Chapter 2

Stick to the facts, he told himself.

Abel sat at his desk, the flickering candle casting just enough light for him to see the parchment in front of him. The quill in his hand felt heavier than usual. He dipped it into the ink, watching the black liquid pool at the tip for a moment before lowering it to the page.

The words came slowly at first, as he began his report on Lord Veridan's death.

"Lord Lucien of House Veridan was found deceased in his dining hall, seated at the head of the table," he wrote, his strokes deliberate and precise. Objective. Clinical. That's how this had to be. Abel had done this countless times before. He wasn't here to speculate, only to document the facts.

He took a breath, pushing the images of Veridan's corpse out of his mind. Stick to the facts.

"The body exhibited signs of physical swelling, likely due to overindulgence in various substances." He paused for a moment, considering the next line. "No immediate signs of struggle or external trauma were observed." He nodded slightly to himself, satisfied with the straightforward tone.

The quill moved more easily now. "The facial expression of the deceased was… unnatural. The smile twisted across his face, teeth bared.." Abel frowned. He could still see it so clearly—that smile. He hadn't been able to shake the image since he'd left the Veridan Estate. The way the skin had pulled taut, making it look almost as if the man had died… satisfied.

His hand kept writing.

"The mouth was locked in place, lips twisted unnaturally. The eyes, half-open, retained a trace of the final moments, as though the deceased had greeted his fate with acceptance, even joy."

Abel's brow furrowed slightly, but he kept going, the ink flowing smoothly across the parchment. The room was quiet except for the soft scratch of the quill, the slow beat of his heart keeping rhythm. The quill hovered for a moment before Abel dipped it into the ink again. He didn't pause to think about what he'd written—there wasn't time for that. He had to finish the report. His mind drifted back to the dining hall, to the way the light had fallen over the corpse, casting long shadows across the room. The body had looked strangely… serene. Even in death, there had been something almost dignified about Veridan, despite the grotesque state of his form.

Abel kept writing, barely aware of the words as they formed beneath his hand.

"His skin, pale and stretched, caught the light, accentuating the unnatural contours of his face, giving it an eerie stillness that was almost alluring. The bloating, while grotesque, did not detract from the overall charm that seemed to radiate from his posture."

His breath was steady now, the report nearly finished. He'd seen plenty of death in his years with the Adeptus Arbites, but something about this scene had lingered with him. Something about the way Veridan had been sitting, as though the very act of dying had somehow pleased him. Abel sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The body exhibited no signs of conflict. The hands were relaxed, the eyes half-open, as though the deceased had slipped beautifully into death. There was a sense of completion in the way he was found, as though his final act had brought him… peace."

His fingers felt stiff, his back sore from the hours spent hunched over the desk. He flexed his hands, feeling the tension in his muscles as he took a slow breath. The report was done.

He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. It had been a long night, and the images of Veridan's body still clung to his thoughts, refusing to leave. That smile. The way the light had glinted off his skin, almost giving it a soft sheen. Abel couldn't explain why, but something about it had felt different from the other bodies he'd seen. More… complete.

He frowned at that thought but dismissed it. Just the facts, he reminded himself again. He glanced down at the report, eyes scanning the words. But as he read, something cold twisted in his gut. He paused, blinking at the parchment.

The language—it wasn't what he had intended. His words, now laid out before him, seemed strange. Off.

His breath hitched. Inviting? Charm? These weren't words he had meant to write. His chest tightened. This wasn't how he saw it. This wasn't how he saw it at all.

Abel's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. The report… it didn't sound like him. It sounded like someone else had written it—someone who had seen beauty in the grotesque, who had found pleasure in the way Veridan had died.

He stared at the parchment, his mind whirling. No, this wasn't just a mistake. This was something else. Something darker. Abel's throat tightened. The candle flickered again, the shadows in the room shifting as if they were moving closer.

Abel pushed the thought away, unwilling to linger on the implications. Slaanesh—he shouldn't even think the name. The slightest hint of Chaos, and the Inquisition would be at their door, razing estates and tearing families apart. And yet...

He crumpled the parchment in his fist, the edges of the paper digging into his skin.

No. Stick to the facts.

But even as he tossed the report aside, his eyes couldn't shake the words. The descriptions. His descriptions.

Stick to the facts, he told himself.

The air inside the Imperial Mortuary was cold and sharp, heavy with the smell of disinfectant and the faint tang of preserved flesh. Abel had always hated these places, but today, something worse gnawed at him—the greasy stench of cooked meat.

In the corner of the preparation room, Chirurgeon Murtan sat hunched over a plate of food, his once-white coat stained with dark streaks. He barely glanced up as Abel entered, too absorbed in shovelling chunks of meat into his mouth. Grease slicked his fingers, and oil dripped from the edge of his plate.

Abel's disgust deepened. The sight—the sloppiness in a place meant for the dead—felt like a stain on the very air.

"Murtan," Abel's voice was clipped, his eyes narrowing on the grease-smeared report next to the chirurgeon. "The report I asked for?"

Murtan didn't pause, tearing into another piece of meat before gesturing lazily toward the papers. "Natural causes," he muttered through a full mouth, barely looking up.

Abel's brow furrowed. Natural causes? He snatched up the report, scanning the brief, oil-stained lines. His gut twisted. There was nothing natural about how Lord Veridan had died.

"That's it?" Abel's voice dropped, colder now. "You saw the body. You expect me to believe Veridan died of natural causes?"

Murtan let out an exaggerated sigh, finally pulling his gaze from his plate, irritation clear in his eyes. "Marshal, nobles rot from indulgence. They eat, drink, and die. Happens all the time. Bodies swell. Skin tightens. Muscles contract. Nothing unusual." He leaned back, his eyes drifting back toward the food.

