the Astartes, putting her more closely under their scrutinizing eye. Her dance with death just became all the more precarious.
Despite that, Artemis found herself smiling as her grip on the revolver tightened.
Close enough to gouge out their throats, too… she mused. I just need the right moment.
It was then that Artemis realized that her master had actually given her two guns, rather than one. He just didn't know about the second yet. Nor would he. Not until it was aimed firmly at his head.