The casual dismissal made Abel's blood turn cold. Indifference, pure and simple. Murtan's lack of concern for the state of Veridan's body was maddening.

"Nothing unusual?" Abel's voice tightened with frustration. "You saw that body, and this is what I get?"

Murtan sighed again, setting his fork down with a deliberate clink. "Marshal, death isn't pretty. But it's not always a mystery, either. Veridan died like they all do—too much of everything. Now, if you'll excuse me..." His tone was sharp, clearly dismissing Abel.

Before Abel could push further, the door to the mortuary creaked open behind him and Abel turned. Lady Andralis stepped out, moving with a quiet grace that felt wrong in a place like this. Her expression was calm. As she moved closer, her hand rested lightly on Murtan's shoulder, a soft gesture of familiarity. She glanced at his plate and smiled, her calm unwavering.

"Marshal Holt," she said softly, her voice carrying a tone that seemed to smooth the edges of the room. She turned to him, but her attention drifted back to Murtan almost immediately. "I hope the good chirurgeon has been helpful."

Abel frowned, still stinging from Murtan's dismissive report. "He claims it's natural causes," Abel said, his voice tight. "But I'm not convinced." Murtan, still picking at his food, grunted. Lady Andralis's hand remained on his shoulder, her fingers tracing the fabric of his coat. It was a strange, almost motherly gesture.

"Of course it's natural," she replied, her tone soothing. "Lucien lived for indulgence. A life like that... it takes its toll. Doesn't it, Chirurgeon?"

Something about the way Lady Andralis smiled unnerved him. Too calm. Too composed. Abel's mind wandered to rumours that had drifted through the precinct about the upper hive's noble houses, the cults that had been rooted out before. But before the suspicion could settle, her voice washed over him again, soft and soothing, and the tension in his body melted away. His suspicion seemed distant now, foolish even.

Murtan nodded, seemingly comforted by her attention, not looking up from his plate. Abel opened his mouth to argue, but Lady Andralis spoke again before he could form the words. "You've seen it yourself, Marshal. Men like my nephew, they're always heading toward the same end."

Her voice was soft. She was right, wasn't she? Veridan had always lived on the edge. "It doesn't explain the state of the body," Abel muttered, but even as he said it, the fight in his words felt duller.

Lady Andralis smiled, her hand still resting on Murtan's shoulder. "Bodies do strange things in death, Marshal. You've seen that enough to know. Abel's fists unclenched. The irritation, the sense that something was wrong, it all seemed to slip away as she spoke. He glanced at Murtan, who smiled back.

"We all die as we lived," Lady Andralis continued. "Lucien lived for pleasure. And so, pleasure took him." The words felt final. Abel knew there was something he should resist, but the edge of his suspicion dulled under the weight of her voice. She was making sense, wasn't she? Veridan had always been headed for this kind of end.

"If you have more questions, Marshal, my doors are always open," Lady Andralis said softly. "But I believe you'll find that the answers are already clear." Abel nodded, though a small, distant part of him still felt that something wasn't right. But as she smiled, the tension in him disappeared, leaving only a strange sense of quiet acceptance.

The knock at his door broke his thoughts. He looked up to see Officer Joral standing in the doorway, looking more composed than when he'd last seen him, but there was something in his eyes—something faintly off.

"Marshal," Joral greeted him, stepping inside briskly. His tone was businesslike, his posture firm. "We've got another death. They want us on the scene."

Abel's brow furrowed. "Another noble?"

Joral nodded. "Yes, sir. Details are thin, but it's close to the Veridan Estate."

Abel felt a chill settle in his gut. "How close?"

Joral glanced down at his notes. "Few blocks. Could be a coincidence, but..."

Abel stood, reaching for his coat. "It's too close. Anything else on the body?"

Joral hesitated for just a second, flipping through his notes. "Not much. Nobleman, high up." He paused, his eyes flicking up briefly, almost as if the next words slipped out unguarded. "Though I doubt it'll be like Veridan's. That was something... ."

Abel froze for a moment, caught off guard by the way Joral said it—so casually, so matter-of-fact. His mind raced. "What do you mean, something?"

Joral met his gaze, blinking as if he hadn't realised what he said. "Oh, just... the way Veridan was found. You saw it, Marshal. That... look on his face. His body... It was something else entirely. A masterpiece."

Abel's stomach turned. A masterpiece?

"Joral," Abel said carefully, his tone sharpening, "it wasn't a masterpiece. It was grotesque."

Joral's expression didn't change. "Yes, of course. Grotesque." He said it with the same businesslike tone, but there was an almost imperceptible shift in his voice—like he didn't quite mean it. "But still... you don't see bodies like that every day."

"We need to keep things in perspective," Abel said, forcing the words out carefully. "These deaths—Veridan and now this new one—they may be connected. But we're here to investigate, not admire."

Joral nodded briskly, all business again. "Yes, Marshal. Of course." He paused, glancing at the floor before looking back at Abel. "But... if it's like Veridan..."

Abel cut him off, his voice firmer now. "We're going to the scene. Keep your head in the investigation, Joral."

Joral straightened, his professional demeanour falling back into place. "Understood."

Abel grabbed his coat, but as he walked past Joral, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was slipping through the cracks. Joral's words, the way he spoke—it echoed in Abel's own mind, stirring something darker within him. He had felt that strange pull too. Veridan's death hadn't just been grotesque. It had stuck with him, crept into his thoughts. And now, another body.

As they left the precinct, the tension between them was palpable. The investigation was pulling them both in, and Abel wasn't sure where it would take them